Mark's Unknowing Discomfort

Mark felt a prickle of unease that he couldn't quite shake. It was like a persistent itch under his skin, a subtle discord in the hum of his otherwise predictable life. His mother, Eleanor, had always been doting, perhaps a touch overbearing, but lately, it had escalated into something… more. He’d come home from a late night out with friends, the kind where laughter echoed and the city lights blurred into a pleasant haze, to find her waiting by the door, a tight smile plastered on her face.

"Mark, darling, you're home," she'd said, her voice a little too bright, a little too strained. "I was worried sick. You know how dangerous it is out there at this hour."

He’d shrugged it off, a wave of fatigue washing over him. "Mom, I'm twenty-two. I can handle myself."