Khalil stood over Kota like a storm cloud, arms crossed tight across his broad chest, the salt-and-pepper beard framing a face etched with suspicion. The living room felt smaller under his gaze—the faded couch sagging under Kota's weight, the chain-link balcony letting in the faint hum of traffic from outside, the old clock ticking relentlessly on the wall. It was 3:42 p.m. now, and Khalil's eyes drilled into him, unblinking, dissecting every fidget, every averted glance. Kota sat there, hands clasped in his lap, the bite mark on his neck throbbing like a guilty beacon. He knew this was coming—the interrogation. Khalil had always been like this: hyper-intrusive when something smelled off, probing every detail until the truth cracked open like a walnut under pressure. No room for half-truths. No escape.
"Start talking," Khalil said, voice low and even, the kind that brooked no delay. "And don't think about lying. I raised you better than that."
Kota swallowed hard, his mouth dry. The hickey—Beckett's weird bite mark was the obvious starting point. It burned under the scrutiny, visible even under the collar of his hoodie. He tried to play it casual, rubbing it absentmindedly.
"It's nothing, Dad. Just a bug bite. Knarly mosquito or something. Got me during recess or whatever."
Khalil's eyes narrowed to slits. "Bull. Mosquito in January? In Houston? We ain't got bugs like that this time of year—they freeze their asses off. And that ain't no bite; that's a mark. Red, raised, looks like teeth. Try again."
Kota shifted, mind racing for the next excuse. He leaned into something more physical, hoping Khalil's respect for toughness would buy it. "Okay, fine. Got in a fight at school. Some guy jumped me in the hall—over nothing, really. I handled it, but he got a cheap shot in."
Khalil barked a short, disbelieving laugh. "Bull again. You? In a fight? Son, I know you. You're built strong, but you ain't a brawler. If some punk jumped you, you'd get your ass whooped or walk away—ain't no way you'd come home with just a neck mark and no bruises, no split lip, no black eye. And school would've called me by now if it was real. Nah. That's not it."
Kota's pulse quickened. He needed something innocent, something that fit the "good kid" image Khalil had drilled into him. "Alright, alright. I was studying. After school, in the library. Stayed late with a group—some project thing. The bus was delayed because of that."
Khalil shook his head slowly, stepping closer. "Bullshit. You hate studying late—always complain about the lights giving you headaches. And no group project I know of runs till three on a weekday without me getting a note or a call from the teacher. Plus, you look guilty as sin, not tired from books. Keep going if you want, but you're digging deeper."
Kota's mind scrambled. He needed more excuses—five more, as if layering lies would somehow bury the truth. He tried the next one quick. "Gym. I stayed for extra gym time. Working out, you know? Building strength like you always say. Some equipment pinched my neck or something."
Khalil's expression darkened. "Bull. You ain't been to gym class without me knowing—school requires permission slips for after-hours, and I ain't signed nothing. Plus, gym equipment don't leave teeth marks. That's human, not metal. Improbable as hell—you'd have sweat stains, gym bag, something. Nothing adds up."
Kota pressed on, sweat beading on his forehead now. "Friends. Hung out with friends after school. We were messing around—roughhousing a bit. One of them got me in a headlock or whatever."
"Bull," Khalil shot back immediately. "You don't got friends like that. The ones you mention are quiet types—no roughhousing crew. And if it was play, why hide it? Why the guilt in your eyes? Nah, too improbable you'd be laughing about it, not dodging my gaze."
Desperation crept in. Kota tried another. "Doctor. I went to the school nurse. Felt sick during last period neck thing was from some weird reaction or shot."
Khalil leaned in, voice dropping. "Bullshit. Nurse would've called me—protocol for any medical. And you look fine now, no fever, no meds in your pocket. Improbable—you'd have a note or smell like antiseptic. Keep lying, son. See where it gets you."
Kota's excuses were crumbling faster than he could build them. "Library again—but solo this time. Reading for fun. Bumped my neck on a shelf."
