Arka sprinted through the now sodden yard, his umbrella nearly turned inside out by the strengthening wind.
Raindrops splashed upward every time his feet hammered the ground, kicking up the piercing scent of wet earth. He leaped onto the wooden porch, his heart still pounding wildly—a mix of physical exertion and the lingering horror of the temptation at that tacky hotel.
"Gramps! I brought roast chicken!" he shouted, twisting the heavy wooden door handle.
He shoved the door open.
CLATTER.
The two large plastic bags containing the pizza and honey-roasted chicken slipped right out of his grip, landing with a wet thud on the wooden floor of the entryway. Grease from the plastic leaked out, creating a dark stain on the aged planks. The still-open umbrella slipped from his hand, rolling gently across the porch.
Arka froze in the doorway.
His mouth, which had just been enthusiastically offering food, now hung open soundlessly.
Right at that moment—
GRRRAA-DOOOOMMM!
Lightning struck outside, terrifyingly close. The accompanying thunder exploded simultaneously, a deafening roar that shook the entire old house. Every window rattled, the old wood groaning as if the house itself was startled.
The blinding blue-white flash tore through the darkness of the living room, freezing the scene before Arka for a split second.
And the lightning illuminated her.
A woman stood in the center of the room, facing the door. She was beautiful, in a cold, precise way. Her silhouette stood erect and calm amidst the chaotic light, like a living marble statue.
Her long, copper-brown curls were tied neatly at the ends, but the rest was left to flow elegantly over her shoulders, covering part of her chest.
She wore a pristine, stiffly ironed white long-sleeved shirt, contrasting with an elegant, form-fitting black mini skirt.
Her arms were crossed over her chest.
The lightning faded, drowning her back in the shadows. But Arka knew she hadn't moved.
Then, her eyes. In the dim darkness, Arka could feel that gaze. Her sharp eyes stared straight at Arka in the doorway. The look was cold, focused, and unblinking—a deadly concentration possessed only by someone accustomed to intimidation. It was not the longing gaze of a mother.
It was the gaze of a predator that had been waiting a long time. A gaze locking onto its prey—prey that was now standing frozen and helpless.
The air in Arka's lungs felt depleted. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. The only sound that came out was a choked whisper filled with horror.
"M... M... Mom...?"
The predator gaze of Arka's mother did not shift an inch from Arka's frozen face. The silence between them felt heavy, filled only by the sound of thunder rolling away. Arka's breath hitched as the next flash of lightning cast a faint shadow of his mother onto the floor.
She didn't smile. She didn't say hello. She didn't ask, "How are you?"
Slowly, she uncrossed one arm. Her slender, perfectly manicured index finger pointed.
The finger didn't point at Arka. It pointed to the corner of the front room, to an area previously shrouded in shadow.
That's where they were.
It wasn't a pile of boxes. It was a mountain range of boxes.
Boxes large and small—laptops, sound systems, phones, clothes, sneakers, and several long tubes that definitely contained wooden swords—were stacked haphazardly.
The boxes were arranged like unstable towers, some safety tapes already peeling due to the humidity. The pile loomed high, its peak nearly touching the high wooden ceiling, towering far above his mother's height.
All the packages that had arrived that afternoon now filled almost the entire front room, turning it into a chaotic warehouse labyrinth.
Arka's eyes darted from his mother's cold face to the mountain of shopping boxes, then back to his mother's face.
Gulp.
He swallowed with difficulty. He was trembling. His fear was no longer about the temptation at the hotel, but something far more concrete and painful. The pulse in his neck spiked, as if his entire body was trying to flee the situation.
He forgot how to breathe.
His mother didn't say a word.
She lowered her hand and, in a deadly silence, stepped forward. Her movements were smooth and silent on the wooden floor. Her footsteps were so soft, yet they only ratcheted up the tension. She approached Arka, who was still frozen in the doorway beside the cooling pizza and chicken.
The hand that had pointed moved with lightning speed.
SNAP!
Fingers that looked delicate but possessed the strength of steel pinched Arka's ear with brutal precision.
"OUCCCHHH! OUCH OUCH OUUUCH!"
Arka immediately went up on his tiptoes, excruciating pain shooting through the side of his head. It felt like his ear was being twisted by a hydraulic press. "Mom! Mom! It hurts! Mercy! Ouch!"
His mother didn't care. She dragged Arka inside, past his own "mountains," toward the actual living room.
THUD!
She slammed Arka onto the plush old velvet sofa. Fine dust flew from the cushions, dancing in the air before vanishing. Arka coughed, reflexively rubbing his hot, red, throbbing ear.
