"What are you doing here again?" Dranred's voice was cold as his grandfather appeared by the edge of the baseball field, flanked by his ever-loyal aide.
Dranred was in the middle of practice — or perhaps, more truthfully, trying to think. Pitching always helped him clear his mind. With the finals approaching, it was certain now: he would be facing James and Drake's team.
The thought stirred something complex inside him. He was genuinely proud of James. Even though his friend could no longer play, his strategies made their team shine. Back in school, James had been called a basketball genius — captain, strategist, and visionary.
Dranred threw another pitch, hard, clean, precise.
Basketball wasn't really his passion. It was James's dream — one he had taken upon himself to fulfill, as if by winning, he could somehow pay back a debt that no one had asked him to pay.
"You're quite the celebrity now," his grandfather said, his tone laced with mockery. "Do your fans know that your heart still belongs to baseball?"
Dranred didn't answer. He picked up another ball and threw it into the net with more force than necessary.
"Tell me," the old man continued, "what would your adoring fans think if they knew basketball wasn't even your—"
"Is that why you came here?" Dranred cut him off, his voice clipped. "To gossip about my career?"
The old man's expression didn't change. "No. I came for this."
He gestured, and his aide handed him a small brown envelope. Without another word, the old man tossed it at Dranred's feet. The papers scattered — glossy photographs sliding across the grass.
Dranred froze. Slowly, he bent down to pick them up.
The first photo showed him with Rosette at the hospital. Another — the two of them talking through the gate at her house. His breath caught when he saw the next ones: James and Estelle outside the gym after the first game.
Every image felt like a knife.
He clenched the photographs in his hand and looked up at his grandfather, eyes dark with anger.
"Have you been having me followed?" Dranred snapped, his voice low but dangerous.
It was the last thing he needed right now.
"You are the grandson of a senator," his grandfather replied coolly. "And a well-known basketball player. It doesn't look good when you're seen with just anyone."
Dranred's eyes hardened. "How long have you been doing this?"
"That's not important," the old man said, waving a dismissive hand. "What matters is that you're putting our family's name at risk. And of all people, you choose her? That girl—she's the daughter of the officer who—"
"—the officer you had killed?" Dranred cut in sharply, his tone like a blade.
The aide stiffened. "Watch your mouth, young man. You don't speak to your grandfather that way."
Dranred turned a cold glare on him. "And who are you to lecture me?"
"Stop seeing that girl—and her siblings—if you care anything about this family's name," the old man warned.
"Family?" Dranred laughed bitterly. "Do you even know what that word means?"
"Dranred!" the aide barked. "Show some respect—"
Dranred strode toward them, fury burning in his eyes. He stopped just inches away.
"Don't you ever say my name with your filthy mouth," he hissed. "You're nothing but a loyal dog."
He started to walk past, but the aide grabbed his arm. Dranred froze, glanced down at the man's hand, and ripped himself free with a violent jerk.
"Listen to me," the senator said, his voice rising. "If the public learns you've been meeting with people who despise me, what do you think they'll say? That I can't control my own grandson?"
"Control?" Dranred repeated, his voice trembling with rage. "I'm not one of your robots. I'm not your dog. I have a mind of my own!"
"Be careful, boy," the old man said quietly. "You know what I'm capable of."
"Oh, I know," Dranred said, meeting his gaze. "But I'm not the same Dranred you broke ten years ago. Back then, I was weak. I couldn't do anything. But now—" He took a step closer, eyes burning. "Now, if you even think of hurting the people I care about, you'll be facing me."
The old man's lips curled. "Are you threatening me?"
"Why would I threaten you?" Dranred snapped. "But touch them and you'll regret it." He stepped past the two men and disappeared into the house, leaving them staring after him.
"I want to meet that girl," he said blandly.
The aide's fingers tightened around his clipboard. "Sir, that could be—"
"She needs to understand she has no business getting close to my grandson," the senator interrupted, voice ice-cold. "If those three children rekindle ties with him, if Dranred's hatred is used against me, they could become dangerous. I will not allow anyone to conspire to ruin my name."
The aide swallowed. "What would you have me do?"
"If I must silence her as I did her parents, I will," the senator said flatly. Then, as if smoothing his tone for appearances, "But I don't want blood if I can avoid it. Bring her to me. Let me speak to her first."
"You want us to fetch her?" the aide asked, hesitant.
"Yes. Bring her here. Don't hurt her—just bring her. I want her to hear me." The old man's gaze hardened. "And keep an eye on that boy who's been snooping. The lieutenant's son—James. I hear he might reopen the case."
"If he does—"
"He won't topple me," the senator finished for him, the certainty in his voice absolute. "Not while I breathe."
The aide bowed his head and forced a nod. "Understood, Senator."
The old man watched the door close, then turned slowly to his aide. He spoke without heat — the colder the voice, the more dangerous it sounded.
"Bring her to me," he said. "I want to speak with that girl."
The aide hesitated; his throat worked. "Sir, she's the daughter of—"
"I don't care about genealogy," the senator cut in. "She's an irritant. If she's allowed to grow close to my grandson, they'll all conspire. I won't have my name threatened." He tapped a finger on the armrest, steady as a metronome. "Fetch her gently. No harm if it can be avoided. I want her listening, not hurt."
The aide bowed his head. "And Dranred?"
"Dranred is a drifting wind," the senator said, a small, bitter smile. "If left unattended, he blows into other people's fires. Keep an eye on him. If James pokes at the old case… you'll tell me first."
"Understood," the aide said, but his hands trembled. He already pictured the phone calls he would have to make.
"Good," the senator said. Then, softer, almost conversational: "Do not fail me. Not this time."