“That is exactly how it works,” the voice replied. “You have one hour to vacate the premises.”
Then the line went dead.
The room froze.
Daniel stood there like a man trying to argue with gravity.
Then panic came in wearing the weak disguise of anger.
“He can’t do that,” he said. “He’s my son.”
But nobody answered him, because that was not a legal defense. That was denial.
And denial doesn’t beat ownership.
I rolled forward.
No dramatic reveal. No grand entrance. Just the quiet sound of my wheels crossing pavement as the countdown ran out.
The front door was still open when I reached it.
I stopped just inside the threshold.
The room smelled like whiskey, new electronics, and fear that hadn’t finished forming yet.
Daniel saw me first.
His face drained of color.
“You,” he said.
I said nothing.
Madison stared. “What the hell? How did you even—”
Noah ran to me.
Not away from the scene. Straight into it. Straight to me.
He hit my lap hard enough to jolt the chair.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said.
Daniel stepped toward us, voice climbing. “You don’t just come in here after—after—”
“After what?” I asked.
That landed harder than if I had shouted.
He stopped.