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Chapter 12 - A GLASS SHARED

The streets felt colder than usual. The steel beneath Mikey's feet, once humming with life and movement, now felt alien — sterile and hollow. His limp was slow, uneven. Each step sent shocks of pain through his ribs, a reminder of Payne's guards and how close he'd come to losing more than just a fight.

His face was a wreck. The right side swollen and bruised, his eye nearly swollen shut. The sclera — what used to be white — was now stained a deep crimson from the burst vessels. He didn't care how he looked. He didn't even know where he was going.

His hands were buried deep in his jacket pockets. His fingers wrapped unconsciously around Nadia's blade — the smooth, worn grip familiar, grounding. The only thing that still felt real.

He wandered like a ghost through Sector B, passing people who didn't even spare him a glance. Neon lights painted his battered skin in soft blues and harsh reds.

He didn't know where to go. There wasn't a home anymore. Only noise.

The whirr of hovercrafts. The blaring horns. The low thrum of city life marching forward without him.

Then he saw it.

A glowing billboard hovered high above one of the skyscrapers. The screen flickered for a moment before stabilizing — and his own face stared back at him. His academy portrait. Untouched. Smiling. The version of himself that felt like it had died the same night his father did.

Below the image, bold white letters scrolled across the screen:

MICHAEL GRANT: MISSING

Son of late Vice Secretary of Defense presumed missing following Sector C bombing. Authorities searching for answers.

Mikey stared at it blankly. The world had already turned him into a headline. A piece of trivia. A ghost.

And then it cut to another feed, this one sharper. A live drone shot of Vickson Cemetery, where workers were preparing a stage. The camera zoomed in on soldiers assembling floral arrangements beneath the Council's flag.

FUNERAL SET FOR HERO OF THE STATE

VSD Desmond Grant to be honored in a full public ceremony. Chancellor Eeron expected to attend.

Vickson Cemetery. Sector D. The same place he buried his mother. The same spot where his father told him everything would be okay. And now they were both gone — lost to lies, buried beneath official speeches and falsified legacies.

Mikey's jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around the knife in his pocket.

The Council killed his father. He knew that now. It wasn't up for debate. That sigil on the aircraft — the Roundtable and the Serpent — was burned into his brain.

And behind that symbol was a man. One name.

Payne Morrison.

The image of Payne's face flashed again in Mikey's mind. The voice. The grin. The way he made Mikey feel so small, so powerless.

Never again.

Mikey turned away from the billboard. His vision blurred.

But the fire inside him didn't.

He walked until dusk had turned to dawn. Not stopping and not sleeping, how could he?

Mikey kept his head down as he slipped through Sector C, the streets oddly quiet this early in the morning. He passed by the charred skeleton of the building he once called home — the penthouse no longer burning, but the thick veil of smoke still clung to the air like a bruise that wouldn't fade. Ash dusted the pavement. People stood in clusters nearby, speaking in hushed tones he could still hear.

"Tragic, really… poor Desmond Grant," one said.

"Damn Defectors, tearing this city apart," muttered another.

"Thank God for Payne Morrison — at least someone's doing something."

Mikey tightened his hood, clenched his jaw, and kept moving. Every word cut like glass. They didn't know the truth. None of them did. And if they did, maybe they wouldn't care.

Drifting here and there, his legs brought him to a tailor shop.

The familiar door to an old shop slid open with a soft mechanical chime — memories began to flood Mikey's brain, reminiscing on the childhood visits he'd make with his father in this very store. A younger version of himself, sitting on the little bench by the mirror, kicking his feet while his dad got measured for a new suit.

Cool white LED strips lined the ceiling and floorboards, casting the place in a sterile glow. Rolls of fabric were stacked on chrome shelves, mannequins half-dressed in pressed coats stood like frozen gentlemen at attention.

Behind the front counter sat a stocky man nursing a glass of something strong. The tailor was built like a tree trunk, his buzzed hair more salt than pepper now, his thick beard neatly trimmed. He didn't look up from the news report playing on the wall-mounted holo-screen.

"We're closed," he said flatly.

There was a pause, then he grumbled louder. "Goddammit, I said we're—" He craned his neck upward — and froze.

"…Mikey?"

The glass in his hand trembled slightly as he set it down and stepped forward. His eyes brimmed with the kind of sorrow that didn't come from watching headlines, but from watching someone grow up.

"I heard what happened, kiddo. I—"

Mikey raised a hand, cutting him off gently.

