The ceiling fan hummed in slow, uneven circles above Adrian Cole's room, stirring the faint smell of ink, paper, and old books. Stacks of finance magazines and half-filled notebooks leaned against the walls like miniature towers—precarious, always on the verge of collapse.
Adrian sat at his desk, fingers drumming against the edge of a leather-bound journal, eyes flicking between lines of market data and the clock on the wall. May 14, 2009. 6:27 a.m. The date and time branded itself into his memory without effort. Everything did.
Outside, the morning sun struggled through thin curtains, catching the faint dust motes floating in the air. Downstairs, he could hear the distant rattle of dishes and the low, steady voice of his father speaking on the phone. It was always the same tone lately—controlled, but frayed at the edges, like glass ready to crack.
Daniel Cole was a man carved from long hours and unyielding principles. His broad shoulders seemed permanently hunched from years of work, his dark hair streaked with gray long before its time. At forty-eight, he wore stress like another layer of clothing.
Adrian grabbed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. Graduation was two weeks away, but school already felt like an afterthought. Numbers came to him as naturally as breathing, patterns in charts unfolding like hidden maps only he could read. But every time his father tried to talk about "using that gift" for something real, Adrian brushed it off with a careless shrug.
"Morning," Adrian muttered as he stepped into the kitchen.
The air smelled faintly of coffee—strong, black, bitter. Daniel glanced up from a spread of bills and brokerage statements scattered across the table. His eyes, a deep tired brown, lingered on Adrian for a long second.
"You're up early." His voice was steady, but Adrian noticed the crease between his brows deepen.
"Couldn't sleep," Adrian said, pouring himself a glass of juice.
Daniel sighed. "You spend half the night staring at those market charts, and you think I don't notice."
Adrian smirked, not meeting his father's eyes. "Maybe I just like puzzles."
"They're not puzzles, Adrian. They're people's lives. Every number on those screens—someone's savings, someone's future." Daniel's words carried weight, but Adrian shrugged them off as if they were no more than passing wind.
"You're making it sound way too serious."
"Because it is serious!" Daniel's voice rose, sharp enough to startle even himself. The silence that followed felt heavy, as though the house itself were holding its breath.
Adrian clenched his jaw, refusing to back down. "You want me to spend my life doing what you do? Chasing money until it kills me?"
For a heartbeat, Daniel just stared at him, the muscles in his face tightening. He looked like a man who had been hit in a place no one could see.
"Just… don't waste it," Daniel said quietly, his voice rough now, no longer sharp. "Whatever it is you've got in that head—don't waste it."
Adrian hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but pride kept his mouth shut. He slung the backpack fully onto his shoulder and headed for the door.
"I'll be late tonight," Daniel called after him, softer now. "There's a client meeting. Don't wait for me for dinner."
"Yeah," Adrian muttered, not turning back.
The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
The walk to school felt strange that morning. Spring air hung cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain-soaked asphalt from last night's storm. Birds chirped from telephone wires, oblivious to the weight pressing down on Adrian's chest. He tried to shake off the conversation, bury it under thoughts of college applications and the thrill of decoding the S&P 500's recent moves.
But something lingered—his father's voice, not angry this time, just… tired.
When Adrian reached the corner, he glanced back at the house, its windows reflecting the pale light. He had no way of knowing it would be the last morning he'd ever see his father at that table, papers spread out like a battlefield.
By nightfall, the world would fracture like glass under a hammer.