Rory was leaning against the metal lockers, mindlessly scrolling through his feed, when Dan strolled up looking way too satisfied with himself. Without saying a word, he held up a tiny plastic baggie, pinched between two fingers. Inside was a fine white powder.
Rory's heart skipped. He shoved off the lockers and snatched the bag before anyone else in the hallway could spot it. "Are you trying to get us arrested?" he hissed, his eyes darting across the corridor to check for teachers.
"You actually got it?" Rory asked, caught between being impressed and wishing he'd stayed home.
Dan's grin widened. "You really doubted me?"
Rory turned the bag over, the light catching the grains. Curiosity was starting to win out over his common sense. "Kind of." He shot Dan a skeptical look. "Where did you even find this?"
Dan plucked it back with a practiced movement and tucked it away. "Relax, it's not legit gear," he said, clearly loving the drama.
Rory raised a brow. "Then what is it?"
Dan leaned in, dropping his voice until they were practically whispering. "Crushed-up vitamins and some over-the-counter junk my sister had in the bathroom," he said. "It looks sketchy as hell, but it won't actually do anything."
Rory stared at him, then huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "So you're selling a placebo."
"Exactly." Dan's eyes were bright. "It's for Michael. He pays up, we get the Kash B tickets. Win-win."
Rory hesitated. The rational part of his brain was screaming that this was a disaster waiting to happen. The rest of him, the part that usually ended up in trouble anyway because there were never better options, was grudgingly impressed. Dan had actually gone through with it.
Dan was already moving, glancing over his shoulder as he headed for the exit. "Come on," he urged. "Let's find him before he changes his mind."
Rory shoved his hands deep into his hoodie. He stalled for a heartbeat, then followed.
They found Michael near the back fence, surrounded by his usual crowd. He was mid-sentence when he saw them approaching and immediately straightened up. He muttered something to his friends, waving them off before stepping away to meet them. He scanned the yard one last time before stopping a few feet away.
"You got it?" he asked. His voice was low, but he couldn't quite hide the desperation.
Dan didn't waste time with small talk. He fished the baggie out and held it up just long enough for Michael to see. "Right here."
Michael's focus locked onto the white powder. He reached for it, but Dan pulled his hand back an inch.
"Cash first," Dan said, his voice steady.
Michael scoffed but didn't argue. He pulled two crumpled fifty-dollar notes from his jeans and held them out. Dan took the money, gave it a quick, casual glance, and slid it away like he did this every day.
Rory watched, feeling that odd mix of amusement and disbelief grow stronger. He had not expected this to get past the "plan" stage.
Michael held out his hand again, looking impatient now. Dan dropped the bag into his palm.
The older boy inspected the contents with a critical eye, turning the plastic over. "This the same stuff you were on?" he asked, looking directly at Rory.
Rory kept his face a total mask. "Yeah," he said, hoping the tiny catch in his throat didn't give him away.
Michael seemed to buy it. "Tryouts are Saturday. If this gets me through, I'll be back for more."
Dan's grin was effortless. "We'll see what we can do for you."
Michael gave them both one final, hard look, then shoved the bag out of sight and headed back to his group.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Rory let out a breath. "I can't believe that actually worked."
Dan patted the spot where the money was hidden. "Have a little faith, Ror." He flashed a triumphant grin. "Come on. Let's go get those tickets before Michael figures out he's just eating Vitamin C."
***
Ethan intercepted Beau just outside the training room, his hand clamping down on Beau's shoulder with enough force to halt him mid-stride.
"Not now," Beau muttered, already trying to pivot back toward the mats. "I'm late for—"
"Right now," Ethan countered. His voice wasn't loud, but it had that heavy, immovable quality that made people stop.
Beau went still. He turned back slowly, a look of pure annoyance clouding his face. "What is it?"
Ethan didn't escalate. He just steered them a few inches further from the open door, not enough to make it a scene, but enough to ensure their conversation stayed between them, even if the rest of the gym was watching from the corners of their eyes.
"Don't," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave. "Ever do that again."
Beau blinked, playing it cool. "Do what? I was just standing there."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Beau let out a sharp, dry laugh, shaking his head as if Ethan had just accused him of something delusional. "You mean the new kid losing his mind and swinging on his first day? Because I didn't even touch him."
"I know you didn't," Ethan said.
