Kian ran.
He didn't run to anywhere. He ran from.
He ran from the echo of his chair crashing on the antique hardwood. He ran from the look of shocked, wounded betrayal on his brother's face. He ran from his mother's terrified gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.
Most of all, he ran from the sound of his grandfather's voice. The calm, quiet, surgical precision of it.
Hypocrite.
His son.
Deeply disappointed.
The words were a physical engine, propelling him forward. His feet slammed on the white gravel of the driveway, his lungs already burning. He hit the pavement of the street and just ran, a black-hoodied ghost fleeing a house of mirrors, his own reflection chasing him.
He was a hypocrite. He was his father's son.
He ran until the manicured lawns of the Vance estate gave way to the merely wealthy suburbs, and then to the standard, tidy streets of the town proper. He ran until his lungs were two bags of fire, until his side was a knot of searing pain, and until his legs felt like they were filled with wet sand.
The physical pain was a relief. It was a loud, screaming static that, for a few precious moments, drowned out the other voice. The voice that said you failed.
He didn't know how long he'd been running. An hour. Maybe more. He finally collapsed onto a wooden park bench, miles from his home, in a small, unremarkable green space he didn't even recognize. It was just… a place. Anonymous.
He sat there, his head in his hands, his breath coming in ragged, ugly gasps.
He was shattered.
His grandfather knew. The one person in the world whose respect he'd desperately, silently, craved. The one person he'd always felt a connection with. And that person had seen him. He had seen all of him.
He hadn't just seen the lie. He had understood the lie. He had seen Kian's secret, obsessive game-watching. He had seen Kian's secret, shameful coaching. And he had judged it. He had judged it, and found it to be exactly the thing Kian feared most.
You are exactly his son.
It was a life sentence.
He had spent his entire life building a fortress of ice and indifference, all to prove he was nothing like the man who had abandoned them. And in one, calm, brunch-time conversation, his grandfather had taken a sledgehammer to the foundation.
He had revealed that the fortress was a sham. That Kian wasn't different from his father. He was just a cowardly version. His father had been brave enough to chase his passion, to abandon his family for it. Kian was just hypocritical enough to hide his, pretending to hate it while secretly, shamefully, indulging it.
He sat on the bench. The sun began to dip, the day turning from bright afternoon to a cooler, dimmer gold. He just… sat. He was hollow.
"He's not answering. Again."
Silas stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the 'call' button for the twentieth time. The screen showed a long, blue-bubbled list of one-sided desperation.
Dude?
Kian?
Seriously, man, I'm sorry. I was just kidding.
Leo just texted me, are you okay?
Kian, answer your phone.
Dude. This isn't funny.
He was sitting in his usual booth at "The Comic Heap," but he wasn't reading. Ren was across from him, sipping a soda, his own phone out on the table.
"I'm… I'm a terrible friend," Silas said, his voice miserable. He dropped his phone onto the table. "It's my fault. The 'Coach Kian' comment. I… I saw his face. I knew I'd screwed up. And then the Sienna thing… he... he ran from the cafeteria. And now… he's just... gone."
Ren pushed his glasses up. He was typing. "The probability of our one comment being the sole catalyst is low. The variable is… complex."
"What are you even doing?" Silas asked, annoyed.
"Collecting data," Ren said. He turned his phone around. It was a map. A single blue dot pulsed in the middle of a green splotch. "His 'Find My' location has been stationary for… ninety-three minutes. In… Westfield Park."
Silas stared. "You… you're tracking him?"
"I… I always track him," Ren said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "His… his behavioral patterns are erratic. It's… prudent. And he never… goes… to Westfield. That's… that's miles… from… from his route."
Silas was already standing up, grabbing his bag. "Let's go."
"We are going," Ren said, standing with him. "But, Silas."
"What?"
"This... this is not a 'Sienna James' problem. This... this is not a 'Coach Kian' problem. His… his grandfather… called… my father."
Silas froze. "He what?"
"Mr. Vance. He called... my house," Ren said, his voice low, his analytical calm clearly rattled. "He asked… if I... knew... where Kian was. He said Kian had... 'left the house'… and was… 'not in a good state.' Silas... Mr. Vance sounded… scared. This… this is not... a game."
Silas's blood ran cold. He'd never, ever heard of the Vance family ever discussing their private business. For Arthur Vance to call…
"Let's go," Silas said, his voice now tight with a real, profound fear. "Let's go now."
Kian heard their voices before he saw them.
"I told you he'd be here. The dot is right here."
"Ren, 'the dot' could be his bag... he could be... oh. Crap. There he is."
Kian looked up, his eyes dull. Silas and Ren were standing on the sidewalk, looking at him. His other family. His friends. He tensed, his body coiling, his walls trying to re-form. He was ready for more accusations. More shame. More disappointment.
"Go away," he said. His voice was a dead, empty croak.
Silas, for the first time in his life, ignored a direct order from Kian. He just walked over, his face a mask of genuine, un-joking concern. Ren followed.
"Dude," Silas said, standing in front of him. "You… you look like… hell."
"I'm fine," Kian lied.
"You are statistically... the opposite... of 'fine'," Ren said, standing to the side. "You… you are… three standard deviations… from… from your baseline."
"What do you want?" Kian asked, his voice low, a growl.
