The hallway upstairs smelled of vanilla candles—Maggie's attempt to mask the reality of their lives. She burned "Serenity Now" and "Ocean Breeze" in a desperate attempt to aromatherapy away the dysfunction. But as Thomas approached the door at the end of the hall, the vanilla died, suffocated by a heavier, darker stench.
The scent coming from under Lucas's door was a biological weapon: stale sweat, the sour tang of milk left in a bowl for three days, old gym socks, and the unmistakable, burnt-toast stench of cheap cigarettes.
Thomas paused, his hand hovering over the brass handle. He felt a spike of adrenaline that he used to feel before entering a hostile compound. He didn't knock. A commanding officer doesn't knock on a barracks door when the reveille is late. He turned the handle and pushed.
The room was a fortification of chaos.
Stacks of manga—Berserk, Vagabond, Vinland Saga—were piled like sandbags around the bed, creating a defensive perimeter. Discarded hoodies lay like shed skins on the floor. Plates with hardened crusts of pizza were scattered across the desk, mingling with school textbooks that hadn't been opened in weeks.
In the center of the wreckage lay Lucas.
He was sixteen, but in the dim light of the glowing PC monitor, he looked older and more haggard. He was sleeping completely naked, his limbs sprawled across the grey sheets in a defiant, vulnerable "X."
To Thomas, it wasn't just awkward; it was a tactical insult. It was Lucas's way of saying: I have no shame, and therefore you have no power over me. It was a violation of the uniform, a rejection of decency.
Thomas felt his jaw lock, the muscle twitching under the skin. He walked over to the window, dodging a pile of graphic novels, and ripped the curtains open.
The grey morning light hit Lucas like a physical blow.
"Front and center, Lucas," Thomas barked, his voice cutting through the stale air.
Lucas didn't jump. He didn't scramble for a blanket. He slowly opened one eye, squinting against the light, then closed it again. He didn't reach for cover. He just lay there, pale and thin, his ribs showing through his skin, looking at his father with a hollow, milky indifference.
"It's 05:15," Thomas said, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "The room smells like a morgue. Get up. Now."
Lucas let out a dry, rattling breath, the sound of dead leaves skittering on pavement. "Go away, Colonel. The war's over."
Thomas ignored him. His eyes, trained to spot IEDs in a roadside ditch, scanned the floor. They picked out a small, crinkled plastic corner peeking out from under a pile of dirty gym socks near the bedframe.
He reached down and snatched it up.
A pack of Marlboro Reds. Half empty.
The silence that followed was the sound of a fuse burning down to the powder. Thomas held the pack up, his fingers crushing the cardboard.