Father held his neck in pain, trying to stop the bleeding. He stumbled into the nearby closet and found a dirty rag, thrown onto the end of a bucket in the corner. The rag quickly stained red, and he leaned against the wall, knowing the pain was nothing compared to the dread of what he had to do next. Mr. Scratch would need to know that William had fought him off and ventured deeper into the dungeon. He wished he'd just taken the chance when William went into the dead girl's room. Why hadn't he? Curiosity or pity?

When he made his way to Scratch's room, he waited outside for a while. What could he say that would lessen the impact of his words? It was no use hiding the puncture in his neck or the blood that had dried along his shirt and pant legs. Had he fought hard enough? He already knew that that he was losing his touch; losing his grip on the one job he was tasked with doing.

He could hear two men in the room. A muffled laughter from one of them, unlikely to be Mr. Scratch. It must have been Ed, one of the other fathers. His hand twisted the knob of the door, his heart beating fast. Sure enough, it was Ed and Mr. Scratch. Scratch was sitting behind his Cherrywood desk and Ed was snickering at what must have been a god-awful comment from the boss. He'd always been a suck-up. But Father could understand it, somewhat, due to his less-than-stellar intellect and his immense physicality. Ed and Father would bicker at one another now and then, behind the scenes, and made sure to keep their distance. They tolerated each other but it went no further than that.

"Sir." Said Father.

"Well look who it is," said Ed with a shit-eating grin, "should I leave or stick around and shoot the shit with ya?"

"You're always welcome to fuck off, tubby," Father said.

"How about you both stick around," said Mr. Scratch, "what's the news with our little William?"

Father walked over to a chair opposite of Ed and sat down, taking a deep breath before explaining the situation.

"So, the boy is out running around right now? Where'd he run off to?" Asked Mr. Scratch.

"He ran towards the hole. The girls might have gotten him, I'm not sure. 'Heard them clacking the ground."

"And if not?"

Father looked to the side at Ed, "He'd be in the girl's room."

The two men looked at each other and Mr. Scratch nodded at the door. Ed followed the non-verbal direction and made his way to the door, glaring at Father the entire time. Father only looked straight ahead, still holding the rag against the wound. To Father's surprise, Mr. Scratch kept his voice soft and easy when speaking.

"Was it purposeful?" He asked.

"Of course not." Said Father.

"He'll be thirsty. Take some Rohypnol to the showers and Ed will take care of the rest."

"Will they go back to their rooms?" Father asked.

"Too late for that. Although I do appreciate William's spunk, I think it's best that we replace both of them."

"With all due respect, I've spent years with that boy. I can't do it all again with someone else." Said Father.

"I don't expect you to. What you should do now is take care of the mess that you've made. Understand?"

Father reluctantly agreed before he stood up and made his exit. He imagined killing William and for some reason, he couldn't stand the thought of it. Even after the torture he inflicted and the emotional distance he'd created from William, the thought of ending his life was difficult to process. If it weren't for the consequences that would surely await him for not following orders, he'd probably dismiss the thought entirely. Though William was not his flesh and blood, he raised him as such.

"I'm not your boy."

William's words rang in his head and it worked to anger Father for a moment. Who gave him the right to talk to him like that? After everything he'd done to raise him, oftentimes behind the back of Mr. Scratch, and that's what he was given in return? The urge to whip the boy with a cord rose inside of Father. The first answer was always violence. He tried to remember a time when it wasn't, but violence was so deeply wrapped and intertwined with his very being that it had become instinct. Even when empathy or sympathy fought through the webs of his hatred and pain, they were like dying stars in a universe of red giants.

In the darkness of the hallways, Father walked. His age had caught up with him, seemingly in an instant, along with all the problems that old age brings with it. Forgetful? Weak? Tired? All of the above. He suspected Mr. Scratch knew that as well. He'd already lived through two Scratch's prior and yet the Father's always remained. The boy always remained. But the circumstances, though not too often, seemed to be the only things that did change. In fact, he'd almost been intrigued by the current state of things. No one had ever escaped before. It stirred the pot, so to speak. But orders were orders and Father knew he'd only get one chance to make things right. Still, what if he didn't go through with it? What if he decided to leave the boy to a fate beyond his hands? The circumstances would indeed become even more interesting. The outcome would be less than ideal for himself but more intriguing all the same.