August 8th, 2026
Charlestown, South Carolina - 12:32 PM
South Carolina. A humid afternoon bathed the quiet city of Charlestown in a golden haze.
Ian adjusted the brim of his black cap as he stepped out of Mathilda's old pickup truck.
The local supermarket's neon sign flickered slightly, and even that felt alien to him. He sighed, pulling the grocery list from his pocket and making his way inside.
As he pushed the cart forward, fluorescent lights hummed above, and the cool air conditioning wrapped around him like an unfamiliar embrace.
Aisle after aisle, he moved silently, scanning the shelves, searching for specific brands Mathilda requested - beans, milk, eggs, bread, detergent. Simple things. Mundane things.
And yet… everything felt off.
Too many colors. Too many loud conversations. Too many white faces. Too many American habits. He hadn't realized just how deeply Japan had molded him - its order, its politeness, its silence.
Here, people laughed with their mouths wide open. They bumped into you without bowing. They made eye contact longer than they should.
His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the shopping cart tighter.
"Focus, Ian. You're just buying groceries."
Twenty minutes later, he stood in line, head low, hood partially drawn.
He watched the conveyor belt slowly move, his hands mechanically placing cans and cartons on it. He felt a little less anxious now, knowing he'd be out of here soon.
"…Holy shit."
Ian blinked.
"You - wait. That you, Ian? Ian Everhart?"
He looked up, brow furrowed. The cashier - a man in his early thirties with a stubbled jaw and gleaming hazel eyes - was staring at him like he'd seen a ghost.
"It's me. Ricky. Ricky Nunez." He tapped his nametag. "We grew up together at St. Evelyn's Home for Children. Remember?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Ian's eyes widened. "Oh my God... Ricky?"
"Hell yeah!" Ricky laughed. "Holy crap, man. I didn't recognize you at first - guess we both grew up ugly and got hot, huh?"
Ian chuckled softly. "Speak for yourself."
Once Ian had paid and loaded up his paper bags, the two walked out of the store together, laughing like they were boys again.
They settled outside by a side bench, where the buzz of neon lights flickered above.
Ricky popped open two canned liquors and handed one to Ian. "To surviving that hellhole orphanage," he said with a grin.
Ian raised the can. "To surviving."
A long sip. A deep breath.
"So," Ricky asked casually, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "what keeps you busy now?"
Ian sighed, looking up at the pink-and-purple dusk skies. "Not much. Just visiting the old orphanage. Me and Ellie."
"Ellie? Ellie Park?" Ricky's face lit up. "Shit, she still kickin'? How is she?"
Ian smiled. "Still loud. Still sharp. She's... trying. Helping the new kids."
"That's Ellie," Ricky said fondly. "Always had a bigger heart than the rest of us combined."
They both fell silent for a moment, sipping their drinks and watching cars roll past.
Then Ian asked the question that had been itching in the back of his mind.
"…Victoria. Have you heard anything about her lately?"
Ricky whistled. "Man, VictoriaEverhart. That name's fire now. The queen of Hollywood herself. You really haven't kept up with her?"
Ian shook his head.
"Well," Ricky leaned back, scratching his chin. "Last I heard, she bought a mega estate in the Hollywood Hills. Crazy expensive. Gated, with security that could scare off the damn Avengers."
"Nice," Ian muttered.
"But…" Ricky's voice lowered.
Ian turned toward him, interested. "But what?"
Ricky leaned in slightly. "There's a rumor going around. Wild stuff."
Ian arched an eyebrow.
Ricky continued. "Supposedly, she didn't buy that place for herself. Or her boyfriend. Not even her family."
Ian's gaze narrowed. "She has a boyfriend?"
"Yeah. Some famous DJ from South Africa. Met him once when Victoria brought him to the orphanage last year. Chill dude. Talented. People like him."
Ian just gave a small, unreadable smile.
"But back to the rumor," Ricky said, lowering his voice further. "People say she bought that mansion… for someonefromherpast."
Ian tensed slightly. "Someone from the past? Like who?"
"That's the thing," Ricky replied, tapping the side of his can. "Nobody knows. But there was this obsessed fan, right? Broke into the estate. Total nutcase. Got arrested soon after."
Ian leaned in. "And?"
"Well… according to the dude, before the security caught him, he managed to sneak into one of the back halls. Said the place gave him chills. Every wall - everywall - was covered with framed photos."
Ian's pulse quickened. "Photos of who?"
Ricky shrugged and stared at him for a moment. "Don't know. But he said it was the same guy. Over and over. Candids. Polaroids. Zoomed-in shots. Old ones. Recent ones. All of him."
Ian's voice dropped to a whisper. "…Who was he?"
Ricky just looked at him.
And in that long, wordless gaze, Ian already knew the answer. But he's definitely unsure.
He drained the last of his drink. "That's… insane."
Ricky chuckled nervously. "Hey, people fall in love. But that's obsession. If it's true."
Ian stood up. "Yeah. If it's true."
But even as he walked back toward the pickup truck, the bag of groceries in hand, that rumor clung to him like smoke in his lungs.
Because if it was true… then Victoria hadn't just held on to the past.
She had builtashrinetoit.
And the man in every photo… might have been him.
