Season 1 chapter 6
The Anderson Homecoming
Kniya Anderson pushed open the heavy oak doors of the estate. He looked like a wreck. His school blazer was torn at the shoulder, the white shirt beneath it stained with the grey sludge of the sewers and flecks of dried blood. He was exhausted, his body aching from the two-story jump and the sprint through the city.
The foyer was cold. His father stood by the tall windows, his silhouette blocking the morning sun. His mother sat on the velvet sofa, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a handkerchief.
"Kniya," his father said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You have any idea what you've done? You shot a peace officer. You turned the Anderson name into a headline for the evening news."
"Father, it was an accident, we were—"
"I don't care for your excuses!" his father roared, turning around. His face was a mask of aristocratic fury. "The military was at our gate! We are a family of status, of history. You acted like a common delinquent. You broke the one rule we have: Never become a target."
Kniya felt the weight of the night crashing down on him. He expected some relief, some sign that they cared he was alive. But in this house, reputation was more valuable than blood.
His mother stood up, her face tight. There was a flicker of emotion in her eyes—a split second of maternal instinct—but she suppressed it with a cold, sharp breath. "Go upstairs, Kniya," she said, her voice brittle. "Strip out of that... that filth. Burn that uniform. Take a bath and scrub the stench of the gutter off your skin. You are grounded until further notice. Do not speak to us. Do not look at us. You have brought a shame to this house that will take years to wash away."
Kniya didn't argue. He climbed the stairs, the silence of the mansion feeling heavier than the sewers he'd just escaped.
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The Bulwadi Exile
Malesh reached the Bulwadi gates. His school uniform—the one he usually wore with such professional pride—was a disaster. The tie was missing, the trousers were caked in dried mud, and the jacket was scorched from the oil fire.
He walked into the study. His parents were waiting. His father didn't look angry; he looked finished.
"Malesh," his father started, tapping a rhythm on the mahogany desk. "The Bulwadi protocol is simple. We remain invisible so we can remain powerful. By shooting that officer, by leading a manhunt to our front door, you have shattered that protocol. You have become a liability we cannot afford."
"It's fixed now, isn't it?" Malesh asked, his voice steady but hollow. "The military is gone. The charges are dropped."
"It doesn't matter," his mother whispered, staring at a spot on the wall behind him. "The trust is gone. The neighbors saw the tanks, Malesh. The board of directors saw the posters. You are a stain on the professional image we spent twenty years building."
His father pushed a small leather suitcase across the desk. It was packed with a few changes of clothes and some cash. "There is a small apartment in the West District. It is in my name, not yours. You will go there. Now."
Malesh blinked. The logic of his brain struggled to process the words. "You're... you're kicking me out? For a mistake? I'm eleven years old!"
"You chose to act like a man of the world, Malesh," his father said, standing up and walking toward the window. "Now you can live like one. You are no longer welcome in this house. The servants have been told to bar the door behind you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Malesh looked at his mother, but she turned her back to him. He realized then that their "professionalism" wasn't just a suit—it was a shield they used to protect themselves from feeling anything, even for their own son.
A strange sound began to bubble up from Malesh's throat.
He started to laugh.
It was a jagged, broken sound. He clutched his stomach, his head tilted back as he cackled at the ceiling. It was the laugh of a boy who had outsmarted a General only to be defeated by his own parents. He laughed at the absurdity of the "Bulwadi Protocol." He laughed because if he didn't, he would scream.
"Perfect," Malesh choked out, his eyes wide and vacant. "The protocol remains intact. Cut the rot before it spreads, right? You guys really are the best."
Without another word, without a single tear, Malesh grabbed the suitcase. He turned and walked out of the house he grew up in. As he hit the gravel driveway, the laughter continued—a haunting, echoing sound that drifted through the quiet morning air of the elite district. He was abandoned, filthy, and broken, but as he walked toward the gates, his grip on the suitcase tightened.
The Run
Malesh didn't walk away from the estate; he sprinted. He hauled that leather suitcase down the pristine gravel driveway, his lungs burning, his eyes blurred with a mix of sweat and the sheer, stinging rage of rejection. He didn't look back at the marble pillars or the wrought iron. As far as he was concerned, that house was a tomb, and he had just escaped being buried alive.
He reached the end of the elite district, his breath coming in jagged, painful stabs. He stopped under a dying streetlamp, leaning against a brick wall and sliding down until his ruined school trousers hit the damp pavement.
"Fucked," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Totally and completely fucked."
He looked at the suitcase. "The General was trying to put a bullet in us... and now my own fucking parents? My own fucking blood? They didn't even look at me. Not one goddamn look."
