13. Family ties

Cole Sinclair was the oldest of three. His little sister and younger brother had always been in his care. Their parents left early every morning for work and sometimes didn't come back until the next day.

So he took care of them.

While most people his age partied or wasted time roaming the streets, Cole found joy in his quiet bubble. The time he spent with them—cooking, cleaning, just being—it mattered. It was peace.

He scratched the back of his head, the scent of stew thick in the air. Tomato-based, his first try at it. He wasn't much of a cook and wasn't sure if he'd followed the recipe correctly—if there even was a recipe.

Time for the taste test.

He brought the spoon to his lips, sipping the reddish sauce and letting it sit on his tongue a moment before setting it down.

Silence.

He took a step back from the pot.

It was perfect.

"I just might be the next Gordon Ramsay," Cole muttered.

"I promise you are not," said Mary-Ann, his younger sister. Same grade, sharper tongue. She slid a tray of cupcakes into the fridge.

"You say that now, but once you're scarfing this down, you'll change your mind." He gave her a sideways glance, finally noticing the change of clothes, the light makeup, her blonde hair parted to the side—and the book bag slung over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"Hm?" She turned slightly. "Heading to Pam's place."

"At this time?" He glanced at the clock mounted on the living room wall. 8:07 PM. "Just give it to her tomorrow."

"It's for a project. She needs my part to finish hers."

"So why doesn't she come get it?"

"Because it's my responsibility." Mary-Ann pulled on her jacket. "I know it's late, but don't worry, I'll be back in a minute."

She was already halfway out the door.

"If you're gone more than thirty minutes, I'm eating your cupcakes," Andrew—the youngest of the three, called from the living room, old RPG music humming from the TV speakers, the backdrop to whatever game he was grinding through.

"Don't you dare!" Mary shouted back.

"He will dare," Cole added. "So don't go. Can't you just give it to her tomorrow?"

"You know I can't. We both need this for our grade," she said, hand already on the doorknob. "Don't worry too much, CC. I'll be back for the stew!" The door clicked shut behind her.

"I am definitely daring—"

The door banged open again. Mary's head poked through the gap. "If you touch them, I'll slit your throat and add your body to the stew!"

The door slammed closed again.

Andrew glanced toward Cole, deadpan. "You'll add me to the soup?"

"Yes. So pause the game and come help me set the table," Cole said with a laugh.

Andrew jumped up immediately.

The stew was done.

The table was set.

But Mary wasn't back yet.

Cole glanced at the clock again. The sound of clashing steel came from the game—metal against metal. He turned toward the screen. Jack Elantris, the protagonist, walked through a narrow canyon path.

"Wait... isn't this my save?" Cole said, frowning. "Why are you playing my file? And why did you rename my character 'Elantris'?"

"Because it wouldn't let me change the first name. What kind of name is Jack Kingroff?" Andrew muttered. "Besides, you've been stuck on the first boss for a month."

"You cleared Wolfflin?"

"With my eyes closed," Andrew said. "You just suck at video games."

"And you failed English. Who fails English?"

"Low blow, brother," Andrew repeated. "Low blow."

More time passed.

Forty-five minutes. Then an hour.

Cole's eyes had been glued to the clock for who knew how long, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. She was late. Too late. Had something happened? Had she been hurt? Or were she and Pam just gossiping again, losing track of time?

He pulled out his phone and dialed her number—again.

Still nothing.

"Do you think she's okay?" Andrew asked, eyes fixed on Cole.

"Can you stay here?" Cole said, standing up. "I'll go to Pam's. I'll bring her back."

"No." Andrew stood too. "It's too scary."

Cole hesitated. Taking him out this late wasn't ideal, but the thought of Andrew alone in the silent house... wasn't much better.

He sighed, then nodded.

The brothers stepped out into the night, walking the quiet roads of Code Avenue at nine p.m. The houses were all closed off, lights dimmed. Pam's place was down the third street, about fifteen minutes away—maybe ten if you hurried.

Mary should've been back long ago, even if she walked at a snail's pace.

The streets were eerily quiet. Lifeless. Cars rolled past now and then, headlights briefly washing over their faces, followed by the soft glow of streetlamps overhead.

Cole scanned their surroundings, anxiety chewing at his insides. They lived in the suburbs. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. That was half the reason he'd even let her go out this late.

But now?

Now all he could think about was: What if something happened?

What if she was kidnapped?

What if she was hit by a car?

His pace quickened, his breathing faster, tighter in his chest.

Then, just as they past a corner leading to a narrow alleyway, a sharp sound tore through the silence. A scream.

It was muffled, distant... drowned out by the voices of several people.

A girl was getting raped.

Cole froze.

Across the street, someone glanced at the scene, then looked back down at their phone. They weren't helping. They weren't even watching. Just scrolling.

Cole didn't look too long either. He kept walking.

It wasn't his business.

The attackers could've had weapons. He had Andrew with him. Putting himself in danger was reckless. Irresponsible.

It wasn't safe.

And more importantly—it wasn't his concern.

They passed the alleyway. Andrew slowed beside him, eyes pleading, waiting. But Cole didn't look at him. This was the real world. He wasn't a superhero. He didn't wear a cape. He didn't throw himself into danger to save strangers.

Passing by was the right thing to do.

