The walls of the Osborn estate felt less like a stranger's home and more like a long-lost embrace for Billy.
After a stormy reunion that left him raw and vulnerable, he had been welcomed back, though the warmth was tempered with caution.
Not everyone had found their voice, and Arthur's silence loomed over him like an impending thunderstorm.
That morning, Billy awoke not to the harsh chill of a cold floor or the blaring alarms of factory life but to the feather-soft luxury of a bed crafted from wealth.
Silk sheets enveloped him like clouds, while the air in his spacious room was infused with cedarwood and lavender.
He luxuriated in a marble-tiled bathroom three times larger than the dingy space he had rented for months.
Hot water flowed endlessly from golden faucets shaped like lion heads, washing away not just grime but also months of shame and exhaustion.
