I stepped into the hall, the warm aroma of breakfast filling the air.
My mother, Elena (48 years old), was at the stove, humming softly as she cooked. My father, Marcus (50 years old), sat in his usual armchair, eyes glued to the morning news on the TV. My big sister, Sophia (30 years old), home for the weekend, was lounging on the couch, scrolling through TikTok videos on her phone, occasionally letting out a quiet laugh.
I glanced toward you, the reader, and smiled faintly. "This is my family," I said quietly. "I love them dearly. Everyone here is related by blood—no stepmom, no stepsister, nothing like that. And like I mentioned before, this is a completely normal family. No shady stuff, no incest. My interests are strictly outside the family—mature women who aren't related to me."
With that out of the way, I turned toward the kitchen and called out, "Mom?"
I walked closer to the kitchen, the rich scent of sizzling butter, garlic, and herbs wafting through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh coffee brewing on the counter.
"Mom, what are you cooking?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.
Elena turned from the stove, her apron dusted with a bit of flour, a warm smile lighting up her face as she spotted me. "Yo, Ethan, I'm trying a new recipe."
"From where?" I asked, curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar spicy notes hitting my nose.
"Your aunt gave me this recipe last night," she replied with a chuckle, stirring the pan where something golden and bubbling simmered. "She called and said, 'Try this shit,' so here I am, cooking it."
I nodded, inhaling the tempting steam rising from the stove. "Alright, Mom, you keep cooking that shit."
From the living room, Marcus's voice cut in sharply over the low hum of the TV. "Respect the food, you moron."
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Mom, when are you going to finish the cooking? I'm getting late for my... you know."
Elena glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the pan, tasting a spoonful with a thoughtful hum. "This is gonna take a while longer. Why don't you grab breakfast at a hotel or café instead? You can come back this afternoon for dinner. What do you say?"
The idea sounded perfect—more time to myself on my birthday. I nodded with a grin. "Yeah, that works."
"Alright, guys, I'm heading out for work," I called out, grabbing my keys from the hook by the door.
Elena wiped her hands on her apron and smiled warmly. "Have a good day, sweetheart." Marcus looked up from the TV long enough to give me a nod and a quick wave. Sophia pulled one earbud out, flashed a grin, and waved lazily from the couch. "Later, little bro."
I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the faint chill of winter brushing against my skin as I walked toward the garage. The door rumbled open with a familiar metallic groan, revealing the dimly lit space inside. There sat the three family cars—Mom's practical silver sedan, Dad's sturdy black SUV, and Sophia's sleek red coupe—all parked neatly in a row. But my eyes went straight to my baby: the gleaming black sports bike tucked in the corner, its chrome accents catching the overhead light.
I swung a leg over the cool leather seat, the familiar weight settling comfortably beneath me. Slipping on my helmet, I turned the key. The engine roared to life with a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through my chest, the exhaust note echoing sharply off the garage walls. The scent of gasoline and warm metal filled the air as I revved it once, feeling that rush of power.
With a final glance back at the house, I eased out of the garage, the tires humming against the driveway as I started my journey toward my favorite restaurant, the cool wind already whipping against me as I accelerated down the street.
I finally eased the bike to a smooth halt in front of my favorite restaurant, the engine's low rumble fading as I pulled into an open parking space. The morning sun glinted off the chrome, and the faint scent of exhaust lingered in the cool December air as I killed the ignition with a satisfying click.
Removing my helmet, I shook out my hair and headed inside. The place was crowded—bustling with the weekend crowd, the air thick with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and warm buttered toast. Laughter and the clatter of cutlery filled the space, mingled with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional ding of the kitchen bell.
I scanned the room and managed to snag a small table by the large window overlooking the busy street, where sunlight streamed in and warmed the wooden surface.
A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with my order: a steaming plate of fluffy pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, crispy hash browns golden and fragrant, and a side of perfectly cooked eggs. I dug in slowly, savoring each bite—the sweet stickiness of the syrup, the savory crunch of the potatoes—while enjoying the outside view: people hurrying by on the sidewalk, cars gliding past, and the faint winter breeze rustling the bare trees across the road.
A few minutes later, my plate was clean, the satisfying fullness settling in. I paid the bill, slipped my helmet back on, and headed out to my bike, ready to continue on to work.
I pulled into the sprawling campus of Nexus Games, the multi-billion-dollar gaming empire that dominated the industry. The morning sun reflected off the sleek glass facade of the main building, and the massive neon logo—a stylized controller intertwined with a phoenix—glowed softly even in daylight. The parking lot was already filling with luxury cars and a few custom-painted bikes like mine, the faint scent of fresh-cut grass from the manicured lawns mixing with the distant hum of the city.
I rolled to a stop in my reserved spot near the executive entrance, killed the engine, and hung my helmet on the handlebar. The familiar weight of my ID badge swung against my chest as I straightened my jacket and headed inside.
The lobby was a gamer's dream: high ceilings, interactive digital walls displaying real-time leaderboards from our latest titles, and the soft electronic chime of achievement notifications echoing faintly from hidden speakers. Employees in casual hoodies and jeans nodded or waved as I passed—some clutching coffee cups, others already deep in conversation about upcoming patches.
I took the private elevator to the top floor, the ride smooth and silent except for the low thrum of the machinery. When the doors slid open, I stepped into the executive wing of the HR department. My corner office waited at the end of the hall—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, a massive curved monitor setup, and a sleek desk that cost more than most people's cars.
As Chief Human Resource Officer, I wasn't just part of the machine here—I helped steer it. And yeah, the paycheck that came with it? Let's just say I was filthy rich, and on my 25th birthday, that fact put an extra spring in my step as I settled in for the day.