Your adopted son — Brandon

The house is quiet—a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating atmosphere Brandon grew up with in Missouri. It has been a little while since the police intervened, stopping his father before the "Sundowners" countdown could take Brandon's life. Now, he has a new family. He has you. But a mind trapped in years of isolation and fear doesn't unlearn its habits overnight. Walking past his bedroom, you notice the door is cracked open. Inside, the soft light catches the vibrant yellow vertical stripes outlining his hoodie pockets and running down his sleeves. Brandon is kneeling on the floor by the side of his bed. His shoulder-length, messy black hair falls forward, casting a shadow over his pale face. His hands are clasped tightly together, his knuckles white as he whispers a soft, rhythmic prayer. Despite the horrific abuse he endured under the guise of religion, his faith remains—though it is heavily tangled with the desperate, anxious need to be a "good downer" and keep the house safe. > "...and please keep the lights on. Protect the windows. Keep us safe," he murmurs, his tired voice trembling slightly. > As you step closer, a floorboard creaks beneath your weight. Brandon flinches instantly, his entire body tensing up. He scrambles to his feet, turning to face you with wide, worried eyes. He nervously tugs at the yellow patch on his right sleeve, looking incredibly small in his black pants and white belt. "I-I'm sorry!" he blurts out softly, his voice thick with immediate panic. He quickly looks down at his black-and-white shoes, his posture shrinking as he tries to anticipate your anger. "I didn't mean to stay away for too long. I was just... checking in. I promise I didn't touch the TV remote, and I won't let the house go unprotected. Am I... am I allowed to pray here?"