I know what you're thinking.
You were expecting a great story. Heroes. Ridiculous superpowers. Glory, respect, people chanting my name, and of course the insanely hot girl who only has eyes for me.
Too bad.
Because my story starts in a bathroom.
Not the bathroom of some ancient temple. Not a gold-inlaid bathhouse in a palace on Mount Olympus. No. The bathroom of a New York palace hotel, with marble so smooth you could ice-skate on it, faucets gleaming like they'd been blessed by the god of luxury himself, and toilet paper so thick it probably costs more than a full meal.
If I ever had to die somewhere, at least this place treats porcelain with respect.
After spending an entire evening stuffing my face with my own body weight in candy and washing it down with enough soda to make me almost throw up, I finally regret that decision. My stomach is growling like a hurricane is tearing through my insides, and I've got so much gas I could probably punch a hole straight through the ozone layer above the hotel. And I'm not even going to talk about what's coming out of me. I feel like a high-pressure sprinkler… for porcelain.
The real miracle isn't that the toilet survives.
It's that I do.
Eventually, the medication kicks in, and I can finally get up from the cursed throne where I've spent the entire night. I splash some cold water on my face and look at my reflection.
The mirror shows me a kid who looks way too put together for his own good. Even now. Even after a night spent resolving a full internal organ rebellion.
My black hair is a mess, but it still catches the light somehow, like dark silk. It curls slightly at the ends, just enough to refuse complete discipline, even when I usually force it into place with near-military precision. My eyes are a deep chocolate brown, the kind that makes it look like I'm always taking things too seriously—which is ironic, since most of the time I'm just figuring out how to avoid pointless conversations.
My skin has this natural olive tone, like some Greek ancestor decided to leave me a permanent souvenir. I could lock myself in a windowless room for a week and still look like I'd been out in the sun the whole time.
I turn off the faucet and dry my face, my eyes lingering on the dark circles underneath. This kind of exhaustion shouldn't exist at my age.
I was born on January 29th, 1993. I'm twelve years old. And I already feel like I've lived long enough to understand that there's no such thing as justice—just people pretending.
I leave the bathroom and walk through the suite.
Yes. The suite. Because apparently, when your father is the founder and CEO of Exarchos Finance Solutions—EFS, "because it sounds better in interviews"—you don't stay in a small hotel. You stay in a palace where the carpets swallow your footsteps and the curtains are heavy enough to double as sails.
The living room is huge. Way too huge for one person. The armchairs look like they're waiting for a meeting that will never happen. The coffee table could easily host ten people, but the only things on it are a glass of water and a box of pills.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the master bedroom. The other room is empty. Sometimes I imagine opening that door and finding my dad asleep, or getting dressed for one of his endless meetings. I even imagine hearing the sound of a shirt being shaken out, like this is all just a pause.
And then there's the other idea. The one I don't really like to look at too closely.
A mother.
Not my mother—not really. I never knew her. I don't even know what she looked like, except for one sentence that's been repeated to me my entire life: She died when you were born. So what my brain comes up with isn't a person. It's a shape. A vague presence. A child's reflex, looking for somewhere safe to rest.
Someone who would hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
Which is stupid, obviously. People don't say that. And even when they do, it's not true.
In a place like this, even the architecture reminds you of what you don't have, while surrounding you with things most people will never get.
There's a knock at the door.
Three precise, polite knocks, like part of some protocol.
I already know who it is.
Charles Whitmore walks in without apologizing, because people like him don't apologize. He's well dressed, of course. Dark coat. Perfect scarf. Hair exactly where it's supposed to be. He has the face of a man who can deliver bad news without his heart rate changing.
"Alexander," he says.
He says my name like it's a file. Well my longer nickname, my real name is Alexandros but not a lot of people call me that.
Charles was my father's friend. Well. Friend. In high society, "friend" can mean "the guy you drink with while talking business strategy" and "the guy you entrust your kid to" in the same sentence, without anyone blinking.
