Trevor stood at the entrance of the Newman family house with mixed emotions. He was back from school. He stared, remembering how he had been kicked out of the place.
"I can't believe I'm back here." He thought. "Just to hear they've finally disowned me. Looks like Jayden was quick on this one."
He reached out to open the door, but his hand stopped just inches from the doorknob. Did he really just want to relive what happened? He can't stop it. He should just leave this place and never come back. But where would he go?
Back in the past, he had to stay in shelters until he was able to get on his feet. He didn't want to use that method again.
He had always known he was different. Not because anyone told him-- at least not at first-- but because he could feel it in the way his father looked at him. There was a coldness in those eyes, a simmering disdain that never quite boiled over in public, but behind closed doors, it was unmistakable.
The bruises started early. At first, they were framed as discipline. A slap for speaking out of turn. A shove gorgeous ot standing straight. As Trevor grew older, the punishments grew crueler, less about correction and more about control. His father's rage was precise, calculated. Never enough to leave marks but always enough to remind Trevor of his place.
Christopher, on the other hand, was untouchable. He was Trevor's younger brother.
The golden child. Born of blood and legacy. His father's pride.
Trevor remembered watching them together-----his father's hand resting gently on Christopher's shoulder, his voice watermelon with approval. It was a language Trevor had never been taught. A tenderness he had never earned.
He was six when he overheard the truth. A late-night argument between his parents, voices sharp and slicing through the silence. "He's not yours. You never wanted him."
And just like that, the puzzle pieces fell into place.
He was adopted. He wasn't a continuation of the family line---he was an interruption. A reminder of something broken and he was punished.
Now he was back here. Terrible memories he didn't want to remember but here he was. He just had to face them.
The mansion loomed like a monument to everything Trevor had endured. Its pristine white walls, towering columns, and manicured hedges whispered wealth and legacy- but to Trevor, it was a mausoleum of memories. Cold. Ornate. Hollow.
He stepped through the front door without knocking. No one greeted him. No one ever did.
The grand foyer stretched before him, polished floors gleaming beneath the chandeliers' icy glow. The air smelled of lavender and lemon Polish, like always. Familiar but not comforting.
His parents were in the drawing room exactly where he expected them to be.
His father sat rigid in his chair, his newspaper folded neatly in his lap. His mother lounged on a velvet settee sipping tea with a porcelain smile. They looked up as he entered---but Trevor didn't stop. He didn't speak. He didn't even glance their way.
He walked past them like they were furniture.
His mother's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. His father's jaw tightened. But neither said a word.
Trevor's boots thudded against the marble as he climbed up the staircase, each step a quiet act of rebellion. The portraits lining the wall watched him ascend----generations of blood he didn't belong to. He didn't care.
He turned left, down the corridor that led to his room. He opened it slowly.
He dropped his bag on the floor and sat at the edge of the bed, staring out the window at the garden below.
He sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving. The silence of the room wrapped around him like a blanket----one stitched with old memories and quiet defiance. He stared out the window, watching the wind stir the garden below. Two minutes passed. Maybe more. Time felt slower, heavier.
Then came the knock.
It was soft, almost polite. But Trevor didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway, and Christopher stepped inside.
He was dressed in a crisp polo shirt and tailored jeans, his hair styled just enough to look effortless. The favored son. Ghe heir. The one who never needed to knock.
Christopher leaned across the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
"They're calling you downstairs," he said, his voice smooth laced with something sharp. "You know how they get when you pretend you're invisible."
Trevor didn't move.
Christopher's smirk widened. "Or maybe you don't care. I guess that's a luxury when you're not one of us."
Trevor didn't say a thing.
He stood up slowly, walked past Christopher without a word, and left the room.
He descended the staircase slowly, each step echoing through the marbled halls like a drumbeat. The air felt heavier now, the kind of silence that precedes a storm. He could feel their eyes before he reached the bottom.
His father was standing now, arms folded, posture rigid. His mother remained seated, her teacup poised delicately in her hand, watching with that same unreadable expression.
Trevor stepped into the drawing room, his face calm and unreadable. He didn't speak first.
His father's eyes narrowed, scanning with a piercing expression. Then his gaze shifted to his wrist.
"That watch," he said, his voice clipped. "Where did you get it?"
Trevor glanced at the gold piece. A gift from his system but Trevor wasn't going to tell him that.
"I've always had it," Trevor replied, his voice steady.
His father frowned. "I never gave you that."
Trevor met his eyes, unblinking. "You've never given me much of anything."
The room went still.
His father's jaw tightened. "Don't be dramatic."
Trevor didn't reply. He didn't need to. The silence was enough.
Suddenly, his father's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"We've made our decision." He said. "You're being disowned."
"The bad blood between you and the Croft family has gone too far. You've embarrassed us. You've made enemies we can't afford. This house. This name---it no longer belongs to you."
His mother looked away, her silence complicated.
Christopher stood with a smug look on his face.
Trevor stood still. He didn't speak. Not yet.
His father stepped closer, voice rising. "You'll leave tonight. Pack what you need. You're not welcome again."
Still, Trevor said nothing.
His father scoffed. "Cat got your fucking tongue. Or are you finally realising the consequences of your actions?"
Trevor looked up slowly, his voice calm, eyes sharp.
"Are you done spouting rubbish?"
The words landed like a slap.
His father's face darkened. "What did you say?"