Chapter 19: Welcome to the Family Business (I Think)
From the Memoirs of Evan "Definitely Not a Mafia Boss" Mercer
By the time the sun had fully risen and the sleepy little town had collectively dragged itself out of bed, the Flame Rider incident was already everywhere.
On the news.
In the newspapers.
On social media.
In between grumbles about the weather and complaints about rising gas prices, people were buzzing about the mysterious figure who had torn through the city streets on a motorcycle wreathed in blue-white fire like something out of a supernatural action movie.
Theories ranged from "he's clearly a government experiment gone rogue" to "nope, definitely Satan's intern doing donuts downtown."
Some folks swore the rider had vanished into thin air. Others insisted he leapt over a moving truck.
Whatever the case, it was cool.
Freaky.
And very possibly illegal.
Evan Mercer, however, had been blissfully unaware of the flaming-motorcycle mayhem until he dragged himself downstairs for breakfast, bleary-eyed and vaguely wishing he could go back to bed for another three hours.
Unfortunately, there was no escaping that conversation.
"You see, Evan—isn't your father cool?" Garrick Mercer boomed, practically slamming a copy of the local paper onto the breakfast table like it was a treasure map.
The bold headline blared in all caps:
MYSTERIOUS FLAME RIDER ROAMS STREETS: SUPERNATURAL ENTITY, VIGILANTE, OR DAREDEVIL?
A big, grainy photo sat beneath it—blurry, but still catching the glow of burning wheels and a figure wrapped in shadows.
It looked equal parts epic and terrifying.
Like something you'd see right before realizing you left the stove on...
And also the entire house was on fire.
Garrick puffed up like a balloon full of dad pride.
"The mayor personally asked me to investigate! Me! Garrick Mercer! Paranormal Expert Extraordinaire!"
Evan poked at his eggs, half-listening, half-hoping no one noticed he was staring a little too hard at the headline.
Something about the image tickled his brain.
Like déjà vu wearing leather and sunglasses.
Selene Mercer, already in her teal jumpsuit and sipping coffee like it was lifeblood, nodded thoughtfully.
"It does have a strong spiritual signature. The flames might even be psychoplasmic. Very advanced supernatural manipulation—assuming they're actually flames."
"It's obviously a ghost!" Garrick barked. "Or a ghost possessing a motorcycle. Or maybe a motorcycle that died and came back to life! Ha!"
Evan blinked.
"Can… can motorcycles become ghosts?"
"Absolutely," Garrick replied without hesitation, shoveling a stack of sausage links onto Evan's plate. "That's why I never trusted mopeds."
Despite himself, Evan snorted.
But underneath the usual Mercer morning nonsense, there was something different.
A growing awareness.
Evan didn't usually care about this stuff. He left the ghost-hunting, ecto-blasting, and mad science to his parents.
But now?
Now, he felt…
A twinge.
A spark of curiosity.
Not just because the Flame Rider was cool—which, let's be honest, he was—but because it all felt…
Connected.
"If this Flame Rider is real," Evan said slowly, looking up from his plate, "shouldn't you guys be careful? What if he's dangerous?"
That froze the table harder than any ghost ever could.
Garrick and Selene looked up from their plates, forks in midair, like someone had just suggested they sell all their ghost gear and open a juice bar.
"You're… worried?" Selene asked, blinking.
Evan shrugged, cheeks turning a little pink.
"I mean, you're dealing with a flaming, shadowy guy who rides like he's starring in his own horror movie. Just saying... maybe check the safety protocols. Again."
Selene's expression softened into something warm and maternal.
"That's very thoughtful, Evan."
"See?" Garrick beamed. "Our boy's got the instincts of a true Mercer!"
Evan tried to hide behind his orange juice.
His parents were eccentric, sure.
But they weren't fools.
Despite what the neighbors whispered about "those ghost-obsessed lunatics with the laboratory," the Mercers were trusted in high places—secret circles of scholars, hunters, researchers, and mystics who understood that the world was a lot stranger than it looked from the outside.
Evan had always stayed out of it.
Until now.
"You should eat more, champ," Garrick said, shoving a third helping of bacon onto Evan's plate with gusto. "You're growing like a weed! A big, ghost-fighting, brainy weed!"
Evan smiled awkwardly.
His appetite had definitely increased lately.
And it wasn't just from late-night snacking.
You ever sit down for breakfast, minding your own business, only to be told that your new part-time gig is…
Running the mafia?
No?
Just me?
Figures.
I was halfway through a stack of pancakes the size of a small bear when Asterion's voice popped into my head like the world's most casual bombshell.
"Tell them you've taken a part-time job."
I blinked, mid-syrup-drip.
"What job?" I asked suspiciously, already smelling a trap bigger than the one Toby fell into trying to hack the school vending machines.
"Cashier."
Uh huh.
Sure.
Because I totally scream checkout lane enthusiast.
"What's the real job?"