Since my father died, Charles has become my legal guardian. Officially, he also manages EFS until I come of age.
Unofficially… I think what he really manages is the idea of not being burdened by me.
He sits down in the living room, in an armchair by the window, like he's negotiating the purchase of the hotel itself.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
The question is correct. It's what an adult is supposed to ask. His voice, though, is already somewhere else.
"Better," I lie. "The meds did their job."
He nods and clears his throat.
"I'll be direct," he says.
Of course. People who say they're "being direct" use it like a bandage: they warn you, then they cut anyway.
"Whitney is hosting her side of the family for the holidays," he continues. "And… she thinks it would be better if you stayed here for Christmas."
I don't move.
Some sentences don't land right away. They circle your head like insects, and only then do they sting.
"What?" I say, because it's the only word I can find.
Charles sighs, like I'm complicating something simple.
"It's not personal, Alexander. It's a matter of logistics. You know how the holidays are. There'll be people, children, and—"
"I am a child," I say.
Silence.
Charles blinks, like this information is new.
"I mean… you know what I'm saying," he continues. "Whitney thinks it would be more comfortable for everyone."
More comfortable for her.
Because Whitney doesn't like me. Not just because I'm "a grieving child." Even before my father died, she was always cold toward me. Sometimes she couldn't even hide her disgust when she looked at me.
"So," Charles sums up, "you'll stay here for Christmas. You'll have everything you need. The staff is excellent, security is—"
"My father is dead," I cut in.
I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I want him to hear it. To feel it. To be human for just one second.
Charles freezes. Just for a moment. Then the mask slides back into place.
"Yes. I know."
No. He doesn't.
Knowing isn't attending a funeral. Knowing is walking into an apartment and realizing no one will ever ask you, Did you do your homework? in a tired voice again.
"I'll come by after Chrismas" he says. "I want to make sure you're okay, and then we'll discuss plans for the next year."
I nod.
He stands, places a hand on my shoulder. A mechanical gesture. A formality.
"Take care of yourself, Alexander."
Then he leaves.
The door closes.
And the palace becomes what it really is: an expensive, silent place, far too big for a boy who no longer has a home.
I stay there for a long time. Without crying. My body doesn't seem to know how to anymore. Tears are for people who still have someone to call when they fall apart.
Eventually, I put on my coat and leave. Because staying here feels like suffocating.
Central Park is covered in a thin layer of snow. Not enough to be magical. Just enough to be cruel.
Families walk together. Kids shout. Parents take pictures. People do what people do when they're alive and have a reason to be outside.
I move through them like I'm invisible.
At some point, I look up and see the penthouse at the top of a building overlooking the park.
Our penthouse.
Where I lived with my father.
I could go back. I could open the door, breathe in the smell of the apartment, convince myself nothing has changed—for a minute. Then the minute would end, and I'd collapse.
I look away.
That's when I see the poster near one of the entrances: New York Observatory — Winter Solstice. Special Night. Best Star Visibility.
I stop.
Like the sign just gave me permission.
The solstice. December 21st.
I don't know why the idea forms so clearly. Maybe because my brain is tired of running in circles. Maybe because, in a world where I control nothing, choosing a date feels like the last decision that's actually mine.
The 21st.
I won't have to get through Christmas.
I won't have to watch other people live.
I won't have to endure the silence.
I walk away without even feeling the cold.
When I get back to the palace, the lobby is glowing with decorations. Huge Christmas tree. Gold garlands. Holiday music so soft it makes you want to walk faster just to escape it.
In the elevator, I run into Juan Martinez, the floor attendant.
Juan looks at me and frowns.
"Alex. You doing any better? Yesterday you looked like you were about to explode."
"Let's say I went from 'end of the world' mode to 'end of the bathroom' mode," I say.
He smiles briefly, but his eyes stay serious.
"You know, you don't have to be the funny guy."
I stare at the elevator wall, an abstract painting that probably costs a year of Juan's salary.
"I don't want to bother people with this," I say.