He slammed his fist against the brick. "Reputation. That's all it is to them. I'm not a son; I'm a fucking line item on a balance sheet. And the moment I became a liability, they just... deleted me. You bruised, heartless cunts."
The Calculation
He tried to think. His brain, usually a sharp, professional machine, was misfiring.
"I have the 80,000 credits coming," he muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I can afford the rent. I can buy a goddamn building if I want to. But that fat-ass Klove isn't going to get that passbook delivered today. This isn't some automated bullshit system. It's going to take days of back-channeling and couriers."
He looked at his hands. They were shaking.
"I can't go to the apartment my father bought. If I go there, I'm still on his leash. I'm still a 'Bulwadi asset.' Fuck that. I'd rather sleep in a gutter than take a single cent of his charity."
He stood up, his gaze turning toward the dark, jagged line of the horizon where the city ended and the wilderness began.
Back to the Dirt
He gripped the handle of the suitcase so hard his knuckles turned white.
"The forest," he said, a dark, manic grin creeping back onto his face. "The secret base. It's the only place that isn't owned by a General or a fucking CEO. Let the high-society pricks have their silk sheets and their 'protocols.' I'll sleep in the mud."
He started walking, his pace picking up as he left the paved roads of the wealthy behind.
"Fuck the government," he hissed into the wind. "Fuck the army. Fuck Everyone. And especially... fuck the Bulwadis. You think you abandoned me? I abandoned you the moment I realized you were cowards."
He began to run again, heading for the shadows of the trees. He wasn't the "professional" anymore. He was a ghost with a suitcase and a grudge that was going to burn the whole city down before he was through.
The Forest Exile
Malesh didn't walk; he stumbled through the treeline, his head thumping with a rhythmic, blinding rage. Every time he thought of his father's cold face or his mother's silence, his blood felt like it was boiling over.
"Fucking hypocrites!" he screamed, swinging his suitcase in a wide arc and slamming it against the trunk of a massive oak. THUD. He dropped the bag and began punching the tree, his knuckles split and raw, but the physical pain was a distraction from the void in his chest. He turned, kicking at the dirt, shaving off clumps of grass with his heels, tearing at the leaves until his hands were green and stained.
"I did everything! I followed the goddamn protocol!" He grabbed a low-hanging branch and snapped it with a desperate yell. "And for what? To be tossed out like a piece of fucking trash?"
The adrenaline eventually burnt out, leaving him hollow. The cold of the forest began to seep through his torn school blazer. He found the small clearing—the secret base they had used to plan the heist. It wasn't a palace. It was just a hollowed-out spot under a rock overhang, lined with dry moss and old crates.
He lay down on the hard, frozen ground, curling into a ball. He was shivering violently, his breath coming in white puffs in the moonlight.
"Fuck them," he whispered, his teeth chattering. "Fuck the house. Fuck the family. I don't need any of it."
He closed his eyes, drifting into a restless, freezing sleep, surrounded by the silence of the trees and the smell of damp earth.
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The Morning After
Malesh woke up before the sun was fully over the horizon. He felt like he had been beaten with a lead pipe. His joints were stiff, his skin was caked in a new layer of forest grime, and his hair was a matted mess of twigs and dried mud.
He dragged himself to the riverbank. The water was ice-cold, sending a shock through his system as he splashed his face. He stripped off his ruined blazer and washed his torso, the freezing water numbing the bruises on his ribs.
He opened the suitcase his father had packed. It wasn't much—mostly his notebooks, his fountain pens, and his stationary. But there, tucked at the bottom, was his one extra pack of clothes: a clean, pressed school uniform.
He stared at it for a long time. It was the only identity he had left.
He dressed slowly, meticulously. Even without a mirror, he straightened the collar and smoothed the fabric. He looked "professional" again, but his eyes were different—bloodshot, dark, and dangerous.
"I need to find Kniya," he muttered to the empty woods. "We need to talk about what the fuck we do next."
He grabbed his bag and began the long trek out of the wilderness toward the city.
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The School Gates
The morning air at the Seistain Private Academy was thick with a strange, nervous energy. Usually, the entrance was a place of loud gossip and laughing students, but today, it was eerily quiet. Groups of students stood in tight circles, whispering and pointing toward the main gate.
The "WANTED" posters were gone, but the memory of the military hunt was etched into everyone's brain.
Then, the crowd parted.
Malesh walked through the gates. He looked sharp, his uniform perfect, but the way he walked was different. Every head turned. The whispers died down instantly.
He didn't look at anyone. He didn't acknowledge the stares. He walked straight to the stone bench near the fountain where they always met, his eyes locked on the horizon, waiting for the one person who knew exactly what kind of hell they had just walked through.