The moment I stepped off the train, the cold slapped me like a long-lost enemy. The breeze didn't just brush past me — it crawled down my spine slowly, like icy fingers tracing every bone. I shivered and rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself, but the cold clung stubbornly, as if it had been waiting for me.
The train ride had been terrible from start to finish. The passengers were unfriendly, the atmosphere stiff, and the seats felt like they were made to punish people. Worst of all was the old man sitting two rows from me. He kept staring at me — not casually or accidentally — but with the kind of look someone gives when they think they've seen you before. His gaze felt heavy, almost accusing. Every time I met his eyes, he didn't look away. He just watched me, as if he knew something I didn't.
I tried ignoring him, but it lingered in my head even after I stepped onto the road.
I stood there quietly, breathing in the cold air, trying to convince myself that coming back here was a good idea. I still remembered the way to my parents' house. Even though I had spent years pretending o at atherwise, the memories never left. But knowing the way doesn't mean wanting to go there. Especially not when the last thing they told me before cutting me off was:
"You are no longer our son."
That sentence had carved itself into my bones.
I knew what I had done back then. I had caused chaos… a lot of it. Enough that the day my mother heard the news, she fainted. I still don't know if it was fear, shame, or disappointment. Honestly, maybe it was all three. My father didn't say anything for days. Then one afternoon, they told me to pack my things.
I can't blame them entirely. I was a mess back then — reckless, wild, and angry at the world for reasons I didn't even understand. But it still hurt. Being disowned by your own parents leaves a wound that air and time never truly heal.
I sighed, pushing the memory aside as I spotted a car approaching in the distance. I raised my hand gently, hoping the driver would stop. To my surprise, he did.
The window rolled down, and the driver leaned a little toward me. I swallowed, unsure.
"Northwood Lane," I said. Even as the words left my mouth, I wasn't sure if going there was the right choice. But the door opened for me, almost welcoming. Almost encouraging.
I got in.
The car was warm — unusually warm — and the contrast against the cold outside wrapped around me like a soft blanket. The door closed, and the vehicle started moving almost immediately. I rested my head against the window. My mind began to drift, playing a soft, sad tune deep inside me — the kind people listen to when they're thinking too much. Another part of my brain was busy trying to make sense of everything happening so fast.
Was this real?
Was I really going back?
My thoughts drifted to my parents. My mother, Mrs. Jamal — gentle, soft-spoken, the kind of woman whose eyes carried warmth no matter how tired she was. My father, Mr. Jamal — calm, steady, a man who believed in dignity even when life gave him none.
But life had been harsh to us. We lived in the downtown slums, scraping through each day. It was in that rough world that I picked up my gangster attitude, rising through the dirt until I became something close to a lord in it. Wren, on the other hand — my brother — was everything they ever wanted. Calm like my father. Kind like my mother. He followed the rules. He behaved. He studied. He grew up to become a detective.
Meanwhile, me?
I was the opposite of everything they valued.
But there was one thing they never knew — it was my money that took them out of the slums. My first major deal, the one where we scammed a government official, had brought in more money than I'd ever seen. Instead of keeping it all, I split it in half and sent a large part to them.
I did it for them. Every dangerous step I took after that — Mina, Luna, Chun — everyone that came into my life only pushed me to work harder, even if the path wasn't clean.
"I did it all for them," I muttered under my breath.
Except… I didn't say it under my breath.
I shouted it.
"Did what for who and why?" the driver asked suddenly, catching me off guard.
My eyes shot to the mirror. He was staring at me through it, eyebrows raised slightly, trying to read my expression.
Wait…
He heard me?
"How did you hear what I was saying?" I asked, leaning forward as if I could see straight into his skull. "Were you reading my mind or what?"
"You were talking really loud, sir," he replied, glancing left, then at the side mirror, then back at the road. He made a left turn casually, as if this conversation wasn't strange at all.
"Oh."
I sank back into my seat. That was all I could say. But inside, panic rose.
Did he hear everything? All of it?
"What… exactly did you hear?" I asked carefully, trying to pick apart his reaction.
Only what mattered, I wanted to add. But I waited.
The driver let a small smile slip — a knowing smile — the kind that could make someone like me clench my fist automatically. Was he mocking me? Was he playing with me? I tightened my hand, ready for anything.
"All I heard," he said calmly, "was 'I did it all for them.'"
I watched him in the mirror. His eyes were honest. Too honest to be lying.
I sighed, letting my head fall back to the window. My mind tried to drift again, but the driver's voice pulled me back.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, still focused on the road.
I thought for a moment, then sat upright. A small, tired smile tugged at my lips.
"How does it feel," I said slowly, "to help someone in the wrong way… and after helping them, they hate you for it but still live off the help you gave?"
His hand froze briefly on the steering wheel.
Then suddenly—
A car swerved directly in front of us.
"Hey—!" the driver gasped.
He twisted the wheel sharply. The car jerked left, then right, dodging the incoming vehicle by inches. My breath caught in my throat. Another car appeared in the next lane, forcing him to spin again. The tires screeched. My heart slammed against my chest like it wanted to escape.
Finally, the driver pulled to the side and parked. Hard.
"We're here," he said, shaking slightly.
I clutched my chest, trying to calm my heartbeat. I looked around. Northwood Lane. We had arrived. I reached into my pocket, pulled out some cash, counted it, and handed it to him. I exhaled loudly, releasing the fear that had been stuck in my chest.
I was about to step out when he called to me.
"Sir."
I paused and looked back at him.
"I just want to tell you… whatever happened in your past, it doesn't have to define you. Just do the right thing now — the thing you know is right."
His words hit harder than I expected. I nodded slowly and stepped out. The cab drove away, disappearing around the corner.
I turned toward Northwood Lane.
The street was beautiful — painfully beautiful. Big houses, perfect lawns, gates that sparkled under the streetlights. Only rich people lived here. Only people with clean hands and calm nights.
I kept walking deeper into the street, not thinking, just moving forward. My legs led me on their own. Soon, I was close to number 707.
I stopped.
There it was.
My parents' house.
Without hesitating, I walked in through the gate. The compound was filled with flowers — my mother's touch. She loved flowers more than anything. She used to say they survived storms better than people.
I moved toward the door. A dog in a cage barked loudly when it saw me, its entire body shaking with alertness. I stared at it for a moment.
Then I stepped onto the doorway, inhaled deeply, and gathered every drop of courage I had left.
Three knocks.
Silence.
I waited.
Nothing.
Strange. The lights were on. Someone had to be inside.
I knocked again — louder this time. Still nothing.
My heart started racing. Not out of fear, but something else — anticipation, maybe. Or dread.
I knocked a third time, faster and louder.
The door flew open.
And before I could even breathe, an old woman appeared — holding something in her hands.
A weapon raised at me.
Her eyes widened, not in recognition — but in suspicion.
Tension filled the air instantly.
I froze.
She froze with her finger placed on the trigger ready to shoot if I move a bone.