Beau hiked his eyebrows. "Then what are we even doing here? Why are you on my case?"
Ethan held his gaze, refusing to blink. "We were on our way out. He was literally walking away with me. Then he stops, turns around, and goes for your head. That doesn't just happen."
"So?" Beau gave a dismissive shrug. "That's his problem. Kid's got a screw loose."
Ethan tilted his head slightly. "No. That's your specialty."
"You're seriously telling me you think I've got mind control now?"
"I'm telling you I've seen this movie before," Ethan said. "You don't have to get your hands dirty. You don't even have to say a word. You just slip something into the room, a look, a vibe, and wait to see who snaps first."
Beau crossed his arms, his posture becoming defensive. "Or maybe he's just unhinged."
"Maybe," Ethan conceded. "But he hasn't been here ten minutes. He doesn't know the layout, he doesn't know the people, and he definitely didn't walk in here looking for a fight."
Beau's expression went flat, the playful edge vanishing. "You don't know his life, Ethan."
Ethan stepped into his space, not to crowd him, but to make sure Beau couldn't just look past him. "I know you," he said. "And I know you can't resist poking the bear just to see if it growls."
Beau's teeth gritted, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "I didn't break any rules."
Ethan didn't argue the technicality. "You didn't do anything obvious," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"You don't have a shred of proof," Beau snapped.
"I don't need receipts to recognise a pattern," Ethan replied. "You do this when you're bored. Or when you're curious. Or when you've decided someone doesn't belong here and you want to see where they break."
Beau shifted his weight, his eyes darting to the training room door. "If he's that easy to set off, he's a liability anyway—"
"—then you stay out of his way," Ethan cut in. The finality in his tone was like a door slamming shut. "He's fifteen. He hasn't been here long enough to learn how to defend himself against someone like you."
The air between them felt thick, the sounds of the gym behind them fading into a dull hum.
Beau exhaled a long, frustrated breath, rolling his neck. "So what, I'm the villain now? For doing a little vetting?"
"No," Ethan said. "You're just the one who lit the fuse."
"He's the one who threw the punch, Ethan. Own it."
"And you're the one who put him in a corner until he felt like he had to," Ethan said. "You pushed until something inside him had to answer."
Beau studied him for a long moment, his eyes scanning Ethan's face for a weakness. Then, he let a small, careless grin slide back into place. "If it's already in him, you can't blame me for finding it."
Ethan didn't move an inch. "I can when you go looking for it with a flashlight."
For a second, the mask slipped, and Beau looked genuinely pissed. Then he tilted his head, his voice turning light and airy. "So he's your new charity case? Does he get special treatment now?"
"No," Ethan said. "He gets a fair shot."
"And I get a lecture?"
"You get a warning," Ethan replied. "Because you're smart enough to know where the lines are."
Beau let out a breathy, cynical laugh.
"And if you cross them again," Ethan's voice stayed low, but the threat was unmistakable. "Then we stop having these quiet chats in the hallway. You understand?"
The beat of silence that followed was heavy with everything they weren't saying.
Finally, Beau shook his head and took a step back, breaking the tension. "Fine. Whatever. He's your project."
He turned on his heel and disappeared into the training room without looking back.
Ethan stayed exactly where he was, watching the door swing shut.
Rory's reaction hadn't surprised him nearly as much as it should have.
What unsettled him was how cleanly Beau had known how to trigger it.
***
The steady thud of gloves on leather filled the room, rhythmic and controlled. Owen moved with muscle memory more than thought, his strikes clean and his breathing metered. He was trying to find his centre, but the air in the gym felt heavy.
A blur of movement darted past the open doorway.
Ethan and Rory crossed the hall in tandem, heading toward the private suites. The rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second; Owen's next lead hook landed a fraction wide, grazing the edge of the target.
Beau caught the lapse instantly. He didn't just smirk; he lowered the mitts with a slow, deliberate patience that felt like an accusation. "Well. Look at that. Ethan's out for a stroll with his new project."
Owen refused to meet his eyes, resetting his feet. "You're holding them low."
Beau hummed a note of mock-agreement, but didn't lift the gear. "Right. My fault. Not the shiny, Rory-shaped distraction. I forget how much you like to pretend you aren't watching."
Owen drove a straight right into the centre of the pad, the impact echoing off the mirrors. "Don't start, Beau."
"I'm not starting," Beau said easily, moving into the next drill. "I'm just observing."
