Puff...
Wisps of smoke curled in the amber glow of the pendant lights, dancing lazily through the air. The room was small but elegant — floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with rich, hardbound books and the faint scent of aged paper. In the center sat a man, built like a monument of war. A crimson scar stretched across his face, echoing a lifetime of battles. His posture was relaxed, yet sharp — a cigar resting between thick fingers, its cherry-red tip pulsing with each inhale.
Ash tapped gently into a glass ashtray beside him.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A knock echoed from the already ajar door.
"Come in," the man said without turning, his voice deep and controlled.
Ken stepped timidly into the room, his eyes fixed on the polished tile floor. His long, red hair fell forward, partly shielding his face.
"What did you do to Oliver?" the man asked, resting the cigar in the ashtray, eyes now fixed on Ken.
"No...thing, sir," Ken muttered, barely audible, a faint stutter betraying his nerves.
Silence. The only sound was the humming of the air conditioner, its steady rhythm filling the void between words.
Then —
"What could he possibly have done? I mean, he's that useless sister of mine's child. Useless as she was."
Mary.
She strode in like a queen without a crown, wrapped in a flowing rose-dyed nightgown that clung to her hourglass figure. Her voice was syrupy sweet, yet every syllable dripped poison. She brushed past Ken with a perfumed breeze and perched herself on the armrest beside the man — Justin.
"Justin, baby," she purred. "Oliver came to me and Miss Angela right when we were closing things out, whining about this boy. I warned you. That woman's curse keeps meddling from the grave. But you never listen."
Her smile thinned as she glanced back at Ken. The sweetness in her voice flattened, exposing steel.
"My sister couldn't just die quietly. She had to leave behind this... unfinished burden."
She stood abruptly, the nightgown swirling around her legs as she brushed past Ken once more — harder this time — and vanished into the hall.
Justin said nothing. He simply picked up the cigar.
Puff...
"Well... at least one of the sisters was normal," he muttered, a dry chuckle escaping him.
Ken stared at him in disbelief.
Justin finally noticed. "Oh, you're still here? You can go."
Ken turned, walking back down the hallway.
His hand lingered on the doorknob.
The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel through memory. A breath. A pause. Then the world resumed its weight.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock above his bed marked the hour.
"Midnight already?" he whispered.
He slumped onto the bed, then reached for a small photo frame on the nightstand.
"Mom..."
Tears welled up, blurring the faces in the photo: his mother, smiling; Justin beside her, young and bright-eyed; Ken, just a child, laughing.
He clutched the frame to his chest.
"We write the direction of our lives... right, Mom?"
The silence answered.
"Then how do I change the cursed ink Lucifer gave me for something I can use? How do I write my own damn story with a broken pen and someone else's guilt?"
He buried his face into his pillow, a muffled cry escaping. The tears came fast, choking his breath. The photo frame trembled in his hands.
His sobs slowly faded into hiccups, then silence.
Ken had fallen asleep.
Screech.
Justin opened the door to Ken's room. The hallway light spilled in behind him.
"Tonight was a record, wouldn't you say, Sasha?"
He stepped softly to the bed and sat beside his son. Ken didn't stir.
"He'll awaken soon. His seventeenth birthday's next month. Late bloomer... just like you. I remember the day your divine calling came. The way you smiled... damn, I still see it."
He reached out and gently ran a hand through Ken's hair.
"I don't know why I'm doing this either. Why I married Mary. Why I treat him like a stranger by day and ache for him by night. Why I gave up on the district. On the people. Why I still see you here, even knowing you're gone. Why I'm not dead yet."
His voice cracked.
He took the frame from Ken's sleeping hands.
"Look at him, Sasha... I did this. I made him cry."
A tear slid down his scarred cheek.
He placed the frame back, switched off the light, and walked to the door.
The room dimmed to darkness.
The door clicked softly behind him.