Night breakout part 2

[Tobey – whispering]

"Hmm… these footsteps are weird. Not Mom's. Not Dad's. And different from the one I heard earlier… but I didn't get enough data to analyze the first set."

He paused, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Then he counted the steps under his breath.

"One… two… three… four."

[Tobey – in his mind]

"Four continuous footsteps…?"

A sudden realization hit him.

The uninvited guest.

Of course. The cat.

He cracked the door open with caution—slow, quiet. And there it was: the same feline menace, walking nonchalantly through the hallway like it owned the place.

The moment the door creaked open, the cat froze mid-step and turned its head slowly, locking eyes with Tobey.

Its expression?

Like a thief caught red-handed by the world's most dramatic toddler.

Without missing a beat, Tobey reached out and grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck—exactly as he had before. The cat didn't even resist, just hung there in silent judgment.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door softly but firmly behind him.

[Tobey, glaring at the cat]

"What are you doing in the house?"

The cat blinked at him.

No answer. Of course.

With exaggerated seriousness, Tobey marched to the window, muttering under his breath like a tiny mob boss.

Then—he held the cat up in the air.

Suspended. Dangling.

Like a mafia enforcer dangling a poor soul off a rooftop over unpaid debts.

[Tobey]

"You listen here, Mr. Meow. This ain't your turf. I don't know how you keep getting in, but if you think you can mess with my stuff and get away with it…"

He paused.

The cat gave him a slow, unimpressed blink.

"…You're probably right. But still."

The cat yawned.

Then—it hit him.

A flash of memory, flickering like a scratched tape reel. His brain, still overloaded from the day's chaos, played back a hazy scene:

[Tobey, hesitation creeping into his voice]

"Amm… Mom… where did you get that cat? Amm, no, wait—why is there a cat in the house?!"

The cat's stare intensified.

The war had begun.

[Mother]

"This is…"

She paused.

Then—

sharp hissing sound hissssssss, followed by a sudden movement

The cat launched itself onto Tobey's bed.

dramatic gasp, followed by a weak groan

"HAAAH!"

Tobey jumped, the blanket flying off—exposing his tiny, half-naked body to the full wrath of feline judgment.

Then—

soft purring sound prrrrrrrr…

The cat calmly walked up to him… and purred.

Tobey's brain? Overloaded.

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?!

[Mother, smiling]

"Aww, he likes you! …Also, why are you half-naked?"

A pause.

His five-year-old neurons hadn't registered it at the time. Too much chaos. Too much everything. But now—now he remembered.

This cat… wasn't some intruder.

It was his cat.

Well, kind of.

[Tobey, blinking]

"Oh."

He stared at Bella.

[Tobey]

"I still don't know your name."

Bella stared back, still dangling from his grip like a bored guest who overstayed her welcome.

Without another word, Tobey opened his wardrobe, gently yeeted Bella inside, and shut the door behind her like it was just part of the bedtime routine.

[Tobey, in his mind, calm as ever]

"Now… let's get the key."

And with that, he slipped out of the room—

Like nothing had ever happened.

Now—

Back to the mission.

The hallway was darker than before. The dim ceiling light, once flickering in defiance, had now gone out completely. Shadows ruled the space.

Tobey clicked on his headlamp.

A thin cone of light cut through the dark as he made his way forward. Every creak in the wooden floor felt louder now—like the house had been holding its breath, waiting for him to return.

When he approached Father's workroom, something stopped him.

The door.

The door that he had definitely left open…

Was closed.

His breath caught in his throat. He flicked off the headlamp, letting the shadows swallow him again.

Slowly—carefully—he reached for the doorknob and nudged it open.

Creeeeak—

The room inside was pitch black.

The lamp on the table—once glowing with a soft orange warmth—was now cold and silent.

But there… in the silence…

A single sliver of moonlight broke through the window.

It landed on the desk.

And resting right in that glow—

the shard-shaped key.

Still.

Untouched.

Shimmering like something out of a dream.

Tobey took a single step forward.

Then—

FWIP—

A sharp blur ripped through the darkness, fast as a lightning strike.

Something whistled past his face.

Slash!

A chill grazed his scalp. A few strands of hair floated down in front of his eyes, glinting under the moonlight like falling threads of silk.

He froze.

His breath hitched.

The back of his heel struck the wall behind him—hard.

He didn't even feel it.

His wide eyes scanned the dark.

Silence.

Stillness.

But something… was there.

Lurking.

Watching.

Waiting.

His heart pounded against his ribs like a drum at war.

That wasn't imagination.

That was an attack.

Then—

Something else came.

Not just one… but four objects, glinting like silver darts in the moonlight.

Thunk!

The first one pinned Tobey's right sleeve to the wall.

Thunk!

The second—his left sleeve.

Thunk!

The third slammed through the fabric of his right pant leg, nailing it down.

Thunk!

The fourth embedded near his left leg, holding it firm.

He couldn't move.

He tried to squirm—but two more objects whistled from the shadows.

Swip! Swip!

They pierced under his arms, catching the folds of his baggy shirt.

Pinned again—tight.

His oversized clothes had betrayed him.

They clung to the wall like sails caught in a violent wind, and Tobey was the mast.

Trapped.

Silhouetted in the moonlight.

Arms stretched. Legs splayed.

A kid crucified by cloth.

His breath trembled.

Who—

Or what—

Was doing this?

Then—

Click.

The room flooded with light.

Tobey squinted.

The projectiles weren't knives. Not darts. Not magic.

They were... fountain pens.

Fountain pens?

Each pen had pierced through his baggy clothes with uncanny precision—pinning him to the wall by both sleeves, pant legs, and even under the arms. It was surgical. Overkill. A trap worthy of a cartoon villain.

Ink still shimmered at the tips.

He gulped.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his eyes.

A figure sat at the desk. Back turned. Calm. Working. The soft scratching of a pen echoed through the room. Nothing else moved.

[Tobey, whispering in disbelief]

"Dad...?"

Then—

Creak.

The office chair turned.

Slow.

Steady.

Sinister.

Until the man behind the ambush revealed his face.

[Father, voice calm, eyes hidden behind his glasses]

"I knew it."