"You observe like a gossip account," Owen muttered. He doubled up on the left, the force of the blows vibrating through his forearms, trying to drown Beau out.
Beau let out a dry, breathy laugh. "God, you're such a cliché."
Owen reset his stance, his face going totally blank. "If you say the word 'jealous,' I'm gonna punch you instead of the gear."
Beau lifted the pads in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Not jealous. Just... deeply concerned about the vibes in this place."
Owen's mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed hard. "Someone has to be."
"Hey, I'm just impressed," Beau continued, unfazed. "Two weeks in and Ethan's already doing the slow-walks and the private sessions. The kid's speedrunning the favorite-student arc."
"Ethan will get bored eventually," Owen said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
"And what happens to us while we wait for him to move on?" Beau asked.
Owen didn't answer. His next combination carried a dangerous amount of weight, forcing Beau to brace his shoulders to absorb the shock.
"You don't trust him," Beau noted, no longer teasing.
"That's not true," Owen said. "I trust him the same way I trust a gas leak. It's quiet, it's interesting, and it'll kill you if you stay in the room too long."
A short bark of a laugh escaped Beau. "That's the most honest thing you've said all day."
Owen shrugged as if the opinion cost him nothing, though his knuckles ached. "It's just logic."
Beau lowered the targets, his curiosity sharpening into something more surgical. "So why are you letting it happen? We're a training facility, Owen. Not a halfway house for 'special cases.'"
"Not my call," Owen mumbled.
"Funny. You usually have an opinion on everything else." Beau stepped closer, his voice dropping. "He's unbanded. He's a total wild card. Letting him just hang out without a real test... that's not being nice. It's just stupid."
Owen frowned, his hands dropping. "What are you even getting at?"
"I'm talking about a reality check," Beau said. "I'm not saying we do anything messed up. God, no. That'd be way too much drama."
Owen eyed him warily. "I don't like where this is going."
"Relax. This is the ethical version." Beau insisted.
Owen scoffed. "There's an ethical version of whatever you're about to say?"
"Absolutely," Beau said, his voice casual and reasonable. "I'm not saying we jump him. No fights. No hands on him. Just... pressure."
Owen narrowed his eyes. "Pressure."
"Normal-world pressure," Beau clarified. "School. People talking. The kind of social crap that shows you where the cracks are."
Owen huffed. "You want to stress-test a fifteen-year-old."
Beau shrugged. "If he's solid, he'll be fine. And if he's not..." He lifted the pads again, inviting the next hit. "Then all we're doing is letting the truth come out before someone actually gets hurt."
Owen hesitated, his pulse thumping in his ears. The logic felt like a trap, but it was hard to argue with. "And this helps who, exactly?"
"Everyone," Beau said, sounding weirdly sincere. "Especially the kid. Wouldn't you want to know if you were about to blow up?"
Owen shook his head, but his stance wasn't as stiff as before. "It still feels like we're messing with him."
Beau shrugged. ""Is it? If he cracks now, we save him, and us, from a much bigger disaster later. We're being the responsible ones here, Owen." He stepped into Owen's space. "You're not worried he'll fail, Owen. You're worried that if he doesn't fail, Ethan's right and you're wrong."
Owen's defensive wall snapped back into place. "Oh please. I'm not threatened by some kid with a saviour complex."
"I didn't say threatened."
"You implied it."
"I implied," Beau corrected gently, "that you care about this place. Because if Ethan's wrong, if this kid loses it because we let him skip the line, it won't be Rory standing in front of Sullivan. It'll be Ethan."
Owen exhaled a long, slow breath. The weight of it felt real. "And if he doesn't crack?"
Beau spread his hands. "Then great. He proves he can handle the heat, and Ethan gets his win. Nobody gets hurt. We all move on."
Owen stared at the pads for a long beat, then hit them again. Hard. "You're not asking me to hurt him."
"No," Beau agreed easily. "I'm asking you to let him face reality."
Owen's cynicism flickered back, sharp and familiar. "Wow. You should put that on a poster."
Beau grinned. "I've been told."
Owen reset his stance, his shoulders tight. "We don't touch him."
"God, no," Beau said, sounding almost offended by the suggestion. "We're the good guys, Owen."
Owen shot him a look that said he didn't entirely believe him.
