CHAPTER 0: PROLOGUE
The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the hospital room, each sound carving itself into John's memory. Above them, the fluorescent light hummed faintly, casting a sterile glow across the walls. The air carried the sharp bite of antiseptic, softened only by a stale floral scent that clung to the curtains.
Alex, his brother, lay propped against pillows, pale but smiling. His black hair was messy, falling just short of his shoulders. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his beard was rough and unkempt, though if you looked closely you could glimpse the handsome face that had once been there. Beside him, his favorite jacket lay folded neatly on the chair, a reminder of better days.
"Come here, kid," Alex said, his voice rough but warm. He reached out and squeezed John's shoulder with surprising strength. "You've got to stop looking like the world's ending. I'm not gone yet."
John moved closer without thinking, the chair scraping softly against the floor. He let Alex's hand rest on his shoulder, feeling the tremor in his brother's fingers as they slowly relaxed.
John tried to smile, but it didn't quite stick. "Yeah… you're right. I just… I don't know what I'd do without you."
Alex snorted. "Oh please. You're a grown ass man. Stop acting like I'm about to ascend into the afterlife." He shifted, the pillow sighing beneath him. "It's going to take a lot more than this to kill me."
John exhaled, watching the shallow rise and fall of Alex's chest. "That's not very reassuring, considering you already look like you're halfway there." He chuckled softly. "Now that I take a closer look… you could actually pass for a zombie."
Alex smiled, his eyes flicking away for a beat before returning. "Wow. Straight to insults. Real comforting."
Beside John, Lisa sat with silky black hair draped over one shoulder. Her hazel eyes caught the light as she tilted her head, brows knitting in concern. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear and curled her fingers around John's hand. "He's not wrong, though. You really need a makeover."
Alex's smile faltered, then twisted into mock agony. "Wow. From him, I expect nothing less. But you too, Lisa?" He clutched his chest with exaggerated drama. "My heart. Oh, you have killed me."
John rolled his eyes. "Okay, now you're just being dramatic."
"I will be as dramatic as I want," Alex shot back, his voice bright and loud. "How dare you insult this divine face?" He glanced at Lisa. "And especially you. I expect respect from my much younger sister-in-law."
Lisa leaned closer to John, her smile playful. "Sorry, but my baby comes first."
John's smirk was small and private, a flicker of warmth and pride. "Well, you heard her. Honestly, it might help if you moved on and got a girl of your own. I don't know why you're so hung up on that one girl."
Alex went quiet for a beat, eyes dropping to the blanket before lifting again with a faint smile. "Well… forget it. You wouldn't get it anyway."
He waved a hand lazily. "Well, it was nice talking to you all, but I'm bored now. You can go. Meanwhile, I'll admire my divine face."
John shook his head. "Narcissistic much."
Alex ignored the jab and turned toward Lisa, his expression softening in a way that made the room feel smaller. He leaned forward slightly, his voice gentler. "But on a more serious note, on the chance I close my eyes forever—take care of this crybaby for me. He's a handful. Stubborn. Annoying."
His gaze shifted to John, steady and unflinching. "But he's my brother, and he doesn't have anyone else other than you and me. So I'll have to rely on you."
Lisa nodded immediately. She squeezed John's hand once, then let her fingers rest lightly along his wrist. "I will try my best."
John's face tightened, a shadow crossing it. He swallowed hard, jaw working. Alex watched him, eyes soft. "Oh, don't start," Alex said.
"This isn't goodbye. It's just… precautions." He tried a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll make it. Obviously."
John nodded, the motion small and forced, as if agreeing to a promise he didn't believe. "Yeah. You're too stubborn to die like this."
Lisa slid her hand fully into his, thumb pressing gently against the pulse at his wrist. "You won't be alone," she whispered. "I will always be with you."
Alex let out a short, amused sound and looked between them, the corner of his mouth lifting. "See? You've got someone who won't let you drown. That's more than most people get."
The smile faded quickly. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Okay, one last thing. John, come closer. Lisa, this is a secret, so close your ears."
John leaned in, the chair creaking beneath him. Alex's gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening. "John, promise me. If by some miracle I die… listen to me clearly now… promise me you will delete my search history."
John blinked, the tension in his shoulders loosening into something like relief. He let out a short laugh that shook at the edges. "Ah, grow up, you idiot. You almost gave me a heart attack there."