"Might"
If he was on that many photos. What's the point? What was Victoria's play?
She bought an expensive house. Attached many photos of him on the walls. And what?
It was..uncanny and lunacy.
He could be mistaken. The man on the photo could be someone.
The late afternoon sun bore down on the asphalt highway like a merciless spotlight. Ian adjusted the mirror inside Mathilda's old pick-up truck and started the engine with a grumble and sputter.
The air was thick with southern humidity, and sweat clung to his neck like a second skin. He wiped it away with one of the tissues he'd stuffed into the glove compartment earlier.
The AC barely worked.
"Welcome back to America" he muttered under his breath, his mind still caught in the strange haze from earlier.
The supermarket run had turned into a reunion with a piece of his past - Ricky Nunez.
It was surreal. And now, as the tires spun and the truck hummed along the highway, Ian couldn't stop thinking about what Ricky had told him.
A massive estate in LA. Bought by Victoria. Not for herself. Not for her family. Not for her DJ boyfriend. But for "someone in her past."
Him?
No. That was impossible. Victoria had moved on. She was a global icon now. He was just Ian Everhart - the quiet, forgotten boy from St. Evelyn's Home for Children and the discarded son of the Everhart family. A face buried in her memory, surely.
His brows furrowed. He couldn't shake the image of the pictures - every wall covered with images of the same man. That was the story, anyway. But if there was even a fraction of truth to it...
BAM!
The truck jolted violently forward, metal screeching and tires scraping against the road. Ian's heart lurched.
The groceries bounced in the backseat. He gripped the wheel, barely keeping control as he pulled over to the side of the highway.
"ASSHOLE!" a male voice bellowed from behind him.
Ian looked through the rearview mirror. A gleaming black Rolls Royce came to a stop just a few feet behind him. The luxury vehicle practically shimmered under the sun, stark against the dust-streaked pick-up truck. Then, its driver's door opened.
A tall man stepped out.
He was handsome, well-built, wearing a tight designer shirt, ripped jeans, and expensive gold chains. His skin had a golden hue, his accent undeniably South African. Ian noticed the outrage in the man's gait before he even spoke.
"Get the hell out of that piece of shit truck!" the man barked.
Ian stepped out slowly, holding his hands up, his palms sticky with sweat. "Sorry. I didn't check my mir -"
CRACK!
A punch landed square on Ian's cheek. He stumbled back, dazed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"You scratched my Royce, you rat bastard!" the man snarled, towering over him. "You and your rust bucket shouldn't even be on the damn road!"
Ian wiped the blood off with the back of his hand. "I said I was sorry," he muttered.
"Oh, sorry doesn't fix this paint job, you backwater hick!"
Ian's breath slowed. The man continued hurling insults, arms waving, voice rising. And then -
Ian has had enough.
"You know," Ian said, his voice calm and almost amused, "for someone driving a car that expensive, you sure throw tantrums like a spoiled high schooler."
The South African's face turned a shade of red Ian didn't think was humanly possible. "What did you just say?" he hissed.
He lunged again, this time with a fist aimed straight for Ian's face.
But Ian was ready.
He caught the man's wrist mid-air, gripping tightly. The man's eyes widened in disbelief.
Before he could react, Ian twisted his arm and kicked at the back of his knee, forcing him down. With one swift movement, Ian pressed his forearm against the man's throat and pinned him against the side of the truck.
"Belittle my friend's truck again," Ian said coldly, "and I'll snap your neck like a twig."
The man struggled beneath him, caught between surprise and rage, but Ian didn't flinch.
Then -
"Ian?"
A soft, familiar voice broke the tension like glass shattering on concrete.
Ian's head whipped up.
Victoria...
Victoria Everhart stood a few feet away, her expression frozen in disbelief. Her iconic red hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft curls, sunglasses perched on her head, her skin glowing in the dying sunlight. She wore a white summer dress, her figure as graceful as ever, and yet her eyes were glued to the scene before her - him, pressing her boyfriend against a truck.
The man pinned under Ian groaned. "Vic... This psycho's gonna kill me!"
Victoria walked slowly toward them.
"Ian?," she whispered again, as if speaking his name twice might make him real.
Ian's gaze locked with hers. The world muted around them. He slowly loosened his grip and stepped away. The South African man - Jack - coughed and rubbed his throat, scrambling to his feet.
Victoria didn't rush to Jack's side.
Instead, her eyes remained on Ian.
"I…" she began, but the words died on her lips.
Ian wiped his bleeding lip. "I didn't mean to… He rammed me first."
"I know," she replied softly, surprising even herself. "I saw the whole thing."
Jack exploded. "Saw the whole - ? Vic, he just assaulted me!"
Victoria turned to him, suddenly colder. "You hit him first, Jack."
"He dented my car!"
Victoria didn't answer. Her eyes flicked back to Ian.
"It's really you," she said.
Ian gave a short nod. "I'm just here to visit the orphanage."
Jack scoffed. "You know this punk?"
Victoria didn't respond. She just kept staring at Ian.
Jack looked at Victoria, already know the answer. "He's the guy, isn't he? The one special from your past? The one you couldn't forget? The mighty Ian?"
Victoria froze.
Ian blinked. "What?"
Silence.
The air turned electric.