Moment between son and father
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."
"How you doing, son? Didn't catch a cold, aaay… after the morning ruckus?"
(He tilted his head slightly, his tone flat—unbothered, like a detective who had predicted the final move all along.)
"I did warn you, didn't I? This is the price you pay for chaos."
[Tobey]
"What morning ruckus?"
[Father, smirking, then casually adjusting his socks taking a sip of tea]
"Don't lie. Not with that face—
The face of a fly stuck in a spider's web.
The face of someone who was running after a frog.
Naked.
And playing with life itself."
(Tobey's brain was spinning. Every time he thought he was the puppet master, someone else was holding the strings. His dad? Always five moves ahead.)
"Maybe that's why I always lose—I miss the details that matter."
At that moment, Tobey's mind buzzed and he blinked once, seemingly trying to reassemble the fragmented memory of his chaotic morning.
[Tobey, blinking, with a faint wry smile]
"…I think I blacked out that part."
[Tobey, arms pinned, squirming slightly, breath quickening]
"Ah, I see… Lady Luck is on your side."
[Cut to: Father's silhouette—backlit by the desk lamp as he twirls a pen between his fingers. Close-up: glasses glinting, unreadable expression.]
[Father, calm, not even looking up]
"Lady Luck?"
(beat)
"She takes notes from me."
[Wide shot: He stands slowly, every motion calculated, casting a long shadow over Tobey.]
[Father, smirking, stepping closer]
"She moved in last winter. Calls me Sir."
[Close-up: Tobey's eyes widen—just a little. A single bead of sweat crawls down his cheek.]
[Tobey – in his mind]
He feels like a supervillain right now… What's with this energy? I've never seen this side of him before.
He's always so kind… smiling like the most innocent guy in the world. The gentlest man I know.
But this? This feels like something else.
My legs are shaking. I want to close my eyes and wake up. Pretend it's just a dream.
How did Mom fall for someone like this?
[Father begins pacing slowly—deliberate, composed—like a chess master circling a pinned king.]
[Father]
"In this house… Lady Luck's just part of the strategy."
[He stops—right in front of Tobey. Low-angle shot: Father towering slightly, his expression unreadable.]
[Father]
"She's not on my side."
(beat)
"She's on payroll."
(With calm precision, Father slid open a drawer of his desk.
From within, he pulled out a small tray… and laid it in front of Tobey.)
The contents clinked softly as they settled.
Tobey's supplies.
A DIY disaster kit:
A small bottles of homemade chemicals. A pair of plastic containers. A paring knife (stolen from the kitchen). A craft knife (stolen from the workroom). And some completely unidentifiable, scribbled-together Tobey-grade gadgets.
[Tobey, eyes widening]
"…They were all here. But I checked. I checked—"
His voice faltered. His gaze shifted between the tray of confiscated tools and his father's unreadable expression.
Then—his eyes narrowed.
[Tobey]
"You… stalker."
[Father]
"It's not stalking… unless you get caught. Aaay?"
There it was—that smug smirk again. But Father's gaze flicked downward.
Tobey's knees were shaking. His fists clenched. His eyes—glassy, trembling at the edge of tears.
[Father – in his mind]
"…Damn it. I went overboard again, didn't I? Can't shake off those old habits…"
He let out a quiet sigh and moved slowly.
With calm gentleness, Father pulled the office chair closer and sat in front of Tobey—his demeanor shifting. Softer. No longer the trap-setter. Just a man, kneeling before his kid.
He reached forward, his hand resting lightly under Tobey's chin, tilting it just enough to meet his gaze.
[Father, quieter now]
"Listen… I don't care what you do, okay? Not really. But I care about you."
A beat.
A silence that held weight.
[Father]
"Using bedsheets as a rope to get down from the first floor? Then slipping halfway? And doing it again to climb back up?"
He shook his head.
"Do you have any idea what your mom would feel if something did happen to you?"
A pause. His voice grew even softer.
[Father]
"What I would feel?"