Alex held onto the serious look. "I need you to promise."
John's face folded into mock solemnity before cracking into a grin. "Of course… not. I'll make sure the shame follows you to the afterlife."
Alex's expression shifted to mock outrage, then softened into something warmer. "Wow. Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. Unbelievable. I practically raised you. I even changed your diapers, and this is how you repay me?"
Lisa, who had been half-listening, pushed a loose curl behind her ear and stepped closer, curiosity tugging at her features. "What are you two whispering about?"
Alex cleared his throat, a small, embarrassed sound. "Nothing important."
John's grin came quick and bright. "Oh, he was just asking me—"
Alex flushed, color rising to his cheeks, making him look less fragile and more alive. "Hey, you little—"
Lisa laughed, the sound soft and contained. John's smirk answered hers, and for a single breath the machines, the light, and the antiseptic smell all faded into the background.
The monitor's beeps kept time with their breathing. John kept his hand where Lisa held it; Alex watched them both with a look that was equal parts pride and worry. They sat like that for a moment—hands linked, small noises filling the gaps.
***
A month had passed since that visit. Time moved forward in quiet increments—hospital check-in's, recovery, the slow return of strength. What had once felt fragile began to settle into something steadier, though the weight of those days lingered in John's chest like a shadow that refused to fade.
The quiet of the morning shattered with the sharp buzz of an alarm. John lay sprawled across the bed, face buried in the pillow, sheets tangled around him like the aftermath of a restless night. He cracked his eyes open halfway, groaning as he reached out and slapped the alarm into silence.
"Ah… I want to sleep," he muttered, voice muffled against the pillow. He rolled his head to the side, ready to sink back into sleep—until another alarm blared from across the room. Louder. More insistent. Impossible to ignore.
John let out a long, defeated sigh. His hand dragged across his face, fingers pressing into his eyes as if he could rub the fatigue away. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, shoulders heavy, movements sluggish. Pale morning light slipped through the blinds, striping the room in muted gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, catching the air like fragments of a dream.
For a moment he sat hunched on the edge of the bed, caught between the comfort of rest and the inevitability of another day. Then, with reluctant resolve, he swung his legs down, the chill of the floor biting at his bare feet.
He didn't bother with slippers as he pushed himself off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The bedroom door was already open; he slipped through without glancing around, moving straight toward the bathroom.
The shower was quick, just enough to wash the weight of sleep away. He grabbed the towel from the hanger, patted himself dry and wrapped it around his waist.
The mirror caught him on the way out. A young man stared back—black hair clinging in damp strands, framing a face sharpened by the morning light. His eyes, a clear sky-blue, caught the glow and threw it back, bright and restless even in the haze of sleep. He lifted a hand, slicked his hair back from his forehead, and let a smirk curl across his mouth.
"Damn. I look good."
The thought lingered longer than it should have. Another face slipped into the mirror—Alex, grinning the way only he could, smug and self-satisfied, the kind of narcissist who knew he was good-looking and never let anyone forget it. John's smirk faltered, the resemblance was too close for comfort.
'Focus, John. Don't let that cringe lord corrupt you.'
He shook his head, a short laugh escaping as he leaned over the sink. The bristles of the toothbrush scraped rhythmically, the sound filling the quiet as he tried to wash away the thought along with the taste of sleep.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled open the wardrobe. Normally he'd settle for something simple. Not today. Today was different. Alex was finally cleared to leave the hospital. 'Took that idiot long enough,' he thought, tugging on his best clothes.
Minutes later, he stepped out of the house, locked the door behind him, and called for a ride. The city waited, and so did the hospital.
The ride carried him through the city, streets blurring past the window. The sky was heavy, clouds pressing low, and halfway there the first drops began to fall. By the time the car slowed near the hospital, rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the pavement, streaking the glass.
John frowned, pressing a hand against the window.' What the hell…? is it supposed to rain today? '
He paid the driver, shoved the door open, and jogged through the downpour; his clothes plastered to his skin by the time he reached the entrance.
Inside, the air was warm, dry—quiet, with that faint hospital smell John had grown sick of. He shook himself off, drops of rain sliding from his sleeves, and set the flower he'd bought earlier on the counter. Leaning forward, he steadied his voice.
"I'm here for Alex Blackwell. My brother. He was supposed to be discharged today."
The receptionist gave her professional smile. "Okay, just give me a second."