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"Relax," Beau said, lifting the pads again. "We just... stop shielding him. We let the world in, and we see what's left when the dust settles."
Owen blew out a breath. "If something happens... it's not on us."
Beau's smile was calm. "Exactly. We just looked for the cracks. We didn't make them."
"But if anything goes sideways," Owen added, his voice firm, "we shut it down. Immediately."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
Owen lifted his hands, trying to make his tone sound lighter than he felt. "Congratulations," he muttered. "You've officially dragged me into your bad idea."
Beau laughed. "You were already halfway there."
Owen didn't argue. He just started hitting the pads again, harder this time, like he could punch the unease right out of his chest.
***
Friday evening settled warm and heavy over the house, and for once, the air didn't feel thick with the usual dread. Rory actually felt like things were going his way. Training had been brutal but solid all week, and Ethan's quiet approval felt like a win he'd actually earned. Plus, those Kash B tickets were still tucked safely in Dan's room. For the first time in forever, the weekend wasn't a stretch of time he had to survive; it was something he was actually looking forward to.
Pete was at the pub, a Friday night staple, which meant the house was almost hauntingly peaceful. No slurred insults, no doors being kicked off hinges. Just Rory, Abbey, and the wavering blue light of the TV.
Rory was sprawled across the couch while Abbey curled up at the far end, her feet tucked under his leg and a bowl of popcorn balanced between them.
"You're in a weirdly good mood," Abbey noted, her voice dripping with suspicion.
Rory leaned back, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. Maybe I am."
She squinted at him. "What happened? You get laid or something?"
"Jesus, Abbey, you're eleven," Rory snapped, though there was no real heat in it. "You're definitely not allowed to say that." He shrugged, trying to look casual. "I just had a decent week, that's all."
She didn't look like she bought it. She tossed a piece of popcorn at his head, which he caught out of the air and ate before she could complain.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," she muttered, though she was smiling. "You still live in this dump with me."
"Thanks for the reality check," Rory replied.
She grinned and turned her attention back to the screen.
Later, as the credits started to crawl upward in a soft glow, the house felt still. Abbey's head had slumped onto his shoulder somewhere during the second act, and Rory hadn't moved an inch. He liked the weight of it. It made the living room feel less like a waiting room for a disaster.
"Want to put another one on?" he asked softly.
Abbey stifled a yawn. "I'm kind of wiped."
"Not even if I get the ice cream out?"
She paused, weighing the effort against the reward. "Fine. But only with Milo on top. I'm getting my doona."
She slid off the cushions and padded toward the stairs, the fabric of her blanket trailing behind her like a cape. Rory pushed himself up, his joints popping, and headed for the kitchen.
The hall light provided enough of a glow that he didn't bother hitting the overhead. He pulled two bowls and spoons from the cupboard, setting them on the bench with a quiet click. The silence was the kind of rare luxury he almost never got to enjoy, and he felt his shoulders finally drop.
He had just reached for the tin of Milo when the sound of the front door lock turning echoed through the hallway.
His stomach did a slow, sick roll.
Pete was home.
Heavy, dragging footsteps made their way down the hall. Rory stood perfectly still, his hands resting on the edge of the laminate counter, praying his step father would just keep walking toward his own room.
The footsteps stopped at the kitchen doorway.
Rory felt the man's gaze on his back before he even turned around. When he finally looked, Pete was standing in the dim light, his eyes glassy and rimmed with red. He squinted, his face softening into an expression that made Rory's skin crawl.
"Lyela?" Pete slurred, his voice thick and wet.
Rory's blood turned to ice.
Not again.
It happened on the bad nights, the nights where Pete came home seeing a ghost instead of his step son. It never got easier to watch the man look through him. Rory kept his eyes fixed on the countertop, hoping that if he stayed a ghost, Pete would just lose interest and go to bed.
Instead, the man staggered into the kitchen.
He moved into Rory's space, bringing the sharp, fermented stench of cheap beer with him. Then he reached out, his rough hand cupping Rory's cheek.
Rory flinched, but his body felt pinned to the floor by a mix of shock and pure disgust.
Pete's fingers slid from his face to his jaw, then traced a slow, clumsy path down his neck to his shoulder. He let his hand linger there, a possessive weight that made every muscle in Rory's body lock tight.
His breath hitched, panic clawing at his throat while his mind raced for a way out, some way to move without triggering the bomb.