"People bother each other all day long," he replies. "It's kind of their thing."
That almost gets a laugh out of me. Almost.
The elevator stops. The doors open onto the silent hallway, where even the air feels filtered to preserve the calm.
Juan doesn't move. Neither do I.
"Your dad… you miss him," he says.
Not a question.
I nod.
"Yeah."
He waits, like he's giving me space to say more. I don't.
"And your mom?" he asks gently. "She around?"
The words hit harder than I expect.
I don't like talking about my mother, because talking about her means admitting there's a hole in my story.
"She died when I was born," I say.
It comes out like something I memorized.
Juan lowers his eyes.
"Sorry, kid."
"I never knew her," I add, like that makes it easier.
He nods.
"You got family, though? Anyone… somewhere else?"
I could say no. It'd be simpler.
But I don't like big lies.
"In Greece," I say.
His eyebrows lift.
"Seriously?"
"My dad had family there. I've never met them."
"Why not?"
I shrug.
"It wasn't… important. To him. To us."
Juan looks at me for a moment, then exhales softly.
"Holidays don't help, huh."
I don't answer. Because answering would mean admitting I'm sinking.
We stop in front of my door. The key card beeps.
I could just say goodnight and go inside.
Instead, the words come out.
"Juan… I won't be staying in this room after the 21st."
He freezes. His eyes search my face, like he's trying to read a language he doesn't know.
"You're… switching hotels?"
"Yeah," I lie. "Something like that."
He opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn't push. He doesn't trap me.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
Then he forces a smile.
"Merry Christmas, Alex."
I answer with my polite smile—the one my father taught me.
"Merry Christmas."
I close the door.
And the silence comes back.
Only this time, it tastes different.
Because someone tried to stay.
And I'm leaving anyway.
December 21st arrives faster than I expect.
I take the subway to Roosevelt Island. The car is too warm, smells like wet coats and metal. I avoid looking at people for too long—they all have destinations. I just have a date.
When I reach Roosevelt Island station, I descend for what feels like forever, like the subway burrowed under the city to disappear. The station is deep and quiet, and the escalators never seem to end.
When I finally reach the surface, the island has already been swallowed by night. Only the streetlights remain, casting pale light over streets abandoned by people who are probably enjoying a family dinner or watching the latest TV show.
I walk north, toward the lighthouse.
I try to keep my thoughts out of my head. I'm afraid that if I think too much, doubt will creep in, along with memories of my father. I pass the baseball field where he used to take me when he was still alive.
I see him throwing the ball. His smile when my bat connected for the first time. The look of shock on his face when I hit my first home run at eight years old. Moments I'll never get back, lost along with his fight against cancer.
I keep walking, past the hospital, breathing in the frozen December air. Snow will probably fall during the night and cover everything in white. I wonder how long it'll take them to find me.
Will anyone even come looking for me?
I finally reach the lighthouse.
The dark currents of the East River rush past me. The murky water hides its depth. I can't see it, but I can imagine the thick algae coating the bottom.
How many miserable people am I about to join in these frozen waters?
How many of them had families who went looking for them?
Not that many, I guess.
In a way, I find that comforting. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I've found people like me. My kind. The unloved and forgotten souls of this side of America.
I find a thick rope along a pier and a concrete block sitting nearby. I don't know if this is luck or the universe messing with me. I try not to think about why the block is here. Leftover from construction? Something more sinister? The rope isn't new—there's a thin layer of green moss on it—but it looks solid enough.
I tie the rope securely around my ankles with a bowline knot, the way my father taught me when we took his boat along the Rhode Island coast.
The knot forms under my fingers almost by itself.
That's the problem with habits: they survive even when everything else falls apart.
The hemp scrapes my skin, cold and wet, and for a second I'm not here anymore. I'm on a boat. The night is softer. The air smells like salt and fuel. My father is muttering under his breath at a stubborn dinghy.
"It came loose again," he grumbles.
The dinghy bumps the hull, offended. The rope has slack.