John nodded, shifting his weight as his eyes wandered across the lobby. The minutes stretched, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence.
Two minutes later, the receptionist looked up again. The smile was gone. Her tone had changed, careful, hesitant.
"Sir… just to confirm, you said your brother's name was Alex Blackwell?"
John's stomach tightened. "Yeah," he answered, voice rough. "Is something wrong?"
She drew in a breath, her eyes flicking down to the screen before meeting his again. The look alone made his gut twist.
"I… I'm very sorry to tell you this. Alex passed away earlier this morning."
The words landed like a blow. For a moment, John just stood there, frozen, the hum of the hospital collapsing into a dull roar in his ears. His chest tightened, his breath caught, and the world tilted as if the floor had dropped out beneath him
John's breath caught, his chest tightening as the words echoed in his head. Passed away. No. That wasn't right. That wasn't possible.
He shook his head, voice breaking. "No. You're wrong. He was supposed to be discharged today. He was doing well."
Before the receptionist could respond, John turned and bolted down the hallway. His shoes squeaked against the polished floor, his pulse pounding louder than the hum of the lights above. He reached Alex's room, shoved the door open—empty. The bed was done, machines gone, curtains drawn.
His stomach dropped. "Where is he? Where the hell is he?"
A nurse appeared, hands raised in calm. "Sir, please—"
John's voice cracked, raw with panic. "Don't call me sir. Just tell me where he is. Take me to him!"
The nurse hesitated, her eyes flickering with recognition. She'd seen John here too many times—waiting, worrying, clinging to hope. Her voice softened, careful. "John… please. You need to calm down. Just breathe."
But John shook his head violently, his voice breaking as it rose. "Calm down? what do you mean calm down? He was supposed to be discharged today. Why are you all saying he's dead?" His chest heaved, words tumbling out raw, tangled with fear. He leaned closer, eyes burning, desperate.
The nurse lowered her gaze, her voice heavy. "Yes… he was supposed to leave today. Everything looked fine. But this morning… he… he just stopped breathing. We don't even know why."
John's voice cracked, trembling. "No… no I don't believe you. Please… just take me to him."
Her lips pressed tight, sympathy softening her eyes. She nodded once, quietly, and turned.
The walk felt endless. Each step echoed too loud, the air colder, heavier. John's breath came shallow, his pulse hammering in his ears. When the door to the morgue opened, the world narrowed to a single point.
Alex lay still. No smile. No voice. No warmth. Just silence.
John froze, then moved forward slowly, as if his body no longer belonged to him. He reached the bed, his hands trembling as he gripped Alex's shoulders. "Wake up,"
He whispered, shaking him gently. "Come on, man. The joke's not funny." His voice cracked, rising. "Wake up!"
The nurse stepped closer, trying to steady him. "John… please."
But John shook harder, desperation spilling out. "You promised me! You said you wouldn't die. You said you wouldn't leave me! ... WAKE UP, YOU IDIOT!"
His voice cracked into a scream, echoing against the sterile walls. His knees gave way, buckling beneath him, and he collapsed against the bed. His forehead pressed into the sheets, his sobs tearing through the quiet—raw, jagged, broken.
The nurse hovered nearby, her own eyes wet, torn between duty and compassion. She reached out, steadying his shoulder, but didn't try to pull him away. She knew this wasn't something to interrupt.
Finally, when his sobs dulled into silence, she held out Alex's jacket. The familiar fabric, worn and folded, carried the weight of memory. John took it with shaking hands, clutching it to his chest. The scent, the feel, shattered him all over again.
He sat there for a long moment, jacket pressed tight, whispering through the tears. "You promised me… you promised."
When John finally pushed himself up, the jacket weighed heavy in his arms. He stepped out of the hospital doors, the automatic glass sliding open with a hiss. The world outside felt different—colder, heavier. Rain hammered down, relentless, soaking him the instant he crossed the threshold. He didn't flinch. He didn't reach for cover.
The jacket clung to him, darkening as the water seeped in, each drop striking like a drumbeat, like a reminder of what he'd lost. His hair plastered to his forehead, his shoes splashing through shallow puddles, but he kept walking. No umbrella. No direction. Just forward.
His feet carried him forward without thought. Each drop struck like a drumbeat, like a reminder of what he'd lost. He pulled out his phone, thumb trembling against the screen, and called Lisa. The line rang, unanswered. His jaw tightened.