"Dad... it's Rory. It's just Rory."
Abbey's voice cut through the tension like a physical blow.
Rory's eyes darted to the doorway. Abbey was standing there, her doona clutched tight around her shoulders like armour.
"It's Rory," she repeated, her voice louder, shaking just a little.
Pete's hand went still.
He blinked slowly, his head pivoting toward her as the words finally registered. He looked back at Rory, and for a split second, the fog cleared. He saw exactly who he was touching.
Rory still couldn't look him in the eye.
The silence stretched for a heartbeat too long. Then Pete's face twisted, the softness curdling into something jagged and ugly.
He grabbed the front of Rory's hoodie and slammed him back against the fridge. The impact rattled through the metal and deep into Rory's spine. Pain flared behind his eyes, but he forced his expression to go dead. He clenched his jaw and refused to give the man a single tear or a plea.
Pete stood over him, breathing hard, anger and a pathetic kind of shame warring in his eyes. Finally, he shoved Rory away, stumbling out of the kitchen and back toward the lounge room without saying a word.
The quiet that followed was worse than the hit.
Rory stayed where he was, his shoulder blades pressed against the cold fridge door, staring at the empty doorway. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Abbey hadn't moved. She was still in the hall, her eyes wide and wet, the doona bunched up under her chin.
"Ror—" she started, her voice trembling.
"I'm tired," Rory interrupted. His voice was flat, devoid of any of the warmth from earlier. "I'm going to bed."
He pushed off the fridge and walked past her, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. He didn't want to see the pity or the fear on her face. He couldn't handle it.
"Rory," she tried again, her voice a tiny, broken sound.
He didn't stop. He climbed the stairs, systematically shutting down every part of himself as he went, locking her out right along with the rest of the world.
***
Rory woke on Saturday with a dull stiffness radiating along his spine and a leaden weight settled deep behind his ribs. Fragments of the previous night played on a loop—the sterile kitchen light, Pete's hand, Abbey's small figure in the doorway. It wasn't the sharp sting of panic, just a heavy, suffocating pressure he couldn't quite shrug off.
He didn't want to be there when the floorboards started creaking upstairs. Staying in the house meant waiting for the inevitable moment Pete dragged himself out of bed, and Rory wasn't ready to breathe the same air as him yet.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and tapped out a quick message to Dan.
'We hanging today?'
The response was almost instant.
'Subway at 12.'
That left a few hours to kill—hours he refused to spend inside those walls.
When he made it downstairs, Abbey was already on the couch, wrapped in her doona and buried in a book. She tracked him with her eyes as he reached for his jacket on the hook.
"Where are you heading?" she asked, her voice small in the quiet room.
"Out," Rory said, focusing on shoving his feet into his shoes.
She didn't look back at her book. She lingered on him a beat too long, her gaze searching. "You okay, Ror?"
"Yeah. Fine." The words came out too fast, too clipped. He didn't slow down long enough to let her push for the truth. "I'll be back later."
Before she could offer another "reality check," he slipped out the door and into the biting morning air.
The sky was a flat, low grey, heavy with the threat of a downpour. As Rory reached the end of the path, he spotted a car idling at the curb. The familiar silhouette made him stop short.
Ethan's.
Rory's brow furrowed as Ethan climbed out of the driver's seat, leaning against the door with a casual patience that made it look like he'd been there for hours.
"You stalking me now?" Rory asked. He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it landed with a jagged edge.
"Thought about it," Ethan replied easily. "Decided that was too much paperwork. Settled for a drive-by instead."
A ghost of a smile touched Rory's mouth, but it vanished as he shot a quick, nervous glance back at the house. "My parents don't know about any of this," he said, his voice dropping. "If they see some guy parked out front waiting for me, they'll lose it. Or start asking things I don't want to answer."
"Point taken," Ethan said, his expression smoothing into something more serious. "I'll start picking a spot around the corner." He studied Rory's face for a second, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You eaten yet?"
Rory hesitated, the lie dying in his throat.
Ethan nodded once, as if the silence was the only answer he needed. "Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the passenger side. "Coffee and actual food. My shout."
***
The café was tucked away and quiet, a blend of warm wood and the low, steady murmur of people who weren't in a hurry. It was the kind of space that didn't demand a thing from you.
Rory ordered a bacon and egg roll and the strongest cappuccino the barista would make. Ethan raised a faint, questioning eyebrow at the caffeine hit but kept his mouth shut.
