Chapter 16 – The Parents' Fury
Titus swung the door open so hard it bounced against the wall, the echo carrying down the hallway like a warning shot. He barely had time to lift his head before he saw them—both of his parents—standing tense and rigid in the center of the corridor, as if they had been frozen there for hours, waiting for him to appear.
His father's expression was a mask of cold fury, the kind that could chill the air. His mother, on the other hand, looked torn between disappointment and barely contained anxiety, her hands trembling at her sides.
"Titus!" his father thundered, his voice laced with equal parts anger and panic. "Where have you been?! We told you four o'clock. Look at the TIME! It's almost eight! What are you involved in? Drugs?! Gangs?! What's happening?! This is NOT how we raised you!"
His mother stepped forward, wringing her hands. "You worried us half to death! Are those 'friends' of yours getting you into trouble? You're grounded! You're not leaving this house until the school reopens! Do you hear me?!"
Titus stood still, exhausted from the long day, exhaustion that dug deep into his bones. But beneath the fatigue, something else throbbed within him—his new strength, his sharpened instincts, that lingering blue heat under his skin. Their accusations slammed against him like blows, and the old Titus might have taken them silently.
But now… Now, something inside him pushed back.
He clenched his jaw, holding down the frustration boiling in his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight—an ember of anger glowing beneath the words.
"It's eight at night, not three in the morning," he snapped. "I was having fun with my friends—something I've never been able to do HERE or anywhere. They're good people! What drugs? What gangs? What are you even talking about?"
His father blinked at the tone. His mother recoiled as if slapped.
Their argument grew in volume, sharp words colliding in the cramped hallway. His father accused; his mother pleaded; Titus defended himself with raw frustration bleeding through every word. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
But then—outside—something changed.
A car approached the Grinen house, slow and deliberate. It wasn't like the modern vehicles the neighbors drove. This one was a classic, elegant and old‑fashioned, its engine quiet as if it didn't belong in the present day. It rolled to a stop right in front of the house.
Two figures stepped out. Their movements were calculated, too smooth, too controlled. They walked toward the door with steady, measured footsteps.
Inside, Titus's mother was on the verge of shouting yet another threat—another punishment—when—
DING.
The doorbell rang. A single press. Firm. Decisive. And the sound sliced through the house like a blade through silence.
The argument stopped instantly. All three of them turned toward the entrance, startled by how violently the atmosphere shifted.
Titus's father's icy expression shattered. For the first time Titus could remember, he saw fear—raw, unfiltered fear—flood the man's eyes. He looked at his wife, and she looked back at him. It was just a moment. A single second. But Titus felt it in his spine.
A silent pact. A shared terror. A secret buried deeper than anything he had ever been told.
His mother's face went pale. Her breath trembled. Her fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to grab Titus again.
His father, abandoning all talk of punishment, turned toward the front door and walked slowly, almost ritualistically, every step heavy with a strange resignation. Titus had never seen him move like that.
His mother's panic snapped. She lunged forward and wrapped Titus in a desperate hug—far too tight, too desperate to be normal parental concern. He felt her trembling against him, her whole body shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. Her terror seeped through her skin into his.
Titus stood stiff and confused.
What the hell is going on? Why are they acting like this? It's JUST the doorbell. Why are they terrified?
Whatever fear they carried… it wasn't about him coming home late. It wasn't about school. It wasn't about friends, or drugs, or gangs. It was something deeper. Older. Darker.
Before he could speak, the front door creaked open.
His father froze in the doorway. Two figures stood on the porch—both wearing tailored suits, both exuding the kind of arrogance that came with power and authority.
"Good evening," they said in unison.
The woman stepped forward first. She was blonde, with sharp emerald eyes that didn't blink. She produced a badge with mechanical precision.
"My name is Lieutenant Martinez," she announced. "And this is Agent Smith. We spoke on the phone."
Titus's father, still pale but visibly relieved—relieved?—straightened his posture and regained some of his cold composure.
"Good evening. How can I help you, Lieutenant?"
She held her ground, arms crossing over her chest. "I'm here because I need to speak with your son."
Immediately, Titus's father's demeanor changed. His spine stiffened. His eyes narrowed. "With my son? About what?"
"About what happened at the school," the detective replied calmly. "He and some of his friends were the only students who were not questioned before leaving the premises."
"And so what?" Mr. Grinen shot back. "You already have plenty of witnesses."
Martinez's stare sharpened. "Your son seemed suspicious. He had bruises on his face, and there was a cut on his upper lip. He didn't look like the other students who were panicking."
She stepped forward as if she owned the place. "There he is," she said, pointing toward the hallway behind Mr. Grinen. "I'm going to speak with him."
But before she could take another step, Titus's father moved. He blocked the doorway—not passively, but with the full weight of his body, cold authority radiating from him like a wall.
"Do you have a warrant, Detective?" he demanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the power of a storm ready to break.
He turned his head sharply, shouting down the hallway—"Titus! Go to your room. NOW!"
Titus didn't argue. For once, he didn't resent the command. He felt something new—a strange swell of pride. For the first time he could remember, his father was defending him like a wild animal protecting its young. The man who was always distant, cold, emotionally unreachable—now stood like a shield between Titus and the outside world.
Titus nodded silently and began climbing the stairs. With each step, the feeling grew stronger: protection. Something he had never felt from his father before.
A door closed somewhere behind him with a heavy thud.
Downstairs, Lieutenant Martinez exhaled sharply. "I have a lot of reasons to believe your son is involved in what happened at the school," she snapped.
Mr. Grinen's smile was razor‑sharp, cold and dangerous. "What are you talking about? He's a seventeen‑year‑old boy—quiet, introverted. My son is a nerd. Do you have a warrant? First, you're trying to enter private property. Second, you are attempting to question a minor without parental consent or legal representation."
His voice grew even colder. "I may not be a police officer, Detective Martinez, but I know my rights—and my family's rights. If you consider a few bruises—bruises he got from bullies at school—proof that he masterminded whatever happened today, then you don't belong in the police force. You belong in a mental institution."
Martinez's jaw tightened. Smith shifted his weight, uncomfortable.
"You have no warrant," Mr. Grinen finished. "Now, if you would excuse me—good night."
And with a sharp, echoing SLAM, he shut the front door in the detective's face.
The sound rang through the entire house. And upstairs, Titus flinched. Not from fear. But from the sense that something enormous and hidden had just brushed past his life—something his parents feared more than anything…
…and something that was undeniably connected to HIM.
---
Hook: And that silence hid a danger that would soon come to light…