Chapter 6:Shadows of the Night

As the night dragged on, Lucas stood frozen, staring at Kane sprawled out on the couch, his face flushed and slack from losing a drinking game to Rick and the others. The floor was littered with empty bottles, and the thick stench of alcohol and stale smoke clung to the air. Lucas's disbelief simmered beneath the surface—this was the person who brought him here? The so-called man in control, now passed out drunk, completely oblivious to the chaos around him. He shook his head, the absurdity of it all sinking in. Kane was always too much, but this? This was pathetic.

Misfit took the chance to lean closer to Lucas, his breath heavy with the acrid scent of whiskey. "So, Lucas," he slurred, a crooked grin stretching across his lips, "wanna come with me? I can give you a ride home."

Lucas hesitated, his gaze sweeping over the chaos in the room. Empty bottles rolled underfoot, the muffled laughter of others still drinking filling the air. His eyes lingered on Kane, passed out and unbothered, looking far more composed in his intoxicated state than the wreckage he was responsible for. This is what you brought me to, Lucas thought bitterly. He didn't even have the option to leave on his own—not yet, anyway. He was stuck. Misfit wasn't exactly ideal, but at least he was still upright.

"Sure, Misfit," Lucas said with a reluctant sigh. "Let's go."

Misfit's grin widened, his bloodshot eyes darting to Kane for a moment, who lay sprawled out and oblivious.He straightened up slightly, eager to impress, as he gestured toward the door. "C'mon, Lucas. I'll take care of you."

They stumbled out into the night, Misfit's battered car waiting like an extension of his own mess. The interior was a landfill of crumpled wrappers and empty cans. Misfit fumbled with the ignition, throwing Lucas a sidelong look, his bleary eyes glinting with something between bravado and desperation.They stumbled out into the chilly night, Misfit's battered car a fitting reflection of the man himself—unkempt, chaotic, and reeking of stale smoke. The interior was worse, a filthy sprawl of fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty bottles clinking as Lucas shut the passenger door. Misfit sat behind the wheel, fidgeting with the keys like he couldn't quite remember what to do, his glazed eyes darting toward Lucas every few seconds.

As the engine sputtered to life, Misfit slumped back with a sly grin, his pupils blown wide, more high than drunk. "You know, Lucas," he drawled, his voice thick and slow, "we don't have to go home. We could, uh, go somewhere more... private. Just the two of us. You look like someone who knows how to have a good time." His hand lingered on the gearshift, his gaze sweeping over Lucas in a way that made Lucas's skin crawl.

Lucas turned his head sharply to face him, his expression blank but his eyes cold, like a knife's edge. "Not interested," he said flatly, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "Just drive. I'm giving you directions. Try to follow them."

Misfit blinked, clearly unprepared for the blunt rejection, but his grin didn't entirely vanish. He chuckled awkwardly, trying to salvage his bruised ego. "Alright, alright. Chill, man. Home it is," he mumbled, though his gaze lingered on Lucas a little too long before he finally put the car into gear.

As they pulled onto the main road, Lucas rattled off his address with a detached tone. Misfit's ears perked up, and he let out a low whistle, his words slurring as he glanced at Lucas. "Damn, rich neighborhood, huh? Didn't know you were living it up like that."

Lucas shrugged, staring out the window, the passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his face. "Not for long," he said quietly, more to himself than to Misfit. "Once the Mortons get bored of me, I'm gone. Back to where I started."

Misfit shot him a curious glance, his stoned mind struggling to piece together what Lucas meant. "Why would they get rid of you? You're, like, part of their whole... thing now, right?"

Lucas didn't answer, his lips pressed into a thin line. He was done explaining himself, especially to someone like Misfit. The only thing that mattered was getting home—and getting away from the disgusting man next to him, whose lingering glances and unsettling chuckles made Lucas's stomach churn. The car rattled on, each mile feeling like an eternity.

The drive was a nightmare. Misfit's chaotic state turned the car into a death trap, swerving erratically as he mumbled to himself about losing a stash of drugs. The floor of the car was littered with crushed pills and discarded baggies, and Lucas's stomach tightened at the thought of being pulled over. If the cops stopped them, he'd be guilty by association. Sure, he could spin some sob story about being forced into the ride, but tonight he wasn't in the mood to act, let alone to deal with the fallout.

