He was scared.
And this time he couldn't dress it up with humor. No clever internal monologue to hide behind. No sarcasm to soften the edges. Just fear.
After all, he was about to meet his father. And the fear—he could taste it.
And honestly—that was fair.
He was about to walk into a room with his father. The same father who'd thrown him into a pit of snakes. The same father who could kill him without blinking.
And after the mess he'd made—the attack, the bodies, the chaos—there were going to be questions. The kind you don't walk away from if you answer wrong.
'Does he know who I really am?'
'Does he know it's me?'
The not knowing was the worst part. If his father knew, then this was an execution. And if he didn't, it was an interrogation. Either way, one wrong word and his head would be looking up at him, which he would like to avoid.
He thought of many options. But running wasn't one of them.