They claimed a table by the window. Condensation blurred the corners of the glass, obscuring the world outside where people hurried past with their collars turned up against the biting cold. Ethan didn't start talking right away; he watched Rory take the first massive bite of the roll as if he were mentally checking a box that the kid was actually being fed.
Once the food was half gone, Ethan set his own mug down. "So, you live with your stepdad and stepmother, right?"
Rory kept his focus on the froth in his cup. "Yeah."
"What's the actual link there?" Ethan asked. "How'd you end up in that specific house?"
Rory traced the rim of his mug with his thumb. "My dad died. Mum married Pete. Then she bailed. Pete married Liz." He kept his voice flat, draining the emotion from the words until they were just facts. "I stayed."
Ethan exhaled a slow, soft breath. "That... is a lot of moving parts."
Rory didn't offer a reaction. He stared into the swirl of milk and coffee as if he could lose himself in the patterns.
Ethan let the silence breathe for a moment before trying again. "You close with them at all?"
Another small, noncommittal shrug. "Not really."
"So why call them your parents?" Ethan asked gently. "If you don't really see them that way?"
Rory looked up then, a tired, cynical half-smile ghosting across his face. "Because it's easier than giving the whole PowerPoint presentation every time someone asks."
"Fair enough," Ethan conceded. "You mentioned a stepsister. Abbey."
Rory's expression softened, just for a second. "Yeah. She's good. She's... good."
"And the others? The siblings who left?"
Rory's fingers drummed a quick rhythm against the ceramic before settling. "My brother, Nick. Then there's Eryn and Rook."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "Every file on your father says he only had two sons."
"Technically, he did," Rory corrected. "Nick and I are his. Eryn and Rook are my mum's. Different dads, same mess."
"How old would they be now?"
"Nick's twenty. Rook's nineteen, I think. Eryn... twenty-two."
Ethan hesitated, his voice dropping. "When was the last time you actually saw them?"
Rory let out a long, ragged breath. They left when I was eight. Mum took Eryn and Rook. They never came back."
"And you haven't heard a word since?"
Rory finally met his gaze properly, his eyes sharpening with a defensive edge. "Is this actually useful?" Rory asked, sharper now. "Or are you just filling out the tragic-backstory page of my file?"
Ethan didn't flinch. "Could be useful," he said. "Could just be me trying to understand. Either way, it matters."
Rory took a long, hot pull of his coffee and set the cup back down with a definitive click. "Nothing from them. No."
Ethan nodded slowly, processing the abandonment. "And Nick?"
A humourless, dry breath escaped Rory. "Nick waited until he was old enough and bailed. Packed a bag, walked out, disappeared. No goodbye. First time I saw him after that was when he broke into the house looking for Dad's work."
"So you two weren't exactly tight."
"No," Rory said. Then, almost too quiet to hear: "I thought we were." He took another sip to mask the crack in his voice.
Ethan let that admission hang in the air for a beat. "You ever think about tracking them down?"
"What would be the point?" Rory asked. "If they wanted to be found, they'd have reached out. They know where I am."
Ethan didn't argue the point. He just took a slow drink of his own coffee, filing the information away.
Rory watched him over the rim of his cup. "Have you found anything new?" he asked, his voice tighter now. "About what happened to me? Nick?"
Ethan's grip on his mug tightened. There were answers, but they were the kind that didn't belong in a cozy café on a Saturday morning. "Nothing solid," he said. "We are still piecing it together."
Rory studied him, trying to spot the tell. If he didn't believe him, he chose not to push it. He leaned back against the wood-paneled booth instead. "Okay, my turn's done. Your go."
"My go for what?"
"I overshared," Rory pointed out. "Seems fair you do the same. How did you end up in Karmal?"
Ethan's mouth twisted into a wry, pained line. "It is not a fun story either."
Rory hiked his eyebrows. "Join the club."
Ethan let out a quiet huff of a laugh and stared down at his drink. "I grew up in the system. Foster homes, group homes, the occasional family that meant well but had no idea what they were getting into. It never stuck."
Rory didn't interrupt. He just waited.
"I made some bad calls once I aged out," Ethan continued. "Wrong people, wrong jobs. Hector noticed me before the cops did. They offered me a choice: a cell, or a highly supervised apprenticeship where I fed intel back to them." He gave a small, casual shrug. "I took the option that didn't involve iron bars."
