The blow, weak from his depleted strength, barely caused any pain. Still, Neal felt a deep discomfort, almost struggling to draw breath. “You ungrateful child!” his father shouted, pushing Neal against the wall and striking him again. “Do you relish the thought of killing your father just to find peace?”

Neal endured the blows and the barrage of curses silently.

As the man hurled insults, each more venomous than the last, his fury seemed to unleash every curse he’d ever known against his son. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down and making his already frantic appearance seem pitiful.

“Dad,” Neal spoke the word for the first time in years. “Let me help you. Let’s get you clean, okay?”

The words stunned the man, his eyes widening.

His lips quivered as he fixed his gaze on Neal, eventually saying, “So, you want me dead, do you?”

With a forceful shove, he pushed Neal aside and bolted.

Neal was quick to follow, yet the man sprinted as if possessed by a demon, his speed unnerving. Their chase echoed through the stairwell, filled only with the desperate clatter of the man’s escape.

Neal pursued him down the stairs, out of the building, and into a night alive with the buzz of cars and neon lights.

Then, struck by a sudden realization, Neal halted abruptly.

He didn’t chase after his father anymore, watching helplessly as his silhouette disappeared into the dazzling array of lights.

A memory from high school flashed through Neal’s mind—a time when he had desperately tried to convince his father, who had panicked and fled the house, only to be struck by a car.

Thankfully, the incident had resulted in nothing more serious than a broken leg. Nevertheless, the image of his father being propelled into the air remained indelibly imprinted in Neal’s memory.

Determined to prevent the past from repeating itself, Neal came to a halt.

Taking a deep breath, he felt his energy ebb away. He leaned back against the wall, his figure merging with the shadows.

After a long, stumbling run, the man finally stopped. He couldn’t remember how many times he had fallen. Only when he was sure Neal wasn’t behind him did he find a secluded corner and pull out a small packet of powder from his pocket.

The stock was nearly depleted; he had just enough left for a few more days. He was desperate for more.

Unable to think of anything else, the man shakily lit the packet. This time, without anyone to stop him, he inhaled deeply, and the discomfort in his body quickly subsided.

As he relaxed, his mind grew clearer, and his senses began to return. “That ungrateful kid,” he grumbled, feeling revitalized. “To think he tossed a whole packet—what a waste of quality stuff!”

He settled into a corner, looking up at the bright full moon, and thought of Neal’s neighborhood. How could anyone live in such decay? Was Neal really so poor? If that was the case, how could he continue to support him financially?

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