"We… we came… to find you," Silas said, his voice soft. He looked… miserable. "Kian… man… I am so… so… sorry. About… about yesterday. The… the 'Coach' thing. I… I'm such… an idiot. I… I know… you hate… all... that... stuff. I... I broke the contract. I... I get it if you... if you hate me..."
Kian just… stared at him. He was exhausted. He was too raw to be the "Ice-Man." He was too tired to fight.
"It… it wasn't… you, Silas," Kian whispered.
Silas and Ren exchanged a look. This was new.
"It… it wasn't?" Silas asked. "But… you… you ran…"
"I… I ran… today," Kian said, his voice broken. He looked away, at the dying, orange sun. "From… from brunch."
"From… brunch?" Silas repeated, his voice full of disbelief. "You… you ran... eight miles... because... of... pancakes?"
"My… my grandfather," Kian said, the words tasting like poison. "He… he knows."
Silas's face was a blank mask of confusion. "Knows… what? That… that you hate pancakes?"
"He knows," Kian said, his voice cracking, "about the quarry."
Silas and Ren froze. They understood. This was not a secret. This was Kian's core.
"He… he told… everyone," Kian whispered. "My… my mom. My… brother. He… he knows… I… I watched... Leo's game. He… he called me… a hypocrite. He… he said…"
Kian couldn't finish. He couldn't say the words.
"He said… I was just like him."
The last three words were almost inaudible, a breath of pure, agonizing shame.
Silas… got it. In one, brilliant flash, he understood. This wasn't about basketball. This wasn't about Sienna. This was about Kian's father.
Silas's face, which had been so full of guilt, changed. The joker was gone. The apologetic friend was gone. He just… understood. He looked at his broken, brilliant, idiot friend.
And he sat down. He sat down on the bench next to Kian. Not too close. Just… there. A physical presence.
"Well," Silas said, his voice surprisingly firm. "That's... that's stupid."
Kian's head snapped around, his eyes wide, shocked. "What?"
"It's stupid," Silas repeated, his voice gaining confidence. "Your… your grandpa… is wrong. He… he may be… a... a genius… or whatever… but… but that… conclusion... is stupid."
Ren, seeing his opening, sat on the other side of Kian. He was the other anchor. "Logically," Ren said, his voice crisp, "the premise... is flawed. Your father… he abandoned… his family… for his career. You… you are sacrificing… your time… and… and your emotional energy... to help... a group... of fatherless kids."
Kian was just… staring… at them. His… his mind… it couldn't... compute… this… this new data.
"The… the actions… are diametrically opposed," Ren concluded.
"Yeah!" Silas said, picking up steam. "What he said! You're not... your dad, Kian. Your… your dad… is an asshole... who left. You… you're also… kind of... an asshole..."
Kian actually let out a tiny, sharp, broken puff of air. It was almost a laugh.
"...but you're our asshole!" Silas said, a small smile on his face. "And… and you're here. You… you showed up… for those kids. You… you showed up… for Leo… with that… that scouting report… he still... won't shut up about."
Kian looked at him, confused. "How… how do you... know... about that?"
"Dude, everyone knows!" Silas said, his voice returning to its normal, exasperated state. "He… he told… Sam… who… who told… the entire team. He… he keeps... calling... you... his... 'secret weapon'. The... the whole team... thinks... you're... some... shadowy... basketball... oracle. It's... it's super weird."
Kian was… reeling. Leo… he bragged… about him?
"The… the evidence… suggests… your... grandfather... is wrong," Ren said, his voice a final, logical full stop. "His… his conclusion… was emotional. It… it wasn't... logical. You… you are not… him."
Kian… just… sat there. Between his two friends.
He let the words sink in. Diametrically opposed. Secret weapon. You are not him.
He… he had been so alone… in his shame. He had never… once… thought… of it… like that.
That his coaching… wasn't hypocrisy. It was penance. It wasn't him being his father. It was him… being… the opposite of his father.
Silas finally stood up, his mission accomplished. "So. Your grandpa… is mad. Your family… is weird. What else is new? It's… it's Saturday. We… we haven't… eaten... since breakfast. And… and I... am done... letting... you... be... all... emo... on this... bench. Let's… let's go."
Silas… he held out his hand. A direct, open, un-Kian-like gesture.
Kian stared at his hand.
"C'mon, Coach," Silas said, his voice soft, but without a trace of a joke. He used the word. But he... he changed it. It wasn't an insult. It was... a name. It was... acceptance. "We… we gotta... go... talk... about... comics. The... the world... is... still... ending... in... three different multiverses. We're... we're needed."
Kian looked at Silas. He looked at Ren.
He didn't… take… Silas's hand.
He just… stood up. On his own.
"You're… you're both… idiots," Kian said, his voice rough.
Silas beamed. The real Silas was back. "Yeah. We know. C'mon. My… my mom… is probably... freaking out... 'cause your grandpa... called. Let's… let's go... get food. I'm… I'm buying."
Kian… nodded. He… he fell into step… between… them.
He wasn't fixed. He was… he was miles… from fixed. His… his family… was a wreck. His… his life… was a mess.
But… he looked… at the two idiots… on either side... of him.
He… he wasn't… alone.
He… he had… his team.