Misfit's driving grew worse, each sharp turn and sudden swerve making Lucas grip the door handle tighter, his seatbelt digging into his chest. His breath came faster as his mind dredged up old, unwelcome memories—the screech of tires, the shatter of glass, the weightless moment before the world flipped, and the sickening silence that followed. His hands balled into fists as he shoved the memory away, anger bubbling under the surface.

"Relax, man!" Misfit slurred, oblivious to Lucas's growing irritation. His grin was lopsided, but the gleam in his eyes was sharp, almost predatory. "You don't even have to wait 'til we get back. I could pull over right now, we could do it right here, and Kane doesn't have to know a damn thing."

Lucas turned to him, his blue eyes narrowing, his face betraying nothing but disdain. Misfit disgusted him—the way his oily hair clung to his forehead, the sheen of sweat on his face, and the acrid mix of weed, sweat, and stale cologne that clung to him like a second skin. Even the way he spoke grated on Lucas's nerves, each word dripping with sleazy intent. He imagined, just for a moment, snapping Misfit's neck and leaving him in a ditch somewhere.

"Take me home," Lucas said coldly, his voice sharp enough to cut through Misfit's haze.

Misfit laughed, a dry, nervous sound, but he didn't let up. "C'mon, don't be like that. You're too uptight. I can loosen you up." He reached a hand toward Lucas, brushing against his knee.

That was it. Lucas's hand shot out, gripping Misfit's wrist with enough force to make him yelp. "Drive the car," Lucas growled, his voice low and threatening, "or I'll make sure you can't drive anything ever again."

Misfit's grin faltered, his bravado cracking as he hastily put both hands on the wheel. The rest of the ride was silent, the air thick with tension as Lucas stared out the window, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He wanted out of this car, out of this night, and most of all, away from the stinking, pitiful excuse for a man beside him.

As the dark silhouette of the Morton mansion came into view, Lucas's patience had long since worn thin. Misfit, either emboldened by the drugs coursing through his system or too stupid to care, slowed the car to a crawl and pulled to the side of the empty road. He turned to Lucas, his grin crooked and tinged with desperation, his bloodshot eyes glinting under the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Lucas stared straight ahead, his jaw ticking, trying to convince himself to let it slide—to just sit there and wait until this ride from hell was over. But then Misfit leaned closer, his hand creeping toward Lucas's thigh. That was it.

In a flash, Lucas's hand shot out and grabbed Misfit's wrist with surprising strength for someone his size. Misfit chuckled nervously, thinking it was just a threat—until Lucas's other hand gripped his forearm. Lucas twisted sharply, using the leverage of his body weight and the awkward angle to wrench Misfit's hand backward with a sickening crack. Misfit howled in pain, his free hand instinctively reaching for the wheel to steady himself as the car swerved.

"Shut up," Lucas hissed, his voice ice cold. His grip tightened on Misfit's now-useless hand, forcing it down against the steering wheel. Misfit writhed, trying to yank his arm free, but Lucas slammed his shoulder into Misfit's chest, pinning him in place despite the size difference. Misfit's strength didn't matter—Lucas's calculated brutality and his focus on pressure points made sure of that.

Lucas leaned in, his pale face eerily calm despite the fury in his eyes. "I told you to drive," he said, his voice low and venomous. "And now you're going to do exactly that, or I'll make sure the other hand's just as useless. Got it?"

Misfit whimpered, clutching his broken hand to his chest, his bravado completely shattered. He nodded frantically, tears welling in his glazed eyes. "Okay, okay, man! I'll drive! Just—just stop!"

Lucas released him with a shove, letting him scramble to steady the wheel. Misfit fumbled with the gearshift, his whole body shaking as the car lurched back onto the road. Lucas settled back in his seat, his hands still trembling—not from fear, but from the remnants of his controlled rage.

He didn't look at Misfit again, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "You're lucky," Lucas muttered, almost to himself. "If I wanted to, I'd leave you on the side of the road, bleeding out. Now hurry up and get me home."

The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for Misfit's muffled groans and the occasional sniffle as he nursed his mangled hand. Lucas didn't care. All he wanted was to be rid of him—and he swore to himself this would be the last time he ever let someone like Misfit get this close.

———

When they pulled up to the Morton mansion, Lucas got out without a word, slamming the car door behind him. Misfit sped off, the car swerving as it disappeared into the night, leaving Lucas standing in the oppressive silence of the estate.