He was just about to protest—with whatever excuse he could find—when he realized something even more terrifying.
He wasn't alone with his mother.
Next to him, a bit further down on the other end of the sofa, sat his Grandfather. And in the armchair across the room, sat his Father.
Both of them were there. Together.
And both of them were sitting bolt upright, rigid. Their backs were as straight as ironing boards.
Their eyes dared not blink, as if the slightest movement could invite catastrophe.
They did not look... good.
His Grandfather, who just this morning had been so arrogant about being "filthy rich" and demanding great-grandchildren, was now staring straight ahead with empty eyes, as if meditating in the temple.
His Father, the dashing military officer, looked pale as a ghost. He looked down, staring at his own hands clenched tightly in his lap. His broad shoulders seemed to have shrunk under the pressure of the suffocating atmosphere.
Arka understood immediately.
They were both finished. They had already been scolded.
This sight—the two strongest men in his family conquered and sitting like kindergarteners awaiting punishment—was far more terrifying than any scream.
And he was next.
The room was terrifyingly quiet. The sound of drizzle outside and water dripping from the pizza on the floor were the only noises. The aroma of honey-roasted chicken, usually appetizing, now only added to the anxiety.
Arka's mother still stood, her cold aura filling the room. The dim light of the chandelier reflected softly on her face, making her look ten times more intimidating. She didn't shout. She spoke in a calm, measured tone that was somehow far scarier.
"By my calculation," she said, her sharp eyes staring at the pile of boxes,
"This total shopping spree is thirty times the birthday money I sent you."
She turned slowly, eyeing the three men in the room.
"Explain."
Her first gaze fell on her husband.
"Did my husband... provide the money?"
Arka's father, who had been sitting stiffly, immediately straightened his posture even more. He shook his head with a single, sharp, distinct military motion.
"No!" His answer was firm, but his eyes dared not meet his wife's.
Arka's mother's gaze shifted to the Grandfather.
"Grandfather?"
His Grandfather, the majestic Temple Guardian who had been so cocky this morning, now looked away toward the dark window. He swallowed slowly, then pretended to whistle a tuneless melody, like an old bird that had forgotten how to sing.
Arka's mother felt her forehead twitch. A vein in her temple bulged slightly.
She ignored the two old men. Her gaze now locked onto her primary prey: Arka.
"Hand over your phone, Arka," she ordered, her voice ice-cold.
"Open your mobile banking. Now."
"But, Mom..." Arka trembled. This was worse than the ear-pinching.
"Now."
With clumsy, shaking hands, Arka reached into his pocket. He unlocked his phone, forced open the banking app, and handed the device to his mother with resignation. His fingertips trembled, the screen slick with sweat.
His mother took the phone. She looked at the mobile banking screen.
Her cold, controlled face cracked instantly. Her eyes widened. Her jaw hardened. She stared at the fantastic number in Arka's account balance.
"Crazy..." she hissed, her voice trembling. She no longer looked at Arka. She looked at Grandfather.
"WHOSE DOING IS THIS?!"
Then, she turned fully toward Grandfather, her voice transforming into an echoing roar, full of rage and panic.
"DID YOU SELL OUR HOUSE, FATHER????"
Welp... Grandfather is done for, Arka mumbled internally, sinking deeper into the sofa. His remaining life expectancy thinned by the second.
Grandfather flinched, startled by the roar. A remnant of his arrogance returned for a moment.
"No!" he answered, a little too defensively.
"Then what?!" his mother demanded, stepping closer to Grandfather.
"Where did this money come from?!"
"I... I am very rich," Grandfather said, trying to sound convincing but failing miserably under his daughter-in-law's glare.
His mother laughed. A cynical, terrifying laugh.
"Rich from where?" she hissed.
"Who was it that just yesterday asked for a transfer for 'home maintenance'?! HUH?!"
Grandfather fell silent immediately, utterly defeated.
She turned, now staring at her husband who had been trying to disappear into his chair.
"Husband????" she asked, a final word filled with demand.
Arka's father swallowed hard. He raised both hands in a gesture of total surrender. He looked at his wife resignedly.
"All money... is under your control, honey," he answered, his voice barely audible.
His mother looked at Father. Looked at Grandfather. Looked at Arka. Looked at the pile of boxes.
She closed her eyes, massaging her throbbing temples. Her breath came out in a heavy exhale, shaking her shoulders slightly.
"HUHHH!!!"
