The days that followed Lucas's death bled together like spilled ink across a forgotten page—blurry, colorless, and without structure. Time lost meaning. Mornings came like a punishment, dragging Adrian into a world that no longer had rhythm, warmth, or purpose.
The apartment was quiet now. Too quiet.
Lucas's keys still hung by the door. His coffee mug, stained with half-dried rings of the last morning's brew, sat untouched on the kitchen counter. His boots—always tossed sideways near the mat—waited for footsteps that would never come again.
Adrian didn't speak to anyone.
Not the nosy neighbor who knocked and offered a cold casserole. Not the school guidance counselor who called twice and left voicemails that began with "We understand you're grieving" and ended with hollow offers of support. Not the police, who'd left the file closed and their hands cleaner than the streets they patrolled.
He barely ate. Barely slept.
Instead, Adrian sat on the edge of Lucas's bed at night, the worn blanket bunched in his fists, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of his brother—faded cologne and old leather—and staring at the flash drive he still hadn't dared to open.
What secrets are you hiding, Lucas?
The thought haunted him more than the murder itself.
Because it wasn't just the act of death that broke Adrian—it was the realization that Lucas had known. He'd known something was coming. The way he looked over his shoulder. The way he insisted Adrian stay home. The way his hands trembled as he left.
And yet, he never said a word.
---
On the fifth day, Adrian finally left the apartment.
He needed air. Noise. Something that didn't feel like death.
The world outside was the same. How could it be? The city bustled with indifference—cars honking, children laughing, people walking with headphones and coffees and grocery bags as if the sky hadn't fallen on someone else's world.
Adrian walked without a destination. Just movement. Just escape.
He ended up at the one place he swore he wouldn't go—Backridge High.
The school building looked foreign now. Cold brick, too clean. Students laughing near lockers felt like another species. Their problems—who to sit with at lunch, who liked who, what TikTok trend was trending—felt like echoes from a different life.
He passed through the halls like a ghost, unnoticed until someone finally recognized him.
"Adrian?" a soft voice said.
He turned. It was Rachel Ng, from literature class—kind, quiet, always scribbling in her notebook. She looked at him like he was a shattered vase someone had tried to glue back together.
"I'm so sorry about Lucas," she said. "I can't imagine—"
Adrian nodded but said nothing.
"Everyone's been talking about it. Some say it was gang-related. Others say it was just... random. But you were there, right? Did you—?"
Adrian's voice came out low, hoarse. "He begged them not to shoot."
Rachel's face paled.
"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
He walked past her before she could finish. The buzzing in his head was louder now. Conversations, footsteps, fluorescent lights—all of it blended into static.
In his locker, an old photo from two years ago still hung: him and Lucas, arms around each other at the beach, both laughing. Carefree. That moment was gone. Erased.
He slammed the locker shut, the sound sharp and final.
---
That night, Adrian sat alone at the kitchen table, the apartment wrapped in shadows. The only light came from the soft blue glow of his laptop screen.
The flash drive lay beside it.
He picked it up.
For a moment, he hesitated—fingers trembling, breath shallow. Whatever was on this drive, it had gotten Lucas killed. But if he didn't look, if he didn't try, what was the point of surviving?
He inserted it.
A single folder appeared: "NOIR CODE"
Inside were encrypted documents. Password-locked. No help.
But there was one unprotected video file.
He clicked it.
The screen lit up with a grainy clip. Surveillance footage? A warehouse, empty, poorly lit. Shadows moved near crates. Then—voices.
One voice he recognized instantly: Lucas.
The other was cold, commanding, clipped with an Italian accent.
Vincent Moretti.
"…you need to understand, this goes beyond your petty deals," Lucas was saying. "People are going to die. This is a massacre waiting to happen."
"I don't pay you to think, Lancaster," Moretti replied, stepping into view. "You keep your head down and your mouth shut."
Lucas shook his head. "Not anymore."
Then the video cut out.
Adrian stared at the screen.
There it was. Proof. His brother had gotten too close to something dangerous—and had tried to stop it. That video, that defiance, had been enough to get him killed.
Adrian closed the laptop.
The grief, the numbness—they evaporated.
In their place came focus.
He had a name now. Vincent Moretti.
A lead. A direction.
Not enough for the police. But enough for him.
---
Later that night, Adrian stood on the apartment balcony, the city stretching out below like a circuit board of lies and steel. He lit one of Lucas's old cigarettes. He didn't smoke. Never had. But he wanted to feel something Lucas once did.
The bitter taste curled down his throat, sharp and acrid.
A flicker of movement below caught his eye. A man across the street. Standing still. Watching.
Adrian froze.
Then the man turned and walked away.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But paranoia had a new home now—and it lived in Adrian's bones.
---
That night, for the first time since Lucas died, Adrian slept.
But his dreams were not peaceful.
He dreamed of shadows in alleys.
Of blood on his hands.
Of a voice whispering:
"Are you ready to become the monster they think you are?"