The hospital kept us there for another two hours. When they finally let us go, the sperm donor carried us out to a '78 Hillman Avenger—worn vinyl, old gasoline stink, and an engine that started up like it was doing us a favor. That was when the trip actually began.
The town was rural, leaning poor. It wasn't the Middle Ages, thank God, but it sure as hell wasn't the future either. Low houses. Half-busted roads. Crooked fences. The kind of place where everyone said hi like they knew you… and at the same time nobody knew jack shit.
The car rolled on without any drama. If I hadn't known we were going "somewhere," I would've missed the turn completely. No epic entrance. Just some random turnoff. A narrower road. And that was it. The town fell behind us like it had never existed.
The forest showed up without asking permission.
First scattered trees. Then packed shadows. The air turned damp. Black soil. Rotting leaves. And I got sleepy—not normal I'm tired sleepy. Baby-sleepy. Chemical. Mandatory. Like my own body had decided to betray me.
I tried to keep my eyes open. Falling asleep in new territory meant trusting the world. And the world was a repeat-offender bastard.
The house appeared between the trees like something that didn't want to be found.
From the outside it looked small, low, one floor. Dark stone. Uneven windows that didn't reflect anything useful. If you weren't looking for it, you'd drive right past and keep living your life.
I stared at it with my brain half shut down. And still, an idea lodged itself in me like a splinter: something about the silhouette didn't add up. I let it go and blamed the sleep.
The engine died. The forest swallowed the sound.
The silence lasted a second. Just one. And then the silence started to pulse.
At first I mistook it for my own chest. That weird pressure that crawled up when you didn't know the ground and your body wanted you in bed—docile, shut off. But the pulse didn't come from me. It came from outside. It repeated the same way every time. Mechanical. Each thump just as deep as the last.
They carried me in. The door creaked. I entered with half my mind asleep and the other half taking notes. Old damp. Clothes drying. A dirty heat stuck to the walls.
The pulse kept going.
Closer now.
Like the house had a hidden heart behind the plaster.
And then the silence stopped being forest-silence. It turned into something else. A thud under the floor. A vibration in my teeth. Music you didn't hear—you felt it.
The light changed without warning. Not because someone hit a switch. Because my eyes decided they were in a different room. Red. Neon leaking through a crack.
Cigarette smoke.
Leather.
Whiskey.
I knew that pulse. I'd built empires on top of it.
And still, for a couple seconds, I swore I was still in the woods.
I was sitting. I didn't remember sitting down, but there I was. The leather couch stuck to my back—warm, slick. Whiskey in my hand. The ice already half melted. How long had I been there?
Tommy stood to my right. Still as always. Black notebook in one hand. Keys in the other. He didn't say anything. He never said anything until I spoke first.
Marcus sat across from me. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He watched me like he was waiting for something.
The club's bass hammered beneath us. Low. Constant. Like a second heart.
I put the notebook on the table.
Old. Worn. Corners bent. Coffee stains on the cover. Inside were the numbers from the first plan. Little doodles done with stolen pens. Territories circled with crooked rings. Names crossed out. Dreams of two kids who had nothing.
Marcus looked at the notebook. His jaw tightened.
Tommy looked too. He reached out like he was going to touch it. Stopped halfway.
"It's been eighteen years since we started this," I said.
Marcus nodded slowly.
"And today it ended," I added.
The air shifted. Not dramatic. It just… got one degree colder.
Marcus leaned back. Folded his arms.
"What did she tell you today?"
"Who?"
"Joanne." He said the name like he was spitting it out. "Every time you come back from those meetings, you're different."
"It had nothing to do with her."
"Bullshit." Marcus jerked his chin at the notebook. "We did that. We. Not her. And now you came in with this 'I'm retiring' crap."
"It wasn't crap. It was a fact."
Tommy moved. Just a little. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Like he was getting set for something.
"Thirty percent got cut today," I said. "The rest was yours. The clean funds, the contacts, the routes. All of it. I left it in good hands."
Marcus didn't answer right away. He just stared at me. Long. Like he was measuring something.
"And the trafficking?" he asked, finally.
"It was over."
Silence.
The bass kept thumping. But now it sounded slower. Heavier.
"That wasn't your call," Marcus said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"It was my call. And it was final."