'I need her. I can't do this alone.'
Memories of her flickered in his mind—her hand squeezing his at Alex's bedside, her voice promising he wouldn't be alone. That promise was all he had left, and it pulled him through the storm.
By the time he reached her house, his clothes clung to him, his boots filled with water. He didn't knock. He pushed the door open, desperate, blind to anything else.
John started down the corridor, the weight of Alex's jacket dragging at his shoulders. Then he heard it—Lisa's voice, light and familiar, drifting from the living room. He turned, hope flickering for the first time all day.
But what he saw shattered it.
Lisa's lips pressed against Eliyas, the man's hand lingering at her waist. Eliyas's smirk broke into laughter, the kind of laugh John had heard too many times in schoolyards and parties—mocking, entitled, rich.
Something inside John cracked. A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob.
Lisa spun, eyes wide, her body jerking away from Eliyas as if burned. "J…John? What are you—" She faltered, panic flooding her face. "Wait… wait, let me explain, this isn't—"
John's hollow laugh cut her off, his voice shaking. "Explain? What's there to explain? That you're cheating on me… with the guy I hate most?"
Eliyas turned, confusion flickering before it hardened into smugness. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing.
"Well, if it isn't the charity case. Did you really think Lisa would stay with someone like you when someone so much better is in-front of her?"
John's rage surged, but his voice came out low, cutting. "Better? You mean you? The guy who hides behind daddy's money? The guy who has to buy his friends?"
Eliyas's smirk widened, slow and deliberate, his words dripping poison.
"At least I have a father," he sneered. "Yours didn't even bother sticking around. Walked away like you were nothing. Hell, he probably doesn't even know you exist. Or maybe your mother never even knew who he was. That's why you carry her name, Blackwell — because there was nothing from him to claim. You're not a son, you're a mistake. Just another bastard she dragged into the world while selling herself to anyone who'd throw a few bills her way. That's your legacy, John — dirt, shame, and a name that means nothing."
The words sank deep, sharper than any fist.
John snapped.
His knuckles smashed into Eliyas's jaw, the impact snapping his head sideways and sending him staggering back. Shock flashed across Eliyas's face before it twisted into fury.
They crashed into each other, fists flying, the room erupting into chaos.
Lisa screamed, rushing forward.
"Stop it! Both of you, stop!"
She grabbed at John's arm, trying to pull him back, but he tore free and drove Eliyas to the ground.
John straddled him, fists slamming down again and again, every blow fueled by grief and something uglier.
"You don't get to talk about my mother!" he shouted. "You don't know anything about her!"
Blood smeared across Eliyas's mouth as he laughed, the sound thin, cracked, and cruel. He spat red onto the floor, eyes burning up at John.
"Oh, I know enough," he snapped. "She was broke, desperate, and willing to spread her legs for anyone who'd pay. And you?" He sneered. "You're just an unwanted outcome. Tell me I'm wrong."
Lisa shoved between them, tears streaking her face. "Stop it! Please, stop! This isn't you, John!" Her voice cracked, torn between fear and guilt, her hands trembling as she tried to hold him back.
John's hand closed around a bottle on the counter, knuckles white as he raised it high. His breath came ragged, eyes wild.
"John, stop!" Lisa's voice cracked, desperate. She threw herself between them, her hand flying across his face. The slap rang sharp, cutting through the storm inside him.
John froze, stunned, the bottle slipping from his grip. His chest heaved, disbelief flooding him.
Lisa's eyes brimmed with tears, her own hand trembling as if she couldn't believe what she'd just done. "John… please. This isn't you. I didn't mean for you to find out like this. I'm sorry. Just… listen to me."
But Eliyas chuckled from the floor, wiping blood from his lip. "Go on, Lisa. Tell him how he was never enough."
John's face twisted, but no words came. He turned, stumbling toward the door, silence heavier than any insult.
Lisa called after him, her voice shaking. "John...wait!"
He didn't.
Couldn't.
The storm swallowed him whole.
Rain hit like icy bullets. Cars blurred past, horns blaring distantly. His mind was a mess: his brother's laugh, Lisa's voice, Eliyas's mocking tone, the sting of her slap.
He didn't feel the cold anymore.
He didn't hear the screech of tires.
Didn't see the headlights.
Only one voice cut through—Lisa's scream.
"John!"
It was the last thing he heard before everything went dark.