Dranred swallowed hard. "You know that's not fair."
"Fair?" James snapped. "Was it fair that your grandfather had my family killed? He missed, that's all — he missed killing us too."
"You don't have proof of that."
"Of course I don't!" James shouted. "Because people like him don't leave proof. They just erase it — like they erased my family."
Dranred took a step forward, but James turned away, jaw tight.
"Leave," he said quietly. "Before I call security."
Dranred lingered for a moment, then nodded. He understood — anger was all James had left.
"I'll come back when you're ready," he said softly.
"Don't," James replied. "Don't ever come back."
When Dranred left, the doctors came in. James barely listened as they spoke. Their words felt like distant echoes — his parents were gone.
Rosette's eyes were badly damaged.
She might need a transplant if she could ever see again.
And his legs…
The doctor hesitated before saying it — he may never play basketball again.
James just stared at the white ceiling. The sound of the heart monitor filled the silence.
The dream that once kept him alive — his parents' pride, his sisters' hopes, his future — all vanished in a single breath.
When the doctor left, James turned on the TV, hoping for a distraction.
Instead, he saw the news.
The congressman — Dranred's grandfather — had been cleared of all charges.
His father, the slain officer, was being dragged through the mud by the media — accused of corruption, of ties to the underworld. The case was dropped for "lack of evidence."
James's hand trembled. The remote fell to the floor.
In that moment, everything inside him went cold.
The hallway outside the hospital room was quiet — too quiet. Only the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant beeping of monitors broke the silence.
Dranred stood there, staring blankly at the floor, the echo of James's words still tearing through him.
"I don't have friends with a murderer's blood."
He pressed his hands against his face and let out a shaky breath.
Inside, he could still hear Rosette's small sobs in his memory, her trembling hands searching for his in the dark — and James's cold, bitter stare that told him everything was broken beyond repair.
For the first time, he didn't know where he belonged.
Not in that hospital room — and certainly not in his grandfather's house.
He was caught between two worlds, both poisoned by the same blood.
He walked down the hallway until he reached the end, where a glass wall looked out over the city. The night was cold, painted with the faint shimmer of autumn stars — the same stars he and James once joked about.
Now, they only looked like distant witnesses to a tragedy he could never erase.
Dranred clenched his fists.
If only I'd stopped them sooner…
If only I hadn't been a coward that night.
He could still see the headlights flashing, the explosion of gunfire, the look of horror on James's mother's face.
Those images would never fade.
A soft voice startled him.
"Mr. Masterson?"
It was one of the officers guarding the siblings' room — a young woman, tired-eyed but kind. "Are you family?"
He hesitated. "No," he said quietly. "I'm just… someone who should've done more."
The officer studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "They'll be under protection for now," she said. "But there's talk that whoever did this won't stop."
Dranred's gaze hardened.
He already knew that — and he knew who had sent them.
"Thank you, officer," he said, his voice low but steady. "I'll make sure no one touches them again."
He turned away before she could ask more questions.
Outside the hospital, the air was sharp and cold. His motorcycle sat where he'd left it, still streaked with mud from that night. He stared at it, memories flashing behind his eyes — the chase, the crash, the blood.
He gripped the handlebars tightly.
You've taken enough from me, Grandpa.
You destroyed my friend's family. You made me a part of it.
But not anymore.
He swung his leg over the bike, started the engine, and let the rumble fill the silence around him.
He didn't know where he was going yet — only that he couldn't stop. Not until he made things right.
As he sped off into the cold night, the city lights blurred around him, and for the first time, Dranred wasn't running away from his past.
He was riding straight toward it.
The news wasn't the only thing that broke James that day.
On the sports channel playing in his hospital room, the rookie draft for professional basketball was being aired live. His heart clenched when he saw one familiar face among the chosen players—Dranred.
And worse—he was drafted into the very team James had always dreamed of joining.
His hands curled into tight fists. The sound of the announcer's voice faded, replaced by the hollow pounding of his own heartbeat. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over—not just toward Dranred's grandfather, but toward Dranred himself.
Later that afternoon, Dranred arrived at the hospital just as James, Estelle, and Rosette were preparing to leave with their aunt and uncle—relatives who had come from the province to take them in.
"James! Estelle! Rosette!" Dranred called out as he hurried toward them.
"I'm glad I caught you before you left."
But James didn't return the smile. His eyes fixed on the jacket Dranred was wearing—emblazoned with the logo of that basketball team. The same team. His team.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"So you finally joined basketball, huh? Tell me, did you wait for me to get crippled before you decided to play? And you even joined my team. What else do you and your grandfather plan to take from me?"
The words cut deep. Dranred froze, his throat tightening as his gaze fell on James—leaning on crutches, the fire in his eyes burning hotter than ever. He wanted to explain, to tell him the truth—that he joined not out of ambition, but guilt. That he wanted to live out the dream his friend had lost.
But how could he say that now?
"I came to tell you that I got drafted—"
"I can see that," James snapped. "I'm not blind. What kind of friend are you, Dranred?"
"You don't understand. I only—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly." James's voice trembled with rage. "You joined the one team I wanted. After your family destroyed mine. And now you expect me to believe this is some kind of coincidence?"
"That's not fair! You think I wanted any of this to happen? You're my friend—"
"Don't call me that." James's voice dropped low, sharp as glass. "I have no friends who betray me. And no friend of mine wears the blood of a murderer."
Dranred fell silent. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound hollow. He could only watch as James turned his back on him and limped toward the van waiting outside.
"James—please. Let me explain—"
"There's nothing left to explain. Don't ever come back."
The words hung in the air long after James disappeared.
"Red, are you and my brother fighting?" Rosette's small voice broke the silence.
Dranred turned and saw her holding Estelle's hand, her eyes still covered in bandages.
"No," he said softly, forcing a faint smile. "You know how friends are—sometimes they just disagree."
"I heard you're playing basketball now," she said with a little smile. "I thought you loved baseball. But… if you like basketball like my brother does, then I'll cheer for you too."
Her innocence broke something inside him. Dranred smiled faintly as he looked at her—her eyes unchanged, yet unable to see him.
"Are you sad?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers brushed his cheek gently. "You're still handsome," she whispered with a soft laugh.
Dranred chuckled, his voice trembling. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. So don't frown, okay? We're leaving soon. My aunt and uncle said they'll take us to the province. Maybe we won't see each other again."
Dranred looked down, the heaviness in his chest almost unbearable.
"I'll visit when I can," he said quietly.
Rosette nodded, smiling as though she believed him completely.
But as Dranred watched them leave, a cold truth settled in his heart—he didn't know if he would ever get the chance.