"And that turned into Karmal."
"And that turned into Karmal," Ethan agreed.
Rory sat with that for a moment, the shared weight of their histories settling between them. "So you don't really have family either," he noted.
"Not in any way that matters," Ethan said. "No names that lead to a home. No neat file that explains why I am the way I am."
"Ever try to look?"
"Thought about it," Ethan admitted. "But I had nowhere to start. And if they wanted me, they knew where to find me."
Rory let out a small, grim laugh. "You sound like me."
"Maybe we're both just unoriginal," Ethan suggested.
The silence that followed was surprisingly easy. Different lives, different traumas, but the same empty space where a family was supposed to be.
After a while, Ethan straightened up. "What's the plan for the rest of the weekend?"
"Nothing special," Rory said. "Just hanging. Meeting Dan later."
"Not much to do around here?" Ethan asked.
"Not without cash," Rory replied.
"Karmal pays," Ethan said, his tone carefully casual.
Rory looked up, one eyebrow inching toward his hairline.
"You mentioned the application earlier this week," Ethan reminded him. "Were you serious about thinking it over?"
Rory forced his gaze down to his cup. "I got the impression I wasn't exactly their type," he said. "Chop shop kids are not on the recruitment poster."
"You're doing well, Rory. People are noticing," Ethan said. "If you want to take it seriously, we can start the paperwork."
Rory's fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. "What does that actually look like?"
"For you? Formal assessment first. We look at more than the numbers. We see how you handle pressure, how you think when you are cornered. If that goes well, there is a probation period. Then training. Pay. A place here."
"And if I blow it?"
"Then at least you know where you stand," Ethan said.
Rory leaned back, chewing on the idea. It sounded... real. It sounded like an actual exit strategy. Something that wasn't just dodging Pete or trying to survive another week of school.
"I'll think about it," he said.
"Good," Ethan replied, a note of genuine hope in his voice. "You should."
***
As they walked back toward Ethan's car, the afternoon air had mellowed slightly, though a sharp, persistent chill still bit through Rory's jacket. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his mind churning over the history they'd just traded in the café.
Ethan stopped by the driver's side door but didn't get in immediately. "Before you head off," he said, reaching across the seat to retrieve a thick manila envelope.
He straightened and held it out. "Application packet. In case all that thinking turns into a decision."
Rory's brow furrowed as he took the weight of the papers. He skimmed the top sheet, his eyes snagging on the crisp letterhead, the professional grids, and the intimidatingly straight lines of the legal text.
Then he hit the roadblock.
Parent/guardian consent required for applicants under 18.
The sentence felt like it had been printed in bold, neon ink. A hollow, sinking sensation opened up in his chest.
Ethan tracked the shift in his expression instantly. "What is it?"
Rory swallowed hard, the paper feeling suddenly brittle in his grip. "I'd need Pete's signature for this, wouldn't I?"
"If you're under eighteen, yeah," Ethan confirmed. "And we'd need actual consent this time."
Heat crawled up Rory's neck, a hot prickle of embarrassment. "Right," he muttered. "So... that's a no, then."
"You don't know that for sure," Ethan countered.
"I do." Rory let out a thin, jagged laugh that held no humour. "He would never sign this. He does not even like me leaving the house for anything that is not school."
Ethan studied him, his eyes dark with a quiet, calculated sympathy. "We could try another angle," he suggested. "I could go to the house, talk to them as a representative—"
"No," Rory cut him off, the word sharp and panicked. "Absolutely not. You showing up there would make everything a hundred times worse."
Ethan held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Okay. Your call."
Rory looked back down at the forms. They felt significantly heavier than they had thirty seconds ago.
"You could always wait," Ethan said after a long beat. "Once you hit eighteen, you can sign for yourself. We aren't going anywhere."
"That's three years," Rory whispered.
"I know."
Rory nodded, his jaw tight enough to ache. Three years felt like a geological era. That was three more birthdays in that suffocating house. Three more years of pretending his life wasn't a series of borrowed moments and keeping his head down.
"So after I'm done with the control training," Rory asked, his voice low, "can I still... come by? Use the equipment?"
Ethan hesitated. Rory saw the flicker of regret in his eyes before the answer even formed.