Asterion went quiet for a second.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
"Good," he said. "At least you're learning not to accept everything you're told."
Oh no.
"Asterion."
"You'll be working with the organization I acquired last night."
I froze.
"Organization?"
A pause.
"The local criminal organization."
…
I choked.
Not like, coughed-a-bit choking.
I mean full-on pancake-to-the-lungs, eyes-watering, fork-flinging, somebody-call-an-ambulance choking.
"Mafia?!" I wheezed.
Selene looked up.
"What?"
"Nothing!"
I grabbed my juice and took a desperate gulp.
Inside my head:
"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY ASKING ME TO JOIN THE MAFIA?!"
"Join is a strong word."
"WHAT WORD WOULD YOU USE?!"
"Manage."
I almost choked again.
Asterion continued as calmly as if he were explaining tomorrow's workout.
"They're under my control now. Their criminal operations are being dismantled and redirected into legitimate businesses."
I stared at my pancakes.
So there I was, trying to process the fact that Asterion—the ancient cultivator, Sect Head, Knight of Fate, and man currently living inside my soul—had apparently spent the night casually restructuring organized crime.
Apparently when I sleep, Asterion builds business empires.
Awesome.
Totally not terrifying at all.
"Why do you need me?"
"Because eventually, I won't be the one handling everything."
That sounded ominous.
"You need experience dealing with people, resources, information, and responsibility. Fighting is only one kind of strength."
I hated when he made insane ideas sound educational.
"So what exactly am I doing?"
"Watching. Learning. Completing smaller tasks. The organization also has rivals and outside groups attempting to move into the area. You'll help deal with problems as they arise."
I stared at the eggs like they were going to sprout legs and sprint away from the insanity.
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
I sighed.
"Right," I muttered aloud. "Because what every teenager needs—besides acne and algebra—is an honorary position in organized crime."
Garrick glanced over.
"What was that?"
"Career planning!"
"GOOD MAN!"
Of course.
But honestly?
I was kinda intrigued.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
Bad life choice alert.
But my life hadn't exactly been normal lately.
I had an ancient cultivator in my head.
I had died twenty-seven times in one afternoon.
I was learning martial arts, traps, formations, spiritual sensing, and apparently now...
Management?
"I shall become the Big Boss," I whispered dramatically.
Asterion was silent for a second.
Then:
"Please don't call yourself that in front of them."
I caught my reflection in the toaster.
Wide-eyed.
Nervous.
Still wearing pajamas with tiny rocket ships.
"Big Boss," I repeated with slightly less enthusiasm.
Yeah.
Asterion might have a point.
My parents were still talking supernatural tech like they hadn't just been partially tuned out by their teenage son slowly realizing he was on track to become Evan Mercer, Underworld Intern™.
"Oh, Evan," Mom said suddenly, looking up and smiling warmly. "Are you okay? You look a little pale."
Pale?
Lady, I was having an existential crisis over pancakes.
"I'm great," I lied. "Just... thinking about career goals."
"Oh, good for you!" Dad boomed, slapping me on the back so hard I nearly fell into my plate. "Start small, dream big! Just like I did! You'll see—before you know it, you'll be inventing ghost vacuums and anti-ectoplasmic thermobaric grenades like the rest of us!"
Yup.
Totally normal.
Nothing to see here.
I glanced at my half-eaten pancakes.
Then slowly pulled the plate back toward myself.
Actually...
I was definitely finishing breakfast.
If Asterion was sending me into a room full of former criminals tonight, I was going in well-fed.
Because tonight?
Tonight, I wasn't fighting ghosts.
I was apparently learning management from people who probably had nicknames like "Chains."
Fantastic.
You know your life's gone completely off the rails when your ancient cultivator mentor starts lecturing you on moral character and reminds you that you agreed to fake-date your own sister as some bizarre relationship lesson.
To clarify:
Fake.
And less "romantic date" and more "Asterion apparently thinks teaching Lena how to understand men requires sacrificing my dignity."
Still weird, though.
Thanks, Asterion.
Lena was slipping her shoes on by the door when I remembered—
our arrangement.
I blanked for a second.
Arrangement?
Did we join a sibling bowling league?
Were we finally confronting Mom and Dad about their "Frankencereal" experiments?
Before I could fake my way through it, Asterion's voice calmly reminded me:
"Five o'clock."
Right.
Oh.
That arrangement.
I was totally on top of it.
"Lena, don't forget about our arrangement," I called casually—like I hadn't forgotten it five seconds ago.
Lena gave me a smirk, one eyebrow raised like she knew exactly how scrambled my brain was.
Which, in all fairness, she probably did.
"I know. Five sharp," she said before heading out the door.
She didn't say it, but the smirk screamed:
"I knew you forgot, you idiot."
Classic Lena.
As soon as the door shut, something from breakfast popped back into my head.
I leaned against the wall.
"Master?"
"Hm?"