Once they were far enough, he'd call the cops. Let them handle it. That's what they were paid for. That was the right move.

He told himself again: This isn't my fault.

He kept walking.

Then he saw it.

Lying just ahead of the alleyway—half-tossed, half-forgotten—was a backpack. Pink. Decorated with emojis and glitter stickers. A Barbie keychain dangled from the zipper. Scribbled along the side, in faded marker: CC. MA. AD.

Their nicknames.

His breath caught in his throat.

Slowly, he turned back. His eyes adjusted to the darkness.

And he saw her.

A girl in grey and yellow, lying beneath one of the men. Makeup smudged across her cheeks. Eyes puffy, begging. Clothes torn, body shaking.

Mary-Ann.

Cole had always been a coward.

The kind of guy who saw trouble and froze. The one who looked away, pretended not to see. A scaredy-cat. That's who he was.

But his feet moved now, scraping against the pavement as he stepped forward.

One of the men turned, blocking the alley's mouth, pushed off a wall. "Yo, bro. Don't stick your head where it don't belong. Just keep walk—"

Cole's fist smashed into his jaw before he finished.

So fast, so hard, the man didn't even realize he'd been hit.

In the next moment.

The second and third were already down—just like the first. Crumpled on the ground, clutching bruised noses and broken ribs.

The last one—the one on top of her—was naked.

He stood, hands raised, begging. At least, Cole thought he was.

He couldn't hear him anymore. The words didn't reach his ears. The world had silenced.

All that registered—

Was the crack of bone.

The splatter of blood across his face.

The wet, fleshy thud of his fist crashing into the man's skull.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Cole straddled him, fists rising and falling, rising and falling, each blow fuelled by rage and grief and horror. All he could see were Mary-Ann's eyes, puffy and filled with tears, her voice begging for it to stop.

This man—this thing—had touched her.

He had defiled her.

And now he would never touch anyone again.

Cole didn't stop. He couldn't. Even when pain shot up his arm. Even when his own bone tore through skin. Even when he heard someone calling his name.

Hands grabbed his arm.

He almost swung.

But it was Andrew.

Then Mary-Ann.

His family.

He turned to them slowly. Eyes flicking back to the cold body beneath him.

The man's face was no longer recognizable. His own fist was shattered.

And still—he smiled.

Cole was a scaredy cat.

He cried when yelled at.

He froze when threatened.

He never liked to fight.

But if you hurt his family...

"Do you still feel that way?"

Fignar looked up, his eyes locking with the Spider King's. Behind the moonlight, Sirius's pupils had vanished into nothingness. The smile on his face twisting into something eerie—something wrong.

Fignar didn't speak.

He couldn't win. Not like this. With no legs, no movement, he was already done for.

"Drink this," Sirius said.

He knelt, pressing a red vial to Fignar's lips. The liquid poured in, seeping down his throat before he could refuse.

A moment later, his body flared.

His legs returned.

His chest stopped burning.

He was whole again.

...But why?

"You're... mocking me," Fignar growled. His mana surged, compressing the air around them.

But Sirius just stood there.

Silent.

Watching.

"YOU'RE MOCKING ME!"

Fignar was already moving, a lightning spear forming in his hand—then flying forward.

Too slow.

Sirius was behind him already, the webbed blade tearing a line through his back.

Fignar roared, slamming his palm to the ground, shockwaves burst outward, steam erupting from his nose like a dragon about to burn down the sky.

He was furious.

This wasn't a fight anymore. Sirius had beaten him, then gave him another shot.

Was he saying the first time didn't even count?

"WHY AREN'T YOU HIDING IN THE TREES?! WHY AREN'T YOU USING THE DARKNESS?!" Fignar screamed, spinning as the blade slashed lazily past his arm. "WHY?! WHY WON'T YOU JUST KILL ME?!"

"Because you're going to apologize," Sirius said, stepping through the fog like a phantom. "You hurt Mary. You hurt all of them."

His voice dropped.

"Your death isn't satisfying until you do."

Fignar froze.

His heart pounded.

Those empty eyes stared into him, a bottomless pit where no light existed.

This wasn't just power.

This was terror incarnate.

Fignar swallowed.

"You're not a spider..." he muttered, backing away, hooves shaking. "You're a fucking monster. A beast."

He ran.

And fell.

His hoof split at the seam, the Minotaur King crashed to the forest floor, breath ripping through his throat in short bursts.

Sirius's footsteps followed, slow and deliberate, tapping like a death knell against the earth.

Then came the hush of fabric, a soft whisper as he knelt beside him.

Face to face.

Staring.

"Apologize."

Fignar trembled beneath him, gasping, bile pooling at the edge of his mouth.

"I'm..." he gasped. "I'm sorry..."

Sirius watched.

Eyes empty.

"Mary... Say her name."

"Mary..." Fignar coughed. "Mary, I'm sorry..."

Silence.

Then, Sirius smiled.

"Good."

[Level up]

The blade moved.

Fast.

Clean.

Fignar's head hit the dirt with a hollow thump, and his body slumped to the side, the apology still clinging to his tongue.

Sirius stood, brushing blood off the edge of his blade.

"You'll never hurt anyone I love ever again." He said, already heading back to the forest. "Not in this life, not in the next."