Tobey stared, wide-eyed, breathing shallow.
[Father]
"You're not like most five-year-olds. You don't just play. You plan. You scheme. You chase frogs with chemistry sets."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—half pride, half concern.
"You dive into everything headfirst. No hesitation. That's why I keep an eye on you."
His hand lingered on Tobey's chin just a moment longer before pulling away gently.
Then, in an unexpectedly tender motion, he reached out and smoothed Tobey's hair, like trying to press the wild chaos of his son's mind into place—just for a second.
[Father]
"Think about it. Now... I'll go to sleep."
He turned, walking toward the door without another word.
But—
[Tobey]
"…What about these fountain pens?"
(He wiggled slightly—still pinned to the wall.)
[Father, without turning]
"Normal punishment wouldn't work on you."
A long pause.
[Father, over his shoulder]
"It's three hours till your mother wakes up."
[Father]
"Good night."
The door creaked slightly as it began to close behind him—
—and Tobey, still crucified to the wall by precision-placed pens, stared into the darkness.
[Tobey, deadpan]
"…I miss the belt."
Point to be noted: he has never, in his entire life, been beaten with a belt.
And yet—
There he was.
Pinned like a scarecrow in a prep school's "creative punishment" exhibit.
Anyway.
Back to Tobey.
Click.
The door shut behind [Father].
No lock. No dramatic flourish. Just gone.
[Tobey, muttering]
"So that's who's behind the baggy clothes…"
(He glanced down at his sleeve—still pinned.)
"…Now how do I get out of this?"
The pens held him like enchanted daggers.
A spell woven from stationery and sheer fatherly pettiness.
[Tobey, narrowing his eyes]
"Okay... plan B."
He shifted.
Nothing budged.
[Tobey]
"…Plan C."
He twisted.
Still stuck.
Silence.
A breath.
A stare.
[Tobey]
"…How…?"
Then—
A glint in his eye.
[Tobey]
"I think I got it."
A flicker of hope.
[Tobey]
"Tobey going naked."
With practiced ease—he wriggled and squirmed, slipping free from the traitorous baggy clothes like a snake shedding its skin. One arm. Then the other. Legs followed.
Plop.
Now free and very much exposed, Tobey stood in the moonlit room in nothing but raw determination and five-year-old rage.
[Tobey, dead serious]
"Back naked again."
His eyes narrowed at the heap of clothes lying like a fallen enemy at his feet.
[Tobey, slowly nodding to himself]
"This is war."
He turned toward the mirror, fists clenched, body shivering—but not from the cold.
[Tobey, voice rising like a vow]
"No more baggy clothes. I make my own battle armor."
(And just like that, he began plotting.
Not just a breakout.
Not just the key.
But the suit that would change everything.)
[Tobey – in his mind, eyes gleaming]
"How about clothes… that attach to my body like a parasite. Clothes that shift shape. That obey me. That evolve with my will."
A pause.
A smile.
[Narrator]
I smell it.
Not cookies.
Not doom.
Something far more dangerous—
A wicked scientist arc is brewing.
[Tobey, shaking his head]
"That's for future me. Back to the mission."
He stepped toward the desk, eyes locked on the object of his night-long crusade.
He reached out—
Fingers brushed cool metal.
And then—
[Tobey, whispering like a spy]
"Key acquired."
He held it up, inspecting it under the beam of moonlight. The key shimmered like treasure pulled from a dungeon, its edges sharp and precise. But there—etched along the shaft—
Numbers.
"228922."
A pause.
A beat.
His brow furrowed.
Then it clicked.
[Tobey, voice sharp with realization]
"That's the same number… on the lock to the shed."
He stared at the key in his hand.
So small.
So ordinary.
And yet… it held the gateway to everything.
[Tobey, quietly, a whisper to himself]
"These changes everything."
Outside, thunder rumbled.
The house creaked.
And in the dim glow of moonlight—
The boy with the mind of a menace… smiled.
Fade to black.