The faint scent of stale beer and fear hung heavy in the air, a familiar perfume in the small, unassuming house. Riley Thompson flinched as the front door creaked open, the sound echoing her father's heavy footsteps. She braced herself, plastering a neutral expression on her face, a mask perfected over years of practice.

"Riley!" His voice, sickly sweet and laced with a barely concealed edge, cut through the silence. She moved quickly, her small frame almost a shadow, toward him.

"Riley, have you finished making my dinner?" he asked, his charcoal eyes, identical to her own, scrutinizing her. She met his gaze for a split second, a timid flicker in her blue eyes.

"Yes, Father, it is cooling on the dinner table," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. He grunted, a sound of grudging approval, and his eyes, cold and assessing, swept over her.

"Good. Now, did you unpack your things into your room already?" he questioned, a hint of disgust in his tone.

"Yes, I have already finished unpacking my things, Father." The lie felt like ash in her mouth. She hadn't finished, not really, but telling him otherwise was unthinkable. He turned, lumbering into the kitchen, his appetite the only thing on his mind. Riley moved to the fridge, her movements automatic, retrieving his beer.