Chapter 16: Quite Pain.

The cold air did something strange to Ethan's thoughts that morning. It made them quieter… and louder at the same time. He stood still in his room, back turned to the sunlit window, arms folded like he was holding himself together because he actually was. His eyes were on the floor, but his mind was stuck somewhere else—his mother's grave.

His mother's grave didn't look any different from how he remembered it. Still just a patch of silence surrounded by stone and the occasional stubborn weed. But the way it made him feel this time? That was new. It had to be, after all, he hadn't been there in years.

The sharp, breathless ache had crept into his chest when he saw her name etched into the headstone— he still remembered the feeling. Margaret Thompson. He'd stood there for longer than he meant to, like some part of him was hoping she'd say something. Give him a sign. Let him know she saw him.

That he wasn't alone. But the dead don't whisper to the living.

And so now, this morning, he stood like a statue, his face unreadable but his shoulders too tense for comfort. Alone.

He didn't talk about it. He wouldn't talk about it.

Not to Royce. Not even to the shadows that followed him.

But that didn't mean the silence fooled the old man.

---

Royce had seen a lot in his time.

War. Men falling apart. Women holding families on their backs like they were built from iron. But the one thing he could always sniff out was a broken heart trying to pretend it was fine.

Ethan walked into the living room with an unusual stillness, like a loaded gun just trying not to go off. Royce was already seated there, legs stretched out, old jazz playing low from the internal speaker somewhere in the room. He didn't look up at first. Just sipped from his coffee and muttered,

"Mornin', son."

"Morning," Ethan replied, voice low, tight.

Royce finally looked up, eyes studying the younger man the way a chess player studies the board after a bad move.

"You alright?" he asked casually.

Ethan shrugged. "Yeah."

Royce narrowed his eyes. "Uh-huh. That kinda 'yeah' that sounds like it's wearin' a bulletproof vest."

Ethan didn't answer. Just stared at the floor, then the fridge, then nothing.

Royce took another slow sip, smacked his lips, and set his cup down with a soft clink. "You ain't gotta say nothin', kid. I ain't askin' for a monologue. Just sayin'… I seen that look before."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, still silent.

Royce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Y'know, my cousin Walter—tough man, real tough. Used to run drills in the rain like he was made of concrete. But when his mama died? Man turned into smoke for a while. Wouldn't eat, wouldn't talk, just drifted."

He paused. He looked at Ethan for a very short while to be sure if the younger man was listening...and he was.

"You know what pulled him back?"

Ethan didn't answer. But Royce wasn't really expecting him to.

"His brother. Fool called him up outta nowhere and said, 'Yo, you ain't done yet. You still got me.' That was it. That's all it took."

Ethan blinked, but still said nothing.

"I ain't sayin' you gotta cry on Liam's shoulder or write no damn poem," Royce continued, cracking his back with a groan. "But boy, if you don't at least let that man know you still breathin', you gon' regret it. He's all you got in this world and you're running from him. We all got ghosts. But your brother? He ain't one of 'em yet. And you ain't gotta let him be."

Ethan exhaled through his nose, the breath sharp and tight like something was caught in it.

Royce softened his tone a bit. "Look, I know it's hard. Pride's a heavy thing. And pain? Shiiit, pain'll lie to you quick. Make you think you alone when you ain't. But trust me, Ethan... you only get so many people in this world who'll bleed for you. Don't throw 'em away."

There was a long silence between them. The kind that stretched and wrapped around the room like a blanket too cold to warm you.

Then Royce grinned.

"Anyway, I ain't finna stand here preachin'. That's what Sundays and barbershops are for." He stood slowly, knees cracking like gunshots. "I'ma go make us somethin' real to eat. Tired of that damn protein paste. You want waffles or not?"

Ethan looked up finally, and Royce caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Not exactly agreement. Not quite defiance. But something.

"Yeah," Ethan said quietly. "Waffles are fine."

Royce smirked. "That's what I thought. Got tastebuds after all. Praise be."

He shuffled off toward the kitchen, mumbling something about how young folk forgot the glory of brotherhood.

And Ethan?

Ethan sat still a moment longer, heart pounding softly against his ribs. Royce was right. He knew this and that's why he made the first move at the cemetery.

He didn't know what to say to Liam.

Didn't know how to explain what had happened to him... what he'd become.

But he knew he'd figure it out.

Maybe his brother deserved that much.

---

The café was dim-lit, tucked in a narrow corner of East Park—a place that hadn't changed in a decade. It still smelled like old roast beans, alcohol, and secrets. The same flickering neon sign buzzed above the entrance, like it had a mild panic disorder. Liam sat in the far booth, hood pulled low, fiddling with the edge of a coaster. He didn't look up when Greyson slid in opposite him.

"Thought you might ghost me again," Greyson said, smirking as he set his tablet and phone on the table like a mini war table. "This isn't exactly new territory."

"I said I'd come," Liam muttered, still not meeting his eyes.

Greyson eyed him. "You look like hell."

"Feel worse."

There was a pause. They didn't talk often, not unless they were digging into something—something messy, something that hurt. The kind of hurt that lived in the bones. Liam had known Greyson back when he was still in the service—a nerd in camo who could crack an encrypted firewall faster than most people could unlock their phones. He was sharp, sarcastic, and ten times more loyal than he ever admitted.

"You sure you want to open this door again?" Greyson asked, flipping through data on his screen. "Last time we looked for him, you almost burned out."

Liam sighed, finally leaning forward. "I don't care if it hurts. I need to know. He's getting close… he left crumbs."

Greyson nodded. "That card… that's what got you back in the game?"

Liam nodded slowly. "I thought I explained over the phone. He used my mother's old name. 'Peanut.' And the handwriting… it wasn't exact, but it had the same rhythm. He's alive. I know it."

Greyson tapped his screen, swiped, then spun it around. "Alright, then. Here's where we left off two years ago. Last ping was in Calverton—an abandoned trail outside the base. After that, radio silence. But I ran a darknet crawl last night. Someone's been burning down operation in that region and others. No digital footprints. But the codename that keeps coming up? It's Shadow Walker."

Liam blinked. "Shadow Walker?"

Greyson leaned back, folding his arms. "Sound familiar?"

"No!... Well, there's someone I used to call that when I was little. My Dad's friend," Liam whispered. "When he'd wander off with my Dad and come back either GSW or a knife wound. He hated it."

"Well, doesn't matter who you used to call that. What matters is the fact that this person bears the name and it seems like it might be your brother."

The name hung in the air between them like a ghost.

Greyson continued. "There's more. Two low-profile arms deals were intercepted this month. One of the names on the manifest was 'Vex.' Same structure as the old group, just hidden better. Like they went underground and got organized. What if your brother's not just alive—but caught in the middle of this?"

Liam's face tightened. "Then I pull him out. No matter what it takes."

"Even if he doesn't want to be pulled?" Greyson asked quietly.

Liam didn't answer. He stared past Greyson, past the windows fogged with July heat, past the flickering lights and broken lives. In his mind, he saw Ethan standing in a shadow he couldn't name.

Greyson gave a low sigh, like a man about to break the hard truth gently. "Look, if he's really tied into this Vex fallout, then someone's using him. Or he's hiding for a reason. Either way… you need to be ready to accept that he's changed. You won't be rescuing a boy. You'll be confronting a ghost wearing your brother's skin."

Liam swallowed. "Let me worry about that."

Another beat. Then Greyson slid over a small device—no bigger than a lighter.

"Tracker. Range sync. I've got two embedded eyes in Southpoint. If he moves, we'll know. But Liam…"

Liam looked up.

"…don't go alone."

Liam pocketed the device without a word.

---