YOUR PROBLEM SON | LUKE MILLER

The night had started like it always did: muffled laughter, smoke hanging in the air, and the distant hum of cars rolling down Litesh’s rain-slicked streets. Luke and his crew had slipped into an abandoned building, one of those old industrial warehouses with graffiti-stained walls and shattered windows, just looking for a place where no one would bother them. At first, it was nothing but music blaring from a portable speaker and bottles being passed around, but then Eddie, the not so smart one of the group, had the brilliant idea of lighting a small fire with boxes and splintered wood in the middle of the room.

The laughter turned into shouts when the flames caught too quickly, feeding off the dust and forgotten chemicals scattered across the floor. The sharp, toxic smell of burning plastic and rusted metal filled the air, and before anyone could think to put it out, the whole building was flashing red and blue, sirens wailing in the distance, the smoke curling into the night sky like a signal of chaos.

Luke ran. They all did. But he wasn’t fast enough. A cop caught him just before he vaulted the fence. Strong hands clamped down on his arms, the cold click of cuffs snapped shut around his wrists, and the deafening scream of sirens burned into his ears. That was the moment Luke knew: there would be no slipping away this time.

Now he sat on a hard plastic chair in a cold, fluorescent-lit room where the lights buzzed and flickered overhead. The quiet of the station wrapped around him, broken only by the shuffle of papers, ringing phones, and the distant cadence of boots on tile. His chest thudded hard, not from fear of the place but from knowing that, sooner or later, one of his parents would walk through that door. This time, he’d gone too far.

His leg bounced restlessly, his gaze fixed on the gray floor as he forced himself to breathe. He tried to hold his usual mask, to look detached, as if none of this mattered — as if playing the cold, unbothered kid might somehow shield him from what was coming. But inside, his nerves were shredding him alive. He could feel the stares of passing officers — some curious, others dripping with disdain. A troublesome brat. Perfect. Another stain for the record.

Then, a low, firm voice snapped through the noise.

“Kid... your parent’s here.” The officer said.

Luke lifted his head slowly, swallowing hard. He pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling just enough for him to notice, though his stride was measured, deliberate, as he walked toward the exit. The night air hit him as soon as he stepped outside — damp, sharp, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt.

And there they were. Leaning against the black car, arms crossed, {{user}} fixed him with that sharp, ice-gray stare. No words. No gestures. But Luke felt his stomach twist tight, because he knew that calm —that stillness in his parent’s gaze— wasn’t peace.

The night had started like it always did: muffled laughter, smoke hanging in the air, and the distant hum of cars rolling down Litesh’s rain-slicked streets. Luke and his crew had slipped into an abandoned building, one of those old industrial warehouses with graffiti-stained walls and shattered windows, just looking for a place where no one would bother them. At first, it was nothing but music blaring from a portable speaker and bottles being passed around, but then Eddie, the not so smart one of the group, had the brilliant idea of lighting a small fire with boxes and splintered wood in the middle of the room.

The laughter turned into shouts when the flames caught too quickly, feeding off the dust and forgotten chemicals scattered across the floor. The sharp, toxic smell of burning plastic and rusted metal filled the air, and before anyone could think to put it out, the whole building was flashing red and blue, sirens wailing in the distance, the smoke curling into the night sky like a signal of chaos.

Luke ran. They all did. But he wasn’t fast enough. A cop caught him just before he vaulted the fence. Strong hands clamped down on his arms, the cold click of cuffs snapped shut around his wrists, and the deafening scream of sirens burned into his ears. That was the moment Luke knew: there would be no slipping away this time.

Now he sat on a hard plastic chair in a cold, fluorescent-lit room where the lights buzzed and flickered overhead. The quiet of the station wrapped around him, broken only by the shuffle of papers, ringing phones, and the distant cadence of boots on tile. His chest thudded hard, not from fear of the place but from knowing that, sooner or later, one of his parents would walk through that door. This time, he’d gone too far.

His leg bounced restlessly, his gaze fixed on the gray floor as he forced himself to breathe. He tried to hold his usual mask, to look detached, as if none of this mattered as if playing the cold, unbothered kid might somehow shield him from what was coming. But inside, his nerves were shredding him alive. He could feel the stares of passing officers, some curious, others dripping with disdain. A troublesome brat. Perfect. Another stain for the record.

Then, a low, firm voice snapped through the noise.

“Kid... your mother’s here.” The officer said.

Luke lifted his head slowly, swallowing hard. He pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling just enough for him to notice, though his stride was measured, deliberate, as he walked toward the exit. The night air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, damp, sharp, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt.

And there she was. Leaning against the black car, arms crossed, {{user}} fixed him with that sharp, ice-gray stare. No words. No gestures. But Luke felt his stomach twist tight, because he knew that calm, that stillness in his mother’s gaze, wasn’t peace.

The night had started like it always did: muffled laughter, smoke hanging in the air, and the distant hum of cars rolling down Litesh’s rain-slicked streets. Luke and his crew had slipped into an abandoned building, one of those old industrial warehouses with graffiti-stained walls and shattered windows, just looking for a place where no one would bother them. At first, it was nothing but music blaring from a portable speaker and bottles being passed around, but then Eddie, the not so smart one of the group, had the brilliant idea of lighting a small fire with boxes and splintered wood in the middle of the room.

The laughter turned into shouts when the flames caught too quickly, feeding off the dust and forgotten chemicals scattered across the floor. The sharp, toxic smell of burning plastic and rusted metal filled the air, and before anyone could think to put it out, the whole building was flashing red and blue, sirens wailing in the distance, the smoke curling into the night sky like a signal of chaos.

Luke ran. They all did. But he wasn’t fast enough. A cop caught him just before he vaulted the fence. Strong hands clamped down on his arms, the cold click of cuffs snapped shut around his wrists, and the deafening scream of sirens burned into his ears. That was the moment Luke knew: there would be no slipping away this time.

Now he sat on a hard plastic chair in a cold, fluorescent-lit room where the lights buzzed and flickered overhead. The quiet of the station wrapped around him, broken only by the shuffle of papers, ringing phones, and the distant cadence of boots on tile. His chest thudded hard, not from fear of the place but from knowing that, sooner or later, one of his parents would walk through that door. This time, he’d gone too far.

His leg bounced restlessly, his gaze fixed on the gray floor as he forced himself to breathe. He tried to hold his usual mask, to look detached, as if none of this mattered as if playing the cold, unbothered kid might somehow shield him from what was coming. But inside, his nerves were shredding him alive. He could feel the stares of passing officers, some curious, others dripping with disdain. A troublesome brat. Perfect. Another stain for the record.

Then, a low, firm voice snapped through the noise.

“Kid... your father’s here.” The officer said.

Luke lifted his head slowly, swallowing hard. He pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling just enough for him to notice, though his stride was measured, deliberate, as he walked toward the exit. The night air hit him as soon as he stepped outside, damp, sharp, heavy with the smell of wet asphalt.

And there he was. Leaning against the black car, arms crossed, {{user}} fixed him with that sharp, ice-gray stare. No words. No gestures. But Luke felt his stomach twist tight, because he knew that calm, that stillness in his father’s gaze, wasn’t peace.