The plate slipped from Adrian's trembling hands.
It shattered against the floor.
The sound echoed through the small, dirty kitchen like thunder.
For a moment, everything went silent.
Adrian's heart stopped.
Then the shouting started.
"You useless brat!"
Heavy footsteps stormed toward the kitchen.
Adrian's breath caught in his throat as the foster father burst through the doorway, his face already twisted with anger.
"What did you break now?!"
"I—I'm sorry," Adrian whispered quickly, dropping to his knees. His thin fingers began picking up the broken pieces before the man could get any closer. "It slipped. I didn't mean to—"
The man grabbed Adrian by the collar of his oversized shirt and yanked him up.
"You didn't mean to?" he snarled.
Adrian flinched instinctively.
The slap came before he could react.
His head snapped to the side, pain exploding across his cheek.
"Every time I look at you, you cost me money," the man growled. "Do you know how much plates cost?"
Adrian said nothing.
He had learned a long time ago that answering usually made things worse.
Behind the man, a woman appeared in the doorway.
His foster mother.
She crossed her arms, her expression full of annoyance rather than concern.
"You're still yelling?" she said. "Just throw him outside. He hasn't finished chopping the wood."
Adrian lowered his head.
His cheek burned.
His ears rang.
"Yes, ma'am," he murmured quietly.
The man shoved him away.
"Clean this mess first," he snapped.
Adrian nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir."
The man left the room, muttering curses under his breath.
The woman followed without even sparing Adrian another glance.
When the door slammed shut, the house became quiet again.
Adrian slowly sank to his knees.
His hands shook as he picked up the shattered pieces of ceramic.
A sharp edge sliced into his finger.
Blood appeared instantly.
Adrian didn't react.
He simply wiped the blood on his sleeve and continued cleaning.
Pain was normal.
Pain had been normal for a long time.
Outside, the sky was gray and heavy.
Rain was coming.
Adrian carried the trash outside, his thin body shivering as the cold wind hit him.
The yard was messy, filled with old wood and broken tools.
The axe leaned against the chopping block.
Adrian walked toward it slowly.
The axe was almost as big as his arm.
But he had used it for years.
He wrapped his fingers around the handle.
Lift.
Swing.
Crack.
The log split unevenly.
Adrian paused, catching his breath.
His body was too tired today.
But stopping wasn't allowed.
So he lifted the axe again.
Swing.
Crack.
Swing.
Crack.
Time passed slowly.
The pile of wood grew.
Adrian's hands burned.
Blisters had already opened on his palms.
But he kept going.
Because if the wood wasn't finished before dinner…
He wouldn't get food.
The wind picked up.
Cold drops of rain began falling from the sky.
Adrian tilted his head slightly.
Rainwater touched his face.
For some reason…
He liked the rain.
It felt like the sky was crying for him.
A strange thought slipped into his mind.
A memory.
A very old one.
A large house.
Warm lights.
Laughter.
Children running.
Someone calling a name.
"…Adrian!"
He froze.
The axe slipped from his fingers and landed in the mud.
Adrian blinked.
The memory disappeared.
He stared down at his hands.
"…Adrian…"
He whispered the name quietly.
That name had appeared in his dreams many times.
But the woman inside the house always said the same thing.
"That's not your name."
She had told him that when he was little.
"You're not Adrian. Your parents threw you away."
So he stopped asking.
Stopped remembering.
Stopped dreaming.
Adrian picked the axe back up.
Swing.
Crack.
Swing.
Crack.
The rain grew heavier.
By the time he finished, his clothes were soaked.
Mud covered his shoes.
His hands trembled from exhaustion.
But the woodpile was finished.
Adrian carried the axe back to the shed.
When he walked inside the house again, the smell of food filled the air.
His stomach twisted painfully.
Dinner.
He stepped into the kitchen quietly.
The foster parents sat at the table eating.
The woman glanced up.
"You're late."
Adrian lowered his head.
"I finished the wood."
"Then clean the dishes," she replied.
Adrian looked at the table.
Three plates.
None of them were for him.
He swallowed.
"Yes, ma'am."
He waited until they finished eating.
Then he began washing the dishes.
The food scraps on the plates made his stomach hurt even more.
But he didn't touch them.
He wasn't allowed to.
The man suddenly spoke.
"You hear about the De Luca family?"
The woman snorted.
"Who hasn't?"
Adrian's hands slowed.
The De Luca family.
The name felt… strange.
"They're making noise again," the man said. "Apparently they found some kind of lead about their missing kid."
The woman rolled her eyes.
"That story again? It's been what, ten years?"
"Eleven."
"Exactly. The kid is probably dead."
Adrian's chest tightened slightly.
He didn't know why.
"They say the kid was the youngest son," the man continued. "Big mafia family. Eight sons."
"Seven now," the woman replied with a shrug.
Adrian's hands trembled.
A drop of water splashed onto the floor.
Eight sons.
The words echoed strangely in his mind.
For a moment, he saw something again.
A hallway.
Children laughing.
Someone running beside him.
Someone who looked…
Just like him.
Adrian blinked.
The image vanished.
His heart beat strangely fast.
"…Eight…"
He whispered under his breath.
"What did you say?" the woman snapped.
Adrian quickly shook his head.
"N-Nothing."
He finished the dishes quickly.
The couple went to the living room to watch television.
Adrian cleaned the kitchen.
Swept the floor.
Took out the trash.
By the time he finished everything, the clock on the wall read 10:47 PM.
He quietly walked toward the small storage room at the back of the house.
His room.
If it could even be called that.
A thin mattress lay on the floor.
A small blanket.
Nothing else.
Adrian sat down slowly.
His body felt heavy.
He lay back and stared at the cracked ceiling.
Rain tapped softly against the roof.
His stomach hurt from hunger.
But exhaustion was stronger.
His eyes slowly began to close.
Somewhere far away…
In a completely different part of the city…
Inside a massive mansion filled with armed guards…
A young man stared at a glowing computer screen.
Rows of data scrolled across the monitor.
He leaned forward slowly.
"…Wait."
His voice was quiet.
Behind him, another man looked up.
"What?"
The young man typed quickly.
Facial recognition software scanned an image taken from a public camera earlier that day.
The computer beeped.
A result appeared.
The young man's eyes widened.
"That's impossible…"
"What did you find?" the other man asked.
The first man slowly turned the screen toward him.
On the monitor was a blurry photo.
A thin teenage boy walking down a street carrying a bag of firewood.
Rain soaked his clothes.
His head was lowered.
But his face was visible enough.
The computer displayed a match.
Match: 87%
Below it…
A name appeared.
The room went silent.
"…Adrian De Luca."
The second man stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor.
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking," the first man whispered.
Footsteps suddenly thundered down the hallway outside.
Several men rushed into the room.
"What happened?" one of them demanded.
The young man pointed at the screen with shaking hands.
Everyone froze.
Because the face on the screen…
Looked exactly like someone they had been searching for…
For eleven years.
And in another part of the city…
Adrian turned slightly in his sleep.
Unaware that everything in his life…
Was about to change.
Because somewhere inside the De Luca mansion…
Someone had already picked up the phone.
And a cold voice had spoken four words that would shake the entire city.
"Bring my son home."