"Probably not," Ethan admitted. "Officially, once the 'safety and control' phase is complete, our mandate ends. We have to step back."
Rory gave a stiff nod, staring at the ink on the page. It was exactly what he'd expected to hear, but it still felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him.
"Keep the pack anyway," Ethan insisted. "You might change your mind about trying to get that signature."
"I won't," Rory said, but he folded the documents and shoved them into his back pocket regardless.
"Monday, then?" Ethan asked.
Rory managed a jerky nod. "Yeah. See ya."
He watched as Ethan pulled away, the car disappearing around the corner and leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk. The edge of the envelope dug into his lower back, a constant physical reminder that the future he'd almost touched had just been moved a lifetime away.
He started walking, needing the movement to burn off the frustration. He needed time before he met Dan, time to put the mask back on and bury the version of his life that had almost felt possible.
***
Rory found Dan propped against a concrete pillar outside the station entrance, hood yanked up against the wind, scrolling through his phone. He looked up the second Rory reached him.
"Hey."
"Hey," Rory muttered, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "Sorry. Got held up."
"No drama," Dan replied, shoving his phone into his jeans as they started moving. "What were you even doing this morning?"
"Nothing," Rory said. "Just grabbed a coffee."
"With who?" Dan's tone was a little too casual to be believable.
Rory gave a noncommittal shrug. "No one important."
Dan let it slide for a second, but his gaze quickly snagged on the crisp white corner of paper protruding from Rory's back pocket. "What's that?"
Rory shifted his weight instinctively, trying to shield it from view. "Nothing."
Dan didn't bother arguing. He just reached out and snatched the folded packet before Rory could move to stop him.
"Oi!"
Dan was already unfolding the top sheet, his eyes darting over the printed text. "This definitely isn't nothing," he noted. "This is a whole lot of something."
He skimmed a few more lines, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion. "Application forms? For what?"
Rory lunged for the papers, but Dan stepped nimbly out of reach. "Relax, I'm not gonna fill them out for you."
"It doesn't matter anyway," Rory said, his voice going flat. "It's not happening."
Dan squinted at the official header again. "Is this, like... army stuff? Defence? Are you trying to join some secret ninja school and not telling me?" His voice lost its teasing edge, turning sharp. "Are you actually leaving?"
Rory's hands curled into fists at his sides. "It was just an idea," he said, the frustration bubbling up. "It doesn't matter now."
"But that's what this is, right?" Dan asked quietly, holding the papers like they were fragile. "A way out of here?"
Rory stared at the pavement ahead, his jaw locked tight.
"Why are you even looking at this stuff?" Dan asked. "You're fifteen."
"Because I don't have anything else!" Rory snapped, the words jumping out before he could check them. They hit the air harder than he meant. "I don't have a plan, Dan. I don't have parents who are gonna pay for uni or some 'career path' waiting for me. I have that house, this school, and whatever crappy part-time job I can find when I'm old enough. If I want out, I have to find a way to make it happen myself."
Dan fell silent, the weight of the outburst hanging between them.
Rory dragged in a sharp breath, his shoulders bunched toward his ears. "It doesn't matter," he said again, his voice dropping. "They won't sign the consent forms. So it's done."
Dan looked back down at the paperwork, at the neat, empty line where a parent or guardian was supposed to sign, as if it were a simple, everyday thing to ask for.
"Yeah," he said softly. "That sounds about right."
He folded the pages back into a neat rectangle and handed them over.
Rory took them without looking up, jamming them back into his pocket where they felt like lead.
They walked in a heavy silence for a few minutes.
"So you actually wanted it," Dan said. It wasn't a question.
Rory gave a single, stiff nod. "Yeah."
"And they told you no?"
"They didn't have to," Rory said. "I already know how that conversation ends."
Dan blew out a long breath through his nose. "That's rough, Ror. Truly."
Rory shrugged, trying to shake the tension off his frame and failing miserably.
Dan bumped his shoulder lightly against Rory's. "Selfishly," he muttered, "I'm kind of glad you aren't bailing on me just yet."
Rory shot him a dry, sideways look. "You are unbelievably needy."
"One hundred percent," Dan agreed with a grin. "I'd be a total disaster without you around to keep me in check."
Rory huffed out a laugh despite himself. The leaden feeling in his chest didn't vanish, but it shifted into something more manageable. For now, it was enough.
What moment hit the hardest in this chapter?
