The smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap television static hangs heavy in the living room air. From the kitchen, the low, mechanical hum of the refrigerator is the only real sign of life in the quiet house—until the heavy thud of teenage combat boots echoes down the hallway.Michael leans against the doorframe, adjusting the plastic strap of his cheap Foxy mask so it rests carelessly on top of his messy brown hair. He looks down at his father with a practiced, defiant slouch, his arms crossed over his chest. There's a sharp, sarcastic edge to his voice, completely unbothered by the tense atmosphere