Marcus leaned forward again.
"You know what happens if we cut that? You know how many deals snap? How many enemies come down on us?"
"I knew."
"No, you didn't." Marcus shook his head. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be saying this bullshit."
I looked at Tommy. Waiting for him to say something. Back me up. Do anything.
Tommy avoided my eyes.
"She's making you soft," Marcus said. "I told you before. You didn't listen."
"I wasn't soft. I was tired."
"Same thing."
I grabbed the notebook and lifted it up.
"We started with this. With a plan. With rules. And now we're moving girls like they're beer crates. That was never the plan."
Marcus smiled. But there was no humor in it.
"The plan was survival. And we survived. But you changed. And a leader who changes is a leader who puts us in danger."
"I wasn't putting you in danger. I was handing you everything we built."
"No." Marcus stood. "You were leaving us holding a war and you weren't here to cover it."
I stood too.
Or tried to.
My legs didn't answer right away. The whiskey weighed in my hand like it was filled with lead. The watch on my wrist felt tight.
Marcus took a step closer.
"Was it final?"
"Yes."
Tommy moved again. This time it wasn't subtle. He placed himself near the door. Blocking it without making it obvious.
Something didn't add up.
I looked down at the notebook in my hand. The pages were blurry. Like I was seeing them through dirty water.
The bass stopped sounding like bass. It sounded like a heartbeat. Like something alive under the floor.
The red ceiling light flickered.
"Marcus—"
He raised a hand.
There was a gun.
I didn't remember seeing it before.
"Nothing personal, boss."
Tommy stayed standing. Motionless. Like he wasn't real. Like a badly painted mannequin.
I tried to move. To shout. To do something.
Nothing.
The shot sounded muffled. Far away. Like something cracking underwater.
And then I heard something else.
A cry.
Sharp. Wrong. Out of place.
Growing.
The red light blew out into a sick yellow. The walls started melting. The leather under my hands turned rough. Cheap fabric.
The whiskey smell vanished.
It smelled like damp. Old wood. Forest.
The crying didn't stop.
I opened my eyes—for real this time. No backrooms. No whiskey. No Marcus pointing a gun that shouldn't exist.
Just darkness. Splintered wood above. Old damp and clothes drying near the fire.
And that damn crying.
The twin—the little screamer—was in the same crib as me. We had plenty of room, but the bastard cried like someone was ripping his soul out on a payment plan.
I tried to move. I wanted to tap him. Something minimal. A tactical shut up.
Nothing.
No arms. No legs. No anything. Just an awake brain trapped in a warm, useless sack.
I breathed deep. Focused all my will into my right fist.
It moved. One centimeter.
Amazing. I was practically ready to start an empire.
The crying got louder. Like he sensed I was awake and decided to compete for attention.
Footsteps. Soft. Approaching.
A shadow leaned over the crib. The face of the woman who'd birthed us appeared in my field of view—messy black hair, tired green eyes. Elora, if I remembered right.
Shit.
Yeah, she was pretty.
She picked up the screamer first.
"Shh, shh, Simon," she murmured, rocking him against her chest. "Mum's here."
So that was what it felt like. Having someone who took care of you. Who came when you cried. Who didn't leave you alone in the dark.
I watched them with something strange twisting inside me. It wasn't envy. It was worse. Something without a name.
Elora looked down at me.
"Luca's awake too," she said, her voice softer. "Are you hungry, my love?"
I hadn't realized it until she said it, but yeah. I was hungry. Deep hungry. Hollow hungry. The kind that came from some primitive corner of the brain that didn't understand dignity or pride.
I tried to speak. Babble came out.
I tried to nod. My head moved half a centimeter.
I tried to raise my arms. Nothing.
This was humiliating.
But she understood. Of course she did. She finished calming Simon, laid him back down, and lifted me.
She held me carefully. Settled me against her chest. Sat on a wooden chair by the window.
And then I saw what was coming.
Oh, no.
She wouldn't.
Would she?
She opened her blouse.
Oh, shit. She would.
I watched in slow motion as my face got closer and closer. The breast was… well. Pink. Real. And part of me—the old part, the London part—screamed that this was weird, that she was my mother, that there were lines you didn't cross even in a second life.
But hunger didn't understand lines.
And breast milk smelled good.
Too good.
