Chapter - 1 - The Rising Bastard Son.

The Rising Bastard Son.

The sunlight streamed through the small gap in the curtains, cutting through the dimness like a blade of fire. It landed on Sam's face with unrelenting persistence, dragging him out of the fleeting comfort of his dreams. He groaned, a soft, barely audible sound, and rolled to his side, pulling the thin blanket up to shield his face. But it was no use. The light found him, always did, and with it came the awareness of another day—another day to survive.

For a moment, he lay still, eyes closed, his mind blank. That precious space between sleep and wakefulness—the briefest of silences before reality came crashing back—was the only peace he knew anymore. But peace was a luxury Sam couldn't afford.

His alarm had failed him again. The old digital clock blinked erratically, its red digits stuck on 6:48 AM, the same time it had frozen at two weeks ago when the last power outage struck. He knew he was late. Again. And he knew his manager, Mr. Carlson, wouldn't tolerate another tardy shift without a lecture or worse—another warning.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, Sam sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his back. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and let his gaze sweep across his tiny one-room apartment. The place was more a storage closet than a living space. The walls were yellowed with age and neglect, and the floor creaked with every movement. The bed—if you could call the thin mattress on the floor that—took up most of the room. A small desk, littered with papers, notebooks, and worn textbooks, stood by the window. The chair beside it was cracked, one leg held together with duct tape. A hot plate and a mini-fridge in the corner made up his kitchen.

It was a life of scraping by, day to day, but it was his life. And he had fought tooth and nail for every inch of it.

Dragging himself to his feet, Sam made his way to the bathroom. The mirror above the sink was cracked diagonally, slicing his reflection in two. He stared at his own tired face—dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, hair sticking up in every direction. He barely recognized himself anymore. Where had that kid gone, the one who used to believe in a better tomorrow?

The water sputtered before flowing, and he splashed coldness onto his face, trying to jolt himself into wakefulness. As he brushed his teeth, his mind began its usual spiral—rent was due in four days, his midterms were next week, and he still had three unread chapters in Economic Theory. Not to mention his shift at the convenience store started in twenty minutes, and he still hadn't eaten.

He opened the fridge, frowning at its sparse contents: half a carton of eggs, a few slices of bread, and a near-empty jar of peanut butter. He opted for toast, burning it slightly in his rush. He ate standing, eyes fixed on the clock, chewing mechanically. Breakfast, like sleep, had become just another checkbox on a long list of survival tasks.

As he pulled on a hoodie and grabbed his worn backpack, Sam's thoughts drifted—as they often did—to his past.

Sam's Childhood

Life had never rolled out the red carpet for him. He had grown up in the foster care system after a car accident took his parents when he was eight. He still remembered the way the social worker's voice had trembled when she told him the news. He remembered the cold hospital floor, the sterile smell, and the way everything inside him had gone numb. That numbness had lingered, buried deep, like a weight he carried through every home, every school, every failed adoption.

He learned not to get too attached to people. Not because he didn't want to, but because people always left.

But not Ryan.

Ryan had been his one constant. They'd met in one of the better group homes, and while they were polar opposites—Ryan loud and impulsive, Sam quiet and observant—they had clicked instantly. Ryan had taken Sam under his wing, cracked jokes to make him laugh, stood up for him when bullies circled. They became inseparable. Brothers, not by blood, but by something stronger—shared survival.

Even when they were separated into different foster homes at sixteen, they stayed in touch. And when Sam got accepted into college on a partial scholarship, Ryan had been the first to celebrate, arms raised like Sam had just won the lottery.

"You're gonna make it out, man," Ryan had told him, clapping him on the back. "And when you do, you better take me with you."

That had been the plan. It always had been.

[ End of the Chapter ]

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