"I need a suit, Pat."

That was all he had to say.

Pat blinked and nodded slowly, his throat catching. He didn't ask why — he already knew.

Pat didn't ask any more questions — at least not right away. He moved into the back with a quiet purpose, returning a moment later with a sleek black suit draped carefully over one arm.

"Try this one," he said, handing it off.

Mikey disappeared into the dressing room. Pat leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking back to the holo-screen where some news anchor droned on about the "cowardly Defector attack" and how "VSD Grant would be remembered as a patriot."

The door creaked open.

Mikey stepped out — slow, stiff. The hood was off now.

Pat's breath hitched.

His face was wrecked. Purple bruises bloomed across his cheek and jaw. His right eye was crimson with blood, the sclera stained like wine. A crusted trail of dried blood still ran from his brow down his temple.

"Mikey…" Pat whispered, eyes widening. "What the hell happened to you?"

Mikey didn't answer. He just stood there, eyes sunken and tired.

Pat hesitated, then silently walked to the back wall, placing his palm against a cold-sensor panel. A hidden fridge hissed open, and from it, he pulled a gel-based ice pack. He handed it over without a word.

Mikey took it with a quiet nod and pressed it gently against his eye, flinching just slightly at the contact.

Pat returned to the workbench, pulling a set of tools from a drawer — needles, sensors, tiny lasers for micro-stitching. He got to work on tailoring the sleeves and waist, making small, practiced adjustments with barely a sound.

The silence sat heavy between them — not awkward, just mutual understanding.

When he was done, Pat stepped back and gestured to the full-length mirror in the corner.

Mikey looked at himself. The suit was clean, modern, and perfectly fit to his frame. But his reflection? Hollow. Like the suit was wearing a shell of who he used to be.

Pat crossed his arms and gave a quiet, hopeful smile. "How's it fit?"

Mikey didn't look away from the mirror. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"It'll do."

Mikey moved in silence, gathering his things. Pat had packed his old clothes into a simple cloth bag — bloodstained, ashy, and reeking faintly of smoke and burnt circuitry. Mikey looked down at them for a second longer than he meant to.

His eyes drifted to the glass of amber liquor left on the counter — the one Pat had been nursing when he walked in. Then he glanced at Pat.

Pat caught the look.

Without a word, he nodded and reached for the bottle.

"I'll pour you a glass," he said softly, already twisting the cap.

The liquid hit the bottom of the glass with a quiet splash. Pat slid it across the counter.

Mikey picked it up and took a slow sip. It burned, but he didn't flinch.

Pat leaned against the counter, his eyes tired but kind. He looked at Mikey for a long moment — really looked at him — and then spoke, his voice thick with something old and honest.

"Your old man… he was the single kindest idiot I ever had the honor of tailoring for," Pat said with a soft laugh that caught in his throat. "Never met a man who could talk politics while getting his cuffs measured. Or tell the worst damn jokes while buttoning a vest."

He paused, his expression sobering.

"He was a friend. A real one. And I'm glad you're still breathing, kid. I know it'd break Darla's heart if her boy had to join her up there too."

Mikey didn't speak. He just stared into the glass as the liquor swirled inside. The silence stretched for a moment… and then a tear slid down his cheek, unnoticed.

It landed in the glass.

And that was answer enough.

After a quiet moment, Mikey stood. He slipped the strap of the bag over his shoulder, the soft jingle of the zipper the only sound between them.

He made it halfway to the door before pausing.

He turned, eyes still low but steady. "Thanks, Pat," he said, his voice low and a little hoarse.

Pat offered a small, weary smile — one that barely reached his eyes. "Anytime, kid. You ever need to talk… Old Man Pat's not goin' anywhere."

Mikey gave him a slight nod. Then he stepped through the sliding door, the soft chime echoing behind him as it hissed shut.

Pat stood there for a moment, staring at the now-empty space where Mikey had been. The silence felt heavier now.

He looked down at the half-finished glass in his hand. His other hand moved slowly to his chest — clutching at the ache there like it was trying to burst out.

He muttered to no one. Or maybe to someone.

"If there's anybody up there listenin'... give that boy strength. Strength to carry the weight he's got on him. 'Cause it's too much. Too damn much for someone that young…"

His voice cracked.

And before he could finish the drink, the tears came — sudden and quiet.

This man who stitched suits for diplomats and danced needles through silk… this grown man stood alone in his shop, weeping for a broken boy who'd lost everything.

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