Ethan's apartment was silent except for the patter of rain drifting down the windowpane like beads of melted glass. The dim yellow glow from the streetlamps tangled with the shadows inside his room, stretching across the walls like ghosts.
He curled into his worn armchair — the only piece of furniture he had brought with him from his shared flat. It smelled faintly of dust, old paper, and memories he hadn't fully unpacked. It was his safe corner, his refuge. And tonight, he needed refuge.
Because Matthew was back.
Because the Ashfords were stirring again.
Because Tyler, unaware of the war he had kicked awake, had smiled at him with such genuine hope.
Ethan sighed, letting his fingers rest lightly on the arm of the chair. If only hope didn't hurt so much.
Memories Like Faded Ink
Ethan let his eyes close, allowing the rain to draw him back into the labyrinth of his past. Childhood for him had never been a single home, a single warm voice, or a single story. It had been a collection of rooms: some kind, some indifferent, some cold.
He remembered faint impressions — soft hands passing him to a stranger, the smell of antiseptic, a lullaby in a language that floated in his mind but refused to form meaning. And then… movement. Always movement. New foster homes, new beds, new rules.
Don't touch that.
Eat quietly.
Be grateful you're here.
He learned early how to pack a suitcase fast, how to stop asking why, how to carry his loneliness like a backpack he could never put down.
By the time the Ashfords adopted him, he had already learned to keep secrets from himself. Ethan remembered looking up at Walter Ashford, wondering why the old man's eyes softened whenever they met. He remembered the tension in his adoptive parents' voices, the forced smiles, the disciplinary whispers behind closed doors.
They had wanted Matthew.
They had tolerated Ethan.
Only later did he understand that tolerance could be more brutal than hate.
The Dinner that Reopened Old Scars
Ethan swallowed hard as the memory of Matthew's smile from the dinner twisted inside him. A smile filled with unspoken motives and—still—superiority.
Ethan, Matthew had said smoothly, it's been too long.
Too long…
As if they were childhood friends separated by circumstance.
As if Matthew hadn't cornered him in hallways, whispered insults beneath his breath, and reported him for fabricated misdeeds just to earn praise at home.
As if Matthew hadn't watched their parents punish Ethan for "attitude problems" — punishments that still lived in Ethan's bones.
Ethan touched the side of his ribs, remembering.
Had Matthew come to dinner out of curiosity?
Jealousy?
Fear?
Or was it something worse — a plan?
Ethan didn't know. But he could feel the danger.
Ethan's Lost Pieces
He rose from the chair and walked to the small dresser where he kept a shoebox filled with his oldest belongings. He opened it slowly.
The battered paperback.
The photograph of the woman he could not remember.
A folded note from a foster mother who had been kind for three whole weeks.
A small grey stone he picked up outside an orphanage during one of the many placements.
These were the pieces of a childhood that never truly belonged to him.
He held the photograph up to the light. The woman's face was soft, gentle, mysterious. Was she his birth mother? Could she have been someone else entirely? He didn't know. No one would tell him. No records were shared.
Every time Ethan had asked about his origins, the adults around him grew tense, evasive. As if his past wasn't a story — but a secret.
A secret meant to stay buried.
The Present He's Building
His phone vibrated, pulling him back into the present.
A message from Tyler.
Tyler:
You did great today. I don't say it enough, but I'm grateful you're here.
Ethan stared at the words longer than he should have.
Tyler didn't know.
Tyler didn't remember him.
Tyler didn't understand the weight Ethan carried — the fear, the shame, the bruised memories.
But… Tyler saw him now.
Not as a burden.
Not as a charity case.
But as someone worth thanking.
Ethan typed a response, then erased it. Typed again. Deleted again. Everything felt too personal or too distant. Finally he settled on:
Ethan:
Just doing my job. Good night, Tyler.
But his heart beat louder than the message deserved.
The Summons
Then his phone lit up again — this time with a different name.
Matthew:
Grandfather wants to see you. Tomorrow. Bring Tyler.
Ethan's breath caught.
Not a request.
Not a suggestion.
A summons.
Walter Ashford — the man who had watched from the shadows of Ethan's childhood, the only one whose actions never quite made sense — now wanted to speak.
But why now?
Why involve Tyler?
Why did Matthew look so composed, so confident at dinner?
Was this about family?
About the company?
About power?
Or…
Was it about him?
Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine. The air in the room suddenly felt colder, as if the walls themselves were listening.
He sank back into the chair.
Matthew had called.
Walter wanted answers.
And Ethan… Ethan wasn't sure he was ready to hear them.
But one truth burned bright inside him:
He would not be powerless again.
He would not be the terrified boy Matthew once bullied.
He would walk into that estate tomorrow with his head high and his heart steady.
And Tyler…
Tyler would be there too.
Whatever waited behind those doors, Ethan would face it.