Discipline of the Body -
Ethan's vow on that rain-soaked night didn't stay abstract for long. His father believed in intellect, but Ethan knew that knowledge alone wasn't enough. He needed to control his body with the same mastery he commanded over words.
So he threw himself deeper into martial arts.
At seven, he had begun Taekwondo as an after-school hobby, more for discipline than combat. By twelve, it had become an obsession. Ethan trained six days a week, his thin frame hardening under relentless drills. His master was merciless—sharpening every kick, every strike, every stance until precision was instinct.
By fourteen, Ethan held the highest belt possible, but he didn't stop. He added Krav Maga, brutal and efficient, learning how to disarm knives and guns with movements honed to muscle memory. Then came boxing, parkour, and eventually more obscure, ancient martial arts taught by specialists his father discreetly arranged through contacts.
"Perfection is repetition," his instructors said, echoing his father's creed. Ethan repeated until repetition became reflex.
It wasn't only about fighting. Combat was a study of people—of stress, fear, aggression. Ethan learned to read body language: the twitch of a shoulder before a strike, the flicker of fear in the eyes of an opponent about to fold.
By sixteen, he wasn't just trained—he was formidable. Sparring partners older and larger found themselves outmatched by his precision and calm ruthlessness. He didn't boast. He didn't need to. His body carried quiet authority.
The Observer -
If martial arts gave Ethan control of his body, his natural gift for observation gave him mastery of others.
At galas, while his parents networked, Ethan entertained himself by reading lips across the room. It began as curiosity but grew into a dangerous skill. He saw the hypocrisy in politicians' smiles, the whispered scandals between investors, the quiet affairs hidden in stolen glances.
Once, at fourteen, he overheard a heated whisper between two businessmen, one accusing the other of embezzlement. Days later, the papers confirmed a federal investigation. Ethan had known before the world did.
Another time, at fifteen, he was able to stop a shoplifter in a boutique. He'd spotted the way the man lingered near exits, the nervous shuffle of his hands, the bulge in his jacket. Ethan calmly walked up and said, "You should put that back before the manager notices." The man froze, muttered something unintelligible, and fled.
It was thrilling—and sobering. Information was power, and Ethan wielded it quietly, never boasting to peers. His parents noticed, though.
"You don't just see, Ethan," Isabelle told him one evening. "You understand. That is rarer than genius."
Victor nodded, adding, "Understanding is the first step to control."
Isolation and Expectation -
Despite his talents, Ethan was not universally admired. His suits and intellect set him apart. Classmates mocked him as arrogant, though Ethan rarely retaliated with more than a glance or a cutting observation delivered in flawless Italian.
He didn't have many friends. He had allies—teachers who respected his brilliance, instructors who admired his discipline—but not companions. At times, he envied the boys who laughed over pizza in hoodies. But then he remembered the knife in the rain, the helplessness he'd sworn never to feel again, and he pushed envy aside.
Loneliness became another crucible. Solitude gave him time to hone his skills—hours at the piano, nights translating Latin texts, mornings sparring until sweat soaked his tailored training clothes.
He learned to find comfort not in people, but in purpose.
The Piano and the Sword -
Music remained his refuge. The piano was discipline, the violin was passion, the guitar was quiet rebellion. His fingers danced across keys and strings with mastery, each note sharpened by endless practice.
It wasn't just performance—it was expression. Ethan rarely voiced his feelings, but his compositions carried them: fury disguised as pounding chords, longing wrapped in gentle melodies. He began uploading anonymous recordings online. They spread quietly in niche music circles, his identity unknown.
One evening, Victor found Ethan at the piano, playing a storm of notes that echoed both rage and sorrow.
"You play like a man twice your age," Victor said softly.
Ethan didn't look up. "It's the only place I can speak without being interrupted."
Victor said nothing more. But later, Ethan noticed his father lingering in the doorway when he played, as though listening for truths his son wouldn't say aloud.
First Taste of Justice -
At fifteen, Ethan got his first true test.
He was walking home from school when he noticed a man tailing a young woman across the street. The man's pace shifted whenever she did. His hand hovered near his pocket, too deliberately.
Ethan watched, calculating. Then the man quickened his pace. The woman glanced over her shoulder, fear flashing across her face.
Ethan moved without hesitation. Crossing the street, he intercepted the man with calculated calm, stepping directly into his path.
"Excuse me," Ethan said smoothly, his silver eyes fixed on the man's. "Do you have the time?"
The man froze, caught off guard. Ethan held his gaze, silent but unyielding. After a tense pause, the man muttered something and walked the other way.
The woman whispered a thank you before disappearing into the crowd. Ethan said nothing, just adjusted his tie and continued home.
It was small, perhaps insignificant in the grand scheme. But it was proof: his vow wasn't empty. He could act. He could protect.
Harvard Bound -
By sixteen, Ethan's brilliance could no longer be contained by traditional schooling. His portfolio was staggering: advanced essays on criminology and psychology, mechanical prototypes built in his father's workshop, musical compositions, and linguistic studies that impressed even university professors.
Harvard had been a distant star—brilliant, intimidating, unreachable. For Ethan, it became the logical next step. His parents, proud but unsurprised, supported him.
The application process was grueling. Essays poured from him like confessions: his fascination with justice, his belief that law was both science and art, his conviction that protecting others was the highest calling.
When the acceptance letter arrived, Isabelle cried openly, hugging her son so tightly he nearly dropped the envelope. Victor simply placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder, his expression unreadable but his grip firm with pride.
That night, Ethan stood on the balcony of the penthouse, the city stretched endlessly beneath him. He wore one of his mother's suits, the fabric whispering against his skin. In his pocket, the acceptance letter felt heavier than paper should.
Harvard was no longer a dream. It was destiny.