Sunday mornings at the mansion were typically quiet—a silence that tasted like expensive black coffee and the hum of a distant city. But this morning, there was no aroma of tea, no music from the central sound system, no sunlight pouring through open blinds. There was just Royce, aged and alert, stepping through the grand front door with a Bible tucked under one arm and a slight frown on his face.
He had just returned from church.
The second he crossed the threshold, Royce felt something off. It wasn't the stillness. That was typical—normal in this household. It was the weight in the air—like grief had taken a seat on the couch and refused to leave.
He followed the faint thud of bassline music to the gym wing. And there he found him.
Ethan.
Flat on his back, shirt off, drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The gym floor beneath him was littered with dumbbells and sweat-drenched towels. He wasn't passed out. Not quite. But close.
"Boy," Royce muttered, shaking his head. He walked over, crouched beside Ethan, and tapped his cheek twice. "Hey. Get up. You tryna kill yourself in here?"
Ethan's eyes fluttered open slightly. "Fifty more pushups."
"You do fifty more, you gon' meet Jesus for real. Come on."
Royce grunted and helped him up slowly, slinging one of Ethan's arms around his shoulders and guiding him out of the gym.
They moved through the hallway, past glass-paneled walls and steel sculptures, into the grand living room. Royce eased Ethan onto the couch, shook his head again, and said, "You sit right there. I'ma fix you something to eat and drink. And don't you dare move."
Ethan didn't answer.
By the time Royce returned ten minutes later, the boy was already asleep.
Curled up on the couch. A soft frown on his face. Breathing steady but guarded.
Royce sighed. Grabbed a blanket from the armrest and draped it gently over him.
He sat in the armchair and watched him for a while. Ethan hadn't cried. He hadn't trembled. But Royce knew what this was.
This was what the first murder looked like—not on the outside, but on the inside.
He had seen it before. In young men fresh out of their first kill. In soldiers who came back from the battlefield with stains not on their uniforms but deep in their souls.
Ethan may not have flinched when he pulled that trigger. He may have looked cold. But Royce saw through the ice.
He saw the burn beneath.
---
By four in the evening, the house felt normal again—or at least close enough.
Royce and Ethan sat side by side on the couch, playing a violent co-op shooter on the big screen. Ethan, surprisingly, was losing.
Royce let out a laugh. "Boy, I trained my trigger finger. You think you gon' beat me with all them muscles and no patience?" In reality, he had never handled a gun.
Ethan rolled his eyes. "You're cheating. You probably coded this game before we started."
"Please. Back in the '80s, I was rewriting bootleg code in basements. This here? Lightwork."
The playful banter died when one of Royce's compact tech palmtops—resting quietly on a side table—lit up with a blinking green alert.
Royce paused the game. "Stay put."
Ethan leaned back, one eyebrow raised as Royce walked briskly toward his private tech room, the one behind the biometric door only he could open.
A few minutes later, Ethan sat alone in the living room, one leg crossed over the other and both feet propped on the center table. A glass of whiskey dangled loosely from his fingers as his eyes focused lazily over a muted sports channel.
The room smelled faintly of leather, cologne, and fruit. Soft jazz played somewhere in the background.
Royce returned with a tray in one hand and irritation in the other.
He walked straight to Ethan, snatched the whiskey out of his hand, and replaced it with a tall glass of murky green liquid.
Ethan blinked. "What the hell is this?"
"Detox. Ginger, celery, kale, mint, and hydration boosters. You look like a busted phone battery."
Ethan grimaced. "You know you're too much, right?"
"And you're too stubborn," Royce replied, lightly smacking the back of his head. "Now drink. You wanna keep punching men and dodging bullets, you better learn to take care of that temple."
He placed the tray on the table and took a seat across from him.
Ethan took a sip, winced, and muttered, "Tastes like betrayal."
Royce chuckled, but his expression quickly turned serious. "That alert wasn't random. We've got a situation. And it's hot."
Ethan sat up straighter.
Royce pulled out a tablet and tapped it twice. A hologram projected above the surface—images, numbers, security feeds, and blueprints.
"Meet Charles Grant—CEO of NeuraLink Logistics. Sounds legit, right? Imports, app development, tech distribution. But turns out, Grant's been using a fake investing app to funnel money from thousands of low-income earners across the state. Like a financial Robin Hood in reverse."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "How much did he take?"
"About 82 million. Laundered. Scrubbed. Gone. He shut the app down last week, withdrew all the funds yesterday, and guess where it's all sitting now?"
Ethan answered without blinking. "His house."
"Bingo. An armored estate on the hills outside Whitestone. Private guards. Retired mercs. Facial recognition locks. Drones. Night sensors."
"And the plan?"
Royce leaned forward. "You break in. Get the cash from his encrypted vault. And don't die." Royce paused, then continued. "I'll help you disperse it back to every stolen account by dawn. And if we can't find all of them, we donate the rest to the clinics, food shelters, and debt relief centers."
Ethan didn't speak for a few seconds.
Then he cracked his knuckles. "Send me the layout."
Royce nodded slowly. "One more thing."
Ethan raised a brow.
"This one—it's not like the others. We're not just hurting criminals. We're reclaiming dignity. Stealing back what was stolen. You're not a thug in the night, Ethan."
Ethan stood up, finished the last gulp of the green drink with a grimace, and pulled on his jacket.
"Good. Then I won't need to feel guilty when I bring the thunder."
Royce smiled. It was slight, proud, but still worried.
He walked Ethan to the door.
"Got all your gear in the trunk. Black suit. Grapple. Thermals. EMP kit. Silent boots."
"Perfect."
"Want me to drive you in?"
Ethan shook his head. "No trail. I'll switch three vehicles before I get there."
Royce nodded. "You're good."
Ethan smirked. "Too good. You're going to start thinking I don't need you anymore."
Royce placed a hand on his shoulder. "Boy, needing me or not, I'll be here. 'Cause you may be walking through fire—but someone's got to hold the extinguisher."
Ethan's smirk softened into a smile.
He turned, opened the door, and slipped into the growing night.
Outside, thunder rolled low in the sky.
Tonight, the rich would sleep uneasy.
And justice—the kind with fists, code, and redistributive math—was coming through the front door.