"You talk like you know a lot about relationships."
Silence.
That was interesting.
"Were you actually some kind of legendary ladies' man when you were younger?"
Asterion gave a quiet laugh.
"No."
That answer came quickly.
"Really?"
"I teased people. I traveled. I met plenty of women. That's different from chasing every woman I saw."
Fair.
Then his voice became quieter.
"I was married."
I stopped.
That was...
New.
Before I could ask more, Asterion continued:
"And no, this lesson has nothing to do with my past relationships. It's about Lena."
Translation:
Do not dig further.
Fine.
For now.
"So you're really making me do this?"
"You agreed."
"Past Evan was an idiot."
"Present Evan isn't making a strong case for improvement."
Rude.
"Do you not want to help your sister?" Asterion asked.
I sighed.
"Of course I do."
"Then help her."
Simple as that.
Then his tone shifted.
Not harsh.
But more serious.
"You also need to establish principles for yourself."
Oh boy.
Here comes Sect Head Therapy™.
"Right now, much of your personality is built around avoidance. Fear. Laziness. Self-interest."
Oof.
"There is kindness there too."
"Wow, thanks."
"I hadn't finished."
I shut up.
"You're improving. But improvement requires deciding which parts of yourself you intend to keep."
That...
Actually sounded less insulting.
Then he hit me with the question I wasn't ready for.
"Tell me about your parents."
Easy.
Dad liked ghosts.
Mom liked science.
Dad could probably bench-press a refrigerator.
Mom could build a gun that vaporized said refrigerator.
Done.
Except...
That wasn't what he meant.
Silence.
Total mental shutdown.
Because the truth?
I didn't know.
Not really.
I knew Mom liked weaponized coffee mugs and Dad once tried to reverse-engineer a sandwich using a specter scanner, but that's...
Kinda it.
I never really asked about them.
Or listened.
I just assumed they'd always be there—yelling about ghosts, building death rays, and somehow keeping the lights on with a lab powered by who-knows-what.
"I'm… trying," I admitted.
"I know."
Asterion's voice softened.
"And you're learning."
No joke this time.
"Keep going."
I nodded to myself.
Maybe for the first time, I actually understood what he meant.
I didn't need to become perfect overnight.
I just needed to stop coasting.
Start choosing who I wanted to be.
And right as I had my dramatic soul-searching moment...
Asterion spoke again.
"Now for something you'll actually enjoy."
I became suspicious immediately.
"What?"
"Look outside."
I did.
And my brain stopped working.
Through the window, gleaming like a dragon forged in the fires of coolness and gasoline, stood the most insanely awesome motorcycle I'd ever seen.
The Fireblade.
My eyes widened.
"No way."
I ran outside like a cartoon character with toast in his mouth, practically sliding across the lawn as I circled the bike.
It was beautiful.
Red bodywork.
Sleek lines.
And faint formations etched into parts of the frame and tires.
I stopped.
Those markings looked...
Familiar.
I'd seen them in the newspaper photo.
My head slowly turned.
"Asterion."
Silence.
"Asterion."
"Yes?"
I pointed at the motorcycle even though he could obviously see through my eyes.
"Was that YOU?!"
A pause.
"The newspapers exaggerated somewhat."
My jaw dropped.
"YOU'RE THE FLAME RIDER?!"
"Keep your voice down."
I stared at the bike.
Then at the house.
Then at the bike.
"Oh my God."
So while I had been peacefully asleep—
Asterion had taken my body.
Taken over a criminal organization.
Led the police on a supernatural motorcycle chase.
And brought home a Fireblade.
I put both hands on my head.
"My life is insane."
"Correct."
I reached toward the motorcycle.
Then stopped.
"Wait."
My eyes narrowed.
"This is mine now, right?"
Asterion took entirely too long to answer.
"Eventually."
Record scratch.
"What do you mean eventually?"
"You're not riding it yet."
I stared.
"You cruel monster."
"You don't know how to ride it."
"Details!"
"Important details."
I dropped dramatically to my knees beside the motorcycle.
"You dangled it in front of me!"
"It's motivation."
"This is psychological warfare!"
"It's working."
I hated him.
Not really.
But at this moment?
A little.
"Complete your missions. Improve your control. Learn to ride properly. Then it's yours."
I looked back at the bike.
This was the carrot.
A very fast, extremely beautiful, probably questionably obtained carrot.
I just had to prove I was ready.
"So… we're leaving it here?"
"For now."
NOOOOOOO.
I staggered back toward the house like I'd just been told Santa wasn't real.
Each step away from the Fireblade felt like betrayal.
But deep down?
That bike wasn't just metal and formations.
It was a reward.
Proof that there were things waiting at the end of all this pain, training, and growth.
That I could become more.
That I would become more.
Even if I had to survive sibling bonding, underworld missions, seven-day training plans, and spiritual therapy sessions with an ancient Sect Head to get there.