They arrived just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the cluttered skyline.
The new place was nothing like the noisy, cramped corner of the slums they had left behind. It was quieter here, cleaner—a small two-story building with four apartments, two on the ground floor and two above. The man lived downstairs, in the corner unit.
His apartment was neat—too neat, even. Tidy shelves, polished floors, the scent of air freshener lingering in every room. There was a small parlor with worn but well-kept furniture, a modest kitchen tucked beside it, a narrow bathroom, and two bedrooms.
For the first time in his life, Samuel had a room of his own.
No more curling up beside his mother, listening to the scuffle of rats in the ceiling. No more sharing a single fan on a hot night. No more pretending not to hear her crying herself to sleep.
It was strange, having space—strange and a little beautiful.
The first few months went smoothly, smoother than anyone expected. His mother began to glow in ways Samuel hadn't seen since he was a child. The man treated her well: bought her little things, took her out once in a while, laughed at her jokes. She looked younger somehow, happier.
Before long, they were engaged. Samuel was settling into the new neighborhood. He started running errands, making himself useful—around the house, around the compound. The man owned a small mechanic shop not too far from the apartment and asked if he'd like to learn the trade. Samuel agreed. It seemed like a good idea—honest work, something real to do with his hands.
The shop was in a busier part of town, a short bus ride away. It wasn't anything fancy: a shaded lot with a rusted shipping container turned into an office. But it was always full of noise and movement—oil stains, socket wrenches, the smell of grease and sweat. The man already had two other boys working for him, older than Samuel. One of them seemed to run the place when the man was away. Both were tasked with training him.
At first, Samuel kept to himself. He watched, learned, worked hard. The other boys didn't talk much either, except when they had to. It wasn't a bad place. Not really.
But it didn't take long for Samuel to notice that something was off.
The man had a habit of showing up late to the shop, sometimes with women he didn't introduce. They would head into the office and stay there for a while—long enough for Samuel to hear things through the thin container walls. Sounds he recognized. Sounds no man soon to be married should have been making with another woman.
Sometimes, the man used customer cars to cruise around town. One day, Samuel even realized the sleek car they had used to move into the apartment hadn't been his at all. It was a customer's. Samuel recognized the plates when the owner came to pick it up weeks later.
The charm. The gifts. The clean apartment.It was all for show.
Samuel didn't say anything to his mother. What was he supposed to do—ruin the one good thing she had going? At least the man was treating her well. At least they were no longer starving. He figured some truths were better left unspoken.
So he looked the other way.
The man didn't seem to notice, or maybe he just didn't care. He carried on like nothing was wrong.
And so the days rolled on.
Three years passed. Ringo's death still lingered in Samuel's mind—the sight of his body, the pool of blood, the glint of his silver cross around his neck, now hanging from Esther's chain like a haunted memory.
Samuel was seventeen now—taller, quieter, still cautious, still watching.
Things at home were good, or at least they looked good from the outside. The man still bought gifts. He and Samuel's mother laughed often, shared meals, made plans. She seemed happy—genuinely happy.
When she found out she was pregnant again, she told Samuel with a tearful smile on her face. He smiled too.
The man was thrilled at the news. He bought her more gifts, called her *my wife*, even though the wedding hadn't happened yet. For a moment, Samuel allowed himself to believe this new chapter might turn out all right.
But that was when everything started to shift.
It was subtle.
At first, the man would come home late and claim it was traffic. He'd leave his phone face down on the table, jump whenever it rang. There was one number that called often—too often.
At first, Samuel's mother didn't say anything. But Samuel could see the tightness in her face, the way her smile never quite reached her eyes anymore.
Eventually, she began to snoop—quietly, cautiously. What she found broke her.
Multiple women. Dozens of texts. Pictures. Audio notes.
The man was cheating on her—boldly, shamelessly. With women young and old, some she even recognized.
When she confronted him, it wasn't with rage. Not at first. She asked him gently why. Asked if it was something she did, something she didn't do.
He didn't respond kindly.
He flared up instead.
How dare she go through his phone. Invade his privacy. Disrespect him in his own house.
Their voices rose. The apartment trembled with the heat of the argument.
Then, without warning, the man struck her—a heavy, open-palmed slap, full of rage. It knocked her to the ground. Her cheek swelled instantly as she gasped for breath. Before she could crawl away, he was on her again—another slap, then another. The world blurred.
And perhaps that was the moment the house stopped feeling like a home.