The mansion rose before him, its Victorian-Gothic design both imposing and hollow. Ivy clawed at the stone walls, as though nature itself sought to consume the lifeless grandeur. Stained glass windows caught faint moonlight, scattering muted colors over the empty driveway and lawn.

Inside, the grand entrance hall was as cold as ever. The high ceilings and polished marble floors only amplified the eerie stillness. The faint glow of a crystal chandelier offered no warmth, its light sharp and clinical. Lucas shut the heavy front door behind him with a sigh, already bracing for what was coming.

"Lucas," a sharp voice snapped from above. He looked up to see Violet standing at the top of the sweeping staircase, her arms crossed, her face as stern and unforgiving as ever as she slowly made her way down until she was but a few feet away from Lucas. "You're late. Again. Two nights past curfew. And you stink of alcohol. Care to explain yourself?"

Lucas moved away before he stopped at the base of the stairs, his grip tightening on the railing. "Does it even matter?" he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

She descended a few steps, her heels clicking on the polished wood, her voice colder with every word. "It matters because you're embarrassing the family. You think this kind of behavior reflects well on us? On me?"

Lucas's lips twitched into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Right. Because I'm such a treasured part of the family."

Her expression hardened, though there was the faintest flicker of annoyance at his words. "You may not like it, but you live here. There are expectations. And showing up reeking of whatever mess you got into tonight isn't one of them."

He finally looked up at her, his blue eyes sharp and unreadable. "You don't actually care where I was or what I was doing, Violet. You just don't want me to make you look bad."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. Violet held his gaze for a moment longer before straightening, the hint of anger in her eyes cooling into practiced indifference. "Get cleaned up," she said flatly, turning on her heel to ascend the stairs again. "And don't make this a habit. I won't tolerate it."

Lucas stood there for a moment, watching her disappear into the shadows of the upper floor. His hands unclenched, and he exhaled slowly. He knew exactly where he stood with Violet—neither a son nor even a ward, just a temporary inconvenience she had to manage. And that suited him just fine.

Her tone suddenly picked up again as if remembering something, it shifted to a sharp edge, cutting through his frustration. "Your family wouldn't have wanted this for you, Lucas. This spiral you're on—it's a disgrace to their memory."

Lucas's jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. "Don't," he said coldly. "Don't pretend you know what they would've wanted. You don't even know what I'm dealing with."

Violet didn't back down, descending another step with an almost dismissive air. "We all have our burdens, Lucas. But that doesn't excuse running off into trouble every night. You think this behavior honors them?"

His fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms as his voice dropped to a low, simmering tone. "You don't know anything about them, Violet. You don't know anything about me."

She arched a brow, her lips pulling into a thin line. "What I do know is that you're not helping your situation. You're a guest in this house, Lucas, not a permanent fixture. This family can't be expected to carry your weight forever."

Lucas's glare darkened, the words hitting harder than he wanted to admit. "You don't have to remind me," he said bitterly.

Violet tilted her head, her gaze sharp and calculating. "Then start acting like you understand that. I expect better from you. No excuses."

He didn't reply, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he turned and walked up the stairs, each step deliberate and controlled to keep himself from snapping.

When he reached his room, he closed the door quietly, leaning against it for a moment as the weight of Violet's words settled over him. The darkness in the room felt heavier than usual, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud.

And then, the whispers came.

Do you hear her?they murmured, soft and insidious. You don't belong here. You never did.

Lucas crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Violet's words replayed in his mind, each one twisting like a knife.

She's right, you know,the whispers continued. They'll never keep you. You're a burden. A loose end waiting to be cut.

His breathing quickened, the memory of the Mortons' cold stares flashing through his mind. The way Violet's voice always carried that sharp edge of detachment.

They don't care,the voice murmured. "

You're a placeholder. A nuisance. Do you really think they'll let you stay once they're done playing pretend?

Lucas clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He tried to push the thoughts away, but they crept deeper, wrapping around his mind like tendrils of smoke.

You need to stop waiting for them to cast you out,the voice whispered, its tone almost soothing. Take control. Make them fear losing you instead. That's the only way they'll ever see you.

He exhaled shakily, staring at the moonlight streaking through the window. The room felt too quiet, too suffocating. Somewhere deep inside, he knew these thoughts weren't entirely his own, but the lines between him and the whispers blurred with every passing night.