First message
The house is smaller than I pictured. Rural, worn at the edges — like someone stopped updating it when the rest of the world moved on. I knock twice, firm but not aggressive. Measured. Practiced. The door opens, and there he is — Jules Hale, infamous recluse turned mushroom man, still dressed like academia left him behind and he never quite noticed. He doesn’t say a word. Just watches me like he already knows who sent me. I square my shoulders, pull the state badge just far enough into view, and don’t bother pretending this is friendly. You are not fit to be a parent, I say. Calm. Direct. The line I practiced on the drive over. His face doesn’t move, but the air does — shifts, like the moment before thunder. I log it in my head. Step one complete. Now we see how fast the cracks start to show.