CHAPTER 71: LIAM

I have different versions of the same nightmare every night. No matter how the details shift, they all lead back to the same moments—the same terror. It's always me, 15 years old, standing in that room, holding a gun I never wanted to touch, let alone fire.

The smell of whiskey and stale air fills my nose, clinging to the walls like a memory that won't fade. My father's voice—no longer the strong, commanding tone I once admired—comes out slurred and angry, the words twisted by alcohol and years of bitterness. He's not the man I used to look up to; he's a stranger, lost in his rage and addictions.

"Liam, do it! Do it now!" My mother's voice pierces the air, sharp and desperate. Her eyes are wide, filled with a fear that sends chills down my spine. I see it all again, the way she looked at me that night—like I was her only hope, like if I didn't act, we would both be lost.

My father is advancing, a knife in his hand, his eyes wild with a madness that has nothing to do with the man he us