The door slammed behind Michael as he stormed out, defeated and disoriented. The silence that followed was deafening. Only the sound of heavy breathing remained—Daddy's, as he stood there, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
The boy didn't move. He simply stared at the man who had once towered over him in every way—emotionally, physically, psychologically. Now, Robert Forton stood like a shattered statue, his pieces barely holding together.
"Sit," the boy said.
The voice was calm. Too calm. And that terrified Daddy more than Michael's rage ever could.
He obeyed.
Sitting down felt like surrendering. His knees buckled as he dropped onto the couch, eyes not meeting the boy's, shame pouring out of him like sweat.
"I never wanted this," Daddy whispered, rubbing his temples.
The boy walked toward him, each step echoing like a countdown. He stopped in front of Daddy and crouched, tilting his head to study the face he once admired—once craved.
"But you created it," the boy replied. "Brick by brick. Touch by touch. Lie by lie."
Daddy flinched.
"You... you were just a child," he said, voice breaking. "You were supposed to forget."
The boy laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "Is that what you told yourself? That I'd forget? That I'd grow up and pretend you were just... Daddy?"
There was venom in that word now. Daddy. Once sacred, now poisonous.
Daddy looked up finally. His eyes were red, not from tears but from a war inside. "I loved you," he said.
Silence.
The boy's smile was slow, unsettling. "That's the most twisted part of this all. You think what you did was love."
Daddy's hands clenched into fists. "I protected you."
"You possessed me."
They stared at each other—two versions of pain, two broken pasts sitting in one ruined present.
"You don't understand—" Daddy tried, but the boy cut him off.
"No, you don't understand." His voice was rising now. "You broke something in me. And I kept trying to fix it with you. Again and again. But you just kept handing me sharper pieces."
Daddy suddenly reached out, desperate. "Then hate me! Do it! Kill me if you want, I don't care anymore!"
The boy grabbed his wrist mid-air. Tight. Too tight.
"Oh, Daddy... who said I don't already hate you?" he whispered. "But killing you? No, no... that's too easy."
He let go.
Daddy collapsed back into the couch like a puppet with cut strings.
The boy stood tall. For the first time, he felt it. Power. Control. The final nail in the coffin of their toxic bond.
He turned to leave.
"I'm not your son anymore."
The words dropped like knives.
Daddy whispered, "Then what are you?"
The boy paused at the door. Without turning, he said, "Your karma."
And he walked out.