Dinner ended in a quiet, practiced rhythm. Daisy was the first to rise, offering a small nod before disappearing toward her room.
Ethan remained at the table with his mother. The silence between them wasn't heavy, but it held the weight of things unsaid.
"So, Ethan," his mother began, breaking the quiet. "How was your day?"
"It was good," he replied simply.
A small, sad smile touched her lips. "You really are like your father—a man of few words." She let out a soft, breathy laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Ethan nodded, then hesitated. "Mother, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, dear. Anything."
"Where is Grandmother?"
The warmth drained from his mother's face. She looked away, her hands tightening slightly on the table. "Your grandmother passed away almost a year ago, Ethan."
Ethan looked down at his lap, the news sinking in like a stone in a well. His mother's expression mirrored his grief for a fleeting second before she composed herself with a sharp inhale. She stood up, smoothing her apron.
"You should rest, Ethan. You've had a long day."
He nodded, the exhaustion finally catching up to him, and made his way to his room.
Elsewhere
The rhythmic thwack of leather against skin echoed through the gym. Enzo threw a desperate flurry of jabs and crosses at his instructor—a towering, athletic man who moved with the grace of a predator. Benson blocked every strike with effortless precision.
"You've gotten soft, Enzo," Benson said, his voice a low rumble. "You're slower than the last time I saw you, and your hits have no conviction."
Enzo lowered his guards, nodding obediently. Benson was the only man he truly respected.
"Enzo..." Benson paused, searching his student's face. "Why did you walk away from MMA?"
"I thought I'd reached the pinnacle," Enzo replied, his voice tight.
"Just because you won a few international tournaments doesn't mean you've reached the top," Benson countered. "The moment you stop aiming higher is the moment you start falling. You need to stay hungry, stay immersed."
Enzo took a deep breath and reset his stance. He lunged forward, but Benson vanished from his line of sight. Before Enzo could even register the movement, a lightning-fast jab caught him square in the jaw.
The world tilted. Enzo hit the canvas hard, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
Benson extended a hand to help him up. "Stay here for a few days. I'll bring you back to your prime—and then we'll go beyond it. Tomorrow, bring your things. We're starting from scratch."
They trained until 3:00 AM.
Exhausted and drenched in sweat, Enzo climbed into the back of his black Rolls Royce. On the drive back, a flickering neon sign for a ramen stall caught his eye.
"Stop the car," he commanded.
He stepped out into the cool night air and approached the stall. A lone customer sat in the corner, hidden under a dark hoodie, eating in silence. Enzo ignored him and sat at the counter. The chef had his back turned, busy with a steaming pot.
"One bowl of your most expensive ramen," Enzo said.
"Coming right up, Boss," the chef chirped.
When the bowl arrived, Enzo had to admit it looked incredible. He took a bite and was surprised—it was better than anything he'd had in five-star restaurants.
"How much?" Enzo asked, reaching for his wallet. As he looked up, his eyes narrowed. He recognized the man. "You? You're the chef from the school cafeteria."
The chef grinned and patted Enzo's shoulder. "No charge for you, student. It's on the house."
Enzo's face darkened. Rage, hot and sudden, flared in his chest. He grabbed the ceramic bowl and smashed it across the man's face.
The chef cried out as blood blossomed from a cut on his forehead. Without a word, Enzo turned and walked back to his car, leaving the mess behind.
He told me not to pay? Enzo thought, staring out the window as the Rolls Royce sped away. That peasant dared to look down on me. I could buy his entire life a dozen times over.
Back at the stall, the hooded customer finally spoke. "You could have dodged that easily."
The chef wiped the blood from his brow with a sigh. "I love this job, Jake. I don't want to ruin it by getting into a power struggle with a kid who thinks his daddy's money makes him a king." He looked at the customer. "That classmate of yours is a madman."
"I know," Jake said, his voice calm. "But I believe anyone can change."
Jake placed his empty bowl on the counter and set down enough cash to cover both meals and the broken bowl.
"Thanks for the ramen."
"You're my best regular, Jake," the chef said, catching a glimpse of Jake's eyes—silver and as still as a frozen sea.
"Have you ever thought about being a private cook?" Jake asked.
The chef laughed. "If the pay is right, why not?"
"I will think about it. You should head home; school starts early. The girls will be heartbroken if their handsome crush doesn't show up," the chef teased.
Jake remained silent.
"Jake," the chef called out as the boy turned to leave. "There's a girl in the second year... Madison. I hear she's rejected every boy in school. Why don't you give it a shot?"
"Madison?" Jake paused. "Nah. She's like a daughter to me. I mean... a sister."
The chef watched him walk away into the shadows, a look of pure confusion on his face. "Truly a strange man," he murmured.
The sun rose, burning away the shadows of the night.
Ethan woke and immediately checked his bedside table. He looked for a letter—anything—but the surface was bare.
At least today will be quiet, he thought.
He showered, dressed, and headed to the kitchen. His mother had already left for work, but Daisy was there, finishing her breakfast.
"Good morning," Daisy said.
"Morning," Ethan replied, sitting across from her. "Mother already left?"
Daisy nodded. "Her job is a long commute—thirty or forty minutes. It pays well, though. She and Grandpa are the only reasons we've kept this house."
Ethan finished his meal in silence. Together, he and Daisy grabbed their bags and began the walk to school.