The room fell silent again. Three men from three generations sat petrified, daring not to breathe. They all watched Arka's mother, who stood motionless in the center of the room, massaging her temples.
She pondered for a long time. A very long time.
Her face, previously flushed red with anger, slowly changed. The tension in her jaw loosened. Her eyes, previously sharp, now looked puffy.
Then, her stiff shoulders began to shake.
She sobbed. Softly, then louder.
"Huhuhu..."
Tears suddenly flowed freely down her cheeks. She sat limply on the nearest chair, covering her face with both hands. Her sobs sounded broken and deep, as if a thousand frustrations of the day had spilled over at once.
Arka, his Father, and his Grandfather were all dumbfounded.
They looked at each other in horror and confusion. This was off-script. What was happening to this woman? They were ready to be scolded about money, not this.
His mother lifted her face, her gaze now filled with infinite sorrow, fixed straight on Arka.
"My poor son..." she sobbed.
"You... you have been poisoned by your father and grandfather..."
Arka froze. What?
"Mom knows they told you to find lots of girls, to flirt, to find many wives... I suspected it..."
She cried uncontrollably again.
"But... but why... why must it be rich sugar mommies, honey?" she wailed in despair.
"Huhuhu... what kind of taste is that..."
Arka, who had resigned himself to being punished for overspending, now slumped on the sofa. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in horror.
"HUUUH?!"
Sugar mommies?! Where did—?! He remembered the gossip on campus that morning.
He immediately glared at his Father and Grandfather in panic, seeking a defense.
Both of them looked away in unison.
His Father cleared his throat softly, staring straight at the wall.
"Child with low taste," he muttered quietly, but loud enough to be heard.
His Grandfather snorted, joining in staring at the wall.
"Grandson with blind eyes."
That was the limit. Arka couldn't take it anymore.
"AAAAARRRRHHH!"
Arka jumped up from the sofa, his face burning red between shame, anger, and total frustration.
"THIS IS GRANDPA!" he shouted, pointing at his Grandfather who was now pretending to examine the pattern of the rug.
"MOM! IT'S NOT SUGAR MOMMY MONEY! THIS IS ALL MONEY FROM GRANDPA!"
His scream of frustration echoed through the room. But his mother continued to sob.
"Huhuhu... it's okay, sweetie... don't defend them... Mom knows you're under pressure... we can fix your taste..."
The four people—three generations of the family—froze in an awkward silence.
Arka's frustrated scream "THIS IS ALL MONEY FROM GRANDPA!" still hung in the air, completely ignored by his Mother who was still sobbing softly, drowning in her "wealthy cougar" scenario.
Arka's father was still staring at the wall. Arka stood tense.
Then, Grandfather, who had been pretending to whistle and stare at the floor, finally spoke up. His voice was calm, flat, and very serious.
"It is money from the King."
Time seemed to stop.
Everyone in the room—Arka, Father, and Mother—instantly widened their eyes. Their jaws collectively dropped. They looked at Grandfather with mouths agape.
Even Arka's mother stopped crying mid-sob. Hic.
Silence.
Arka's mother stared at Grandfather. Her puffy eyes blinked, trying to process.
"The King...?"
Then...
"HUUUUWAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
The crying broke out again, a hundred times more intense, louder, and more hysterical than before. The vibration of her emotion could be felt through the floor, as if the old house joined in the wailing. The room seemed to shake with the roar of her grief.
"FATHER, THIS LIE IS TOO MUCH!" Mother wailed, now hitting the back of the sofa.
"My son is already a victim! And Father makes up a ridiculous story! What King gives out money?! HUHUHU... You must have been paid a fortune by those cougars to lie like this!"
Grandfather, clearly not expecting this reaction, looked offended. His majestic truth was being equated with hush money.
"I'm telling the truth, you know!" he snapped, his tone defensive.
"You're honest?!" Mother became even more hysterical.
"The more you say you're honest, the more it looks like a lie!"
Grandfather's insistent attitude made everyone in the room believe him even less. Arka's father could only massage his forehead deeply, resigned. Cold sweat appeared on his temples.
Arka couldn't take it anymore.
He looked at his Grandfather, who finally told the truth but was accused of being a pimp for cougars. He looked at his Father, who was totally useless. He looked at his Mother, who was now crying over a "King of Cougars" conspiracy.
He raised both hands and covered his face tightly, his fingers pressing hard against his temples.
"Damn it..." he muttered in frustration, his voice muffled behind his palms.
"What a mess. This family is absolutely chaotic."
_______ ✧ _______ ☾⚜☽ _______ ✧ _______