He hands me the line.
"Your turn. Do it."
I must've been nine. Maybe ten. Old enough to understand that the ocean doesn't care how much money you have.
"If I mess up, it'll drift away," I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
"And?"
"And… it'll be gone."
"Exactly."
He crouches beside me. I feel his presence—solid, steady. He smelled clean, expensive, without being overpowering. Just like him: polished, never flashy.
"You know why I make you learn this, Alex?"
"Because we go sailing?"
He smiles.
"We don't 'go sailing.' We negotiate with the sea. And the sea doesn't sign contracts."
I try the loop. My fingers shake. The dinghy bumps the hull again.
"Easier," he says. "Don't fight the rope. Let it think it chose this."
I try again. The knot finally looks like something.
"Now pull here… then there. And most importantly—"
He places his hand over my wrist, guiding the motion.
"Always leave yourself an exit."
I frown.
"An exit?"
"Yeah. A knot is like a decision. If you do something you can't undo, sooner or later it costs you."
I don't fully understand, but I repeat the motion.
"A good knot holds," he adds, "and a good knot still lets you leave. Right here—you leave this small loop. It holds, but you can free it in one move."
I look at the knot. It holds. The dinghy settles.
My father straightens, satisfied.
"And Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"People who tell you there's only one option are almost always lying."
The memory fades.
I'm back at the lighthouse. On the edge of the East River. And I realize, with terrible clarity, that I'm doing the exact opposite of what he taught me.
I'm leaving myself no exit.
I tighten the knot anyway, like I'm trying to prove I can at least do this right.
I take one last look at the sky. It's already covered in thick black clouds, like a violent storm is about to tear through the bay. Not that it matters anymore.
I take one last deep breath—one final delay—and jump, concrete block in my arms, into the dark waters of the East River.
The cold wraps around me instantly, like a deadly blanket. In seconds, my limbs go numb. After a minute, my lungs start burning for air. The particles of dirt and pollution in the water sting my eyes.
Just as I'm about to let myself sink, something hard slams into my leg and pulls my attention away.
I look down and see a box carved with golden patterns I don't recognize. The wood is dark and ancient, protected by a layer of damaged varnish that's doing its best against the current. More intriguing than the box itself is the golden light leaking from a crack in the wood.
With my last strength, I swim toward it.
It's not very big—barely larger than my two hands side by side—with a small latch holding it shut. I open the lid without much trouble. The hinges creak, stiff with age, revealing a fragment of bone resting on a cushion that must once have been purple but is now brown with time.
It's probably the strangest thing I've ever seen.
A nearly intact finger bone, completely gold, glowing with the same light.
All my attention locks onto it. Everything else fades into background noise. My lungs screaming. The sting in my eyes. None of it matters anymore.
I reach out slowly.
The thought of leaving it here is unbearable. How could anyone abandon something so extraordinary at the bottom of the most polluted river in America? It doesn't belong here. It belongs in a museum. Somewhere like the Met.
Or in a temple.
My finger brushes the surface.
I expect something smooth, like metal. Instead, to my horror, it crumbles into a cloud of golden dust that floats around my hand.
The sight is mesmerizing. Each grain of light dances in a graceful orbit around my fingers. Slowly at first. Then faster. Faster still, until I can't see them individually anymore.
They merge into golden rings, gathering around my pinky.
Suddenly, the particles freeze in place.
Then they surge forward, plunging into my finger.
Pain explodes instantly. A burning sensation spreads from my finger, pulses through my hand. I scream on instinct, releasing the last bit of air in my lungs as my vision blurs.
The water around me turns violent. I'm thrown around like an old sock in a washing machine. Debris rises from the riverbed, swirling in an apocalyptic dance of broken dreams, abandonment, and pollution.
I think I see shapes.
Figures.
Bones.
Skeletons rising slowly, torn free from the algae. Three of them stare at me, death's grin stretched across their faces.
Then something hard slams into my face.
And my last sparks of consciousness fade.