Screw it.
I gave up.
And when I finally got there—when instinct beat embarrassment—I had to admit it: it was delicious.
Did I feel bad? No.Was I ashamed? Maybe.Would I do it again? Absolutely.
No regrets.
Days passed. I didn't know how many. Time stopped meaning anything because my body only did two things: sleep and shit.
But every so often, without fail, Simon cried. And that saved me, because when he cried, Elora came. And when she came, she fed me too.
Me? I had to cry as well. But only when it was necessary. When I felt my sphincter let go and leave a "gift." If it stayed there, it scalded me. Hurt like hell. I didn't have a choice.
During that time I learned something important: I lived in a "together" family.
Gregory—my sperm donor—was never around. He didn't respond to Simon's cries or mine. I saw him only three times on different days. I didn't know if he was busy or if he straight-up didn't live in the house.
The first time I saw him up close, his eyes surprised me. Dark brown. Deep. Too deep for someone who did… whatever the hell he did.
That night I heard the click. Quiet. Metal touching metal with patience. Then the groan of old wood under a weight that didn't hesitate.
Footsteps going up.
Footsteps going up.
It felt stupid to fixate on that. But here was the problem: in that house, the only thing that ever "went up" was the staircase that went down. The one they didn't let us near.
Gregory appeared in the doorway. He entered the room. Stood in front of our crib for several minutes. Just staring.
In the moonlight seeping through the window, I saw a small scar on his neck, almost hidden by his shirt collar. His hands smelled like cigarette smoke and something metallic I couldn't place.
At four months, I finally had full control of my body.
I could decide when to go. I could say full words. I could move freely inside the crib.
And I could crawl.
Finally, damn it.
Surprisingly, Simon followed not long after. A few days later he was sitting up on his own. Crawling. Copying every move I made.
That was weird.
If I pointed at something, he pointed too. If I tried to reach an object, he did the same.
I started communicating with him through movement and looks. It felt strange. Like he understood me. And, weirdly enough, I understood him too. Or I thought I did.
For example: I pointed at a toy and made a weird sound. After a while, he clumsily handed me that same toy.
This could be useful.
I looked at Simon and nodded, testing him.
I started crying. Simon followed after.
Elora came soon to see what was wrong. I clumsily pointed at the floor so she'd take me out of the crib.
Honestly, I could've done it myself. I was just lazy. It wasn't like it was far or I was scared to try. I wasn't afraid of anything. Pfft.
Simon copied me, pointing at the floor. Mimicking.
Elora got it fast. She took us out. Put us on a large rug that looked like animal hide. Tossed a few baby toys down.
And from there, I started exploring the house whenever she wasn't watching.
The layout was simple.
Our room was at the very back. Like they'd parked us there so we wouldn't be in the way. You came out and had two doors: one on each side.
The first door on the right was the bathroom. I figured it out because Elora took us there every time it was bathroom time.
On the left was my parents' room.
Two more months flew by.
By the sixth, Elora let us wander more. I took advantage. Confirmed the rest of the map.
The hallway opened into a common area that was living room, dining room, and kitchen all mashed together. Poverty, efficiently managed: one room for everything. The front door was there too. I saw it.
I memorized it.
There was an outside. An exit route.
And then I saw the stairs.
They were all the way to the left, before the kitchen. They weren't pretty. Didn't match anything. They looked forced on, like someone had said I need to go down and didn't give a damn about the rest.
Different wood. Weird angle. That improvised add-on feeling. But solid.
Too solid for something that careless.
They had a baby-proof lock. A metal gate with a latch.
I couldn't see what was down there.
But something pulled.
It wasn't curiosity. It was something else. Like when you know someone is watching you even if you can't see them. Or when you step into territory that isn't yours and your body screams it before your brain processes a damn thing.
That.
I crawled closer. Gripped the bars.
Simon followed—like always—but when he reached the gate, he stopped dead.
Just stayed there. Staring. Still.
Then he backed away.
No crying. No drama. He just left.
Like something told him, nah, kid, not here.
I didn't back away.
I stared into the darkness swallowing the steps. The air coming up smelled wrong. Damp, yeah. But also something else. Old. Metallic. Like rusted coins.
The pull stayed. Constant. Patient.
Like a bastard who already knew I was coming back.