"Bull." Khalil's patience thinned. "You hate reading alone—always say it's boring without a group. And a shelf bruise? That's flat, not a bite. Too improbable—no book smell on you, no red eyes from straining. You're reaching."
Last one before cracking. "Detention. Got in trouble—talking in class or something. Teacher grabbed my neck to pull me aside."
Khalil's eyes flashed. "Bullshit. Detention calls home immediate. And a teacher marking you? That's lawsuit territory—improbable as hell, they'd lose their job. You think I'm stupid, Kota? All these stories—bugs, fights, studying, gym, friends, doctor, library, detention—none hold water. Too many holes, too many improbabilities. Now, the truth. All of it."
Kota's shoulders sagged. He couldn't keep this up. The lies had piled too high, each one dissected with Khalil's unerring logic, the sheer improbability laid bare like exposed wires. He took a deep breath, mind racing for something—anything—that might stick without unraveling everything.
"Okay... I got a job. Behind your back. Didn't want to tell you till I had some money saved."
Khalil's brows furrowed, suspicion deepening instantly. He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward. "A job? What kind of job? When? How?"
Kota met his eyes, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Construction. At the apartment complex down the block—they're renovating units. I went after school, helped with some manual stuff. Lifting, hauling. Figured I could earn extra cash for... papers, books, whatever. Didn't want to leech off you—you work so hard already. Thought it'd make you proud."
Khalil stared at him for a long, heavy moment. The room felt frozen—the clock ticking louder, the traffic hum outside amplifying the silence. Then, without warning, Khalil lunged forward and wrapped Kota in a giant hug—arms like steel bands crushing around him, nearly squeezing the air from his lungs. Kota gasped, ribs protesting, but Khalil didn't let go.
"Son," Khalil rumbled, voice thick with emotion. "That's my boy. Taking initiative. Building something with your hands."
Kota wheezed, patting his dad's back. "Dad—can't—breathe—"
Khalil released him but kept hands on his shoulders, eyes shining. "You don't know how proud that makes me. Muscle work—real labor—that's the best kind. Builds character, strength, keeps you grounded in this soft world. None of that desk-jockey bullshit or screen-staring. Hammer and nails, sweat and grit—that's how men stay men. I started the same way, you know? Fourteen, hauling bricks for pennies. Taught me everything. Discipline. Endurance. How to spot a lazy crew from a good one. You'll learn the trades—plumbing, wiring, framing. Avoid the unions if you can; they're full of politics now. But real work? It'll make you unbreakable. And the pay—overtime's where the money's at. Double on weekends. Don't let 'em short you on breaks, though. Hydrate. Stretch. Protect your back—lift with the legs, not the spine. I got stories—guys who blew discs 'cause they got cocky. But you? You'll crush it. Proud of you, son. Real proud."
Kota nodded along, tuning out halfway through the rant. Khalil's voice blurred into background noise the familiar cadence of lectures on hard work, masculinity, staying tough in a world gone soft. He caught fragments: "avoids the femboy traps," "builds real bonds with real men," "keeps the mind sharp." But his thoughts wandered to the Hawthornes, the mansion, the bite mark, the lies stacking like unstable bricks. He was glad Khalil bought it—relief washed over him like cool water—but now he had to make this pretend job real. Somehow.
Khalil finally wound down, clapping Kota on the back hard enough to jolt him. "Here—take this." He pulled his old iPhone 19 from his pocket, the cracked screen glinting. "Use it at work. Call if you need. Text updates. And hey—snap some pics of the site. Your form. I'll correct it. Don't want you hurting yourself first week."
Kota's stomach twisted. "Pics? Dad, you don't need to see my form. I got it."
Khalil's eyes sharpened. "Insist. I know construction. One wrong lift and you're out for months. Send 'em. I'll spot the issues."
Kota stuttered, mind flashing to the inevitable questions if he faked it wrong. "But—"
"No buts. Send the pics."
Kota sighed, defeated. No excuse would hold. Now he had to make this work—fake a job, dodge more lies, keep the Hawthorne chaos hidden. "Okay, Dad."