Chapter 8: "New Worlds"
April 10, 1998 – Los Angeles, California
Richard's POV
Two months have passed since that tribunal, but there are still mornings when I wake up believing it was all a glitch in the Matrix.
I open my eyes, see the king-size bed, the gleaming desk, the comics neatly lined up on the shelf… and my brain whispers:
> "This is premium DLC. I'm sure the 'Demo Ended' sign will appear at any moment and they'll take everything away."
But no one comes to reset me. No one says Game Over.
At first, I struggled even to put my feet on the plush rug. It was so soft I was afraid I'd get my worn-out orphanage socks on it. I moved around the room as if I were an intruder, waiting for someone to yell, "Don't touch that!" or "That's not for you!" But the voice never came.
What did arrive was Jackson, every morning, with that soft knock on the door that felt like a secret code between us.
"Good morning, Richard. Ready for breakfast?"
Sometimes I responded with a half-asleep grunt, other times with a "I'm coming," and other times I just ran off to the dining room because it still seemed incredible to me to have a plate all to myself. A plate that no one would take away from me, that I didn't have to share or defend like it was loot.
The house... well, it was like exploring a new map in an open-world video game. Every hallway, every closed room, every corner of the garden felt like a hidden secret. I spent hours walking, touching the walls, looking at the paintings, as if I needed to confirm they were real. And yes, they were real. Although there was still a strange emptiness: too much silence. No laughter, no silly fights, no Susan telling us it was time to sleep.
That's when I understood something: I was no longer the boy from the orphanage. Now I was Jackson Evans's grandson. And that sounded much bigger than I could process.
I found myself thinking differently. Before, I'd only lived in the moment: playing, running, making up zombie stories with Lily and Tommy. Now… now I was starting to imagine the future. The new school I'd soon be starting, the things I wanted to learn, the places Jackson might show me. It was a strange feeling. Strange, but also exciting.
Of course, I was still plagued by fear at night. The fear that someone would suddenly knock on the door and say, "It was a mistake, you have to go back to the orphanage." In those moments, I'd look at my wrist, the watch that always accompanied me, and listen to its ticking. It was my checkpoint. My reminder that I was still here, that this was my life now.
And the best part was, when I looked up in the darkness, I saw Jackson's silhouette in the doorway. Sometimes with a book, other times with a forgotten glass of whiskey in his hand, but always there. Watching. Like a wall that wouldn't crumble.
I didn't say it out loud, because it was still difficult for me, but deep inside I was beginning to accept it: this man wasn't just "Mr. Suit." He wasn't a stranger playing at being family.
He was my grandfather.
And for the first time in a long time, the word "home" was beginning to make sense.
---
My grandfather's house looks like something out of a simulation game: vast hallways, giant windows that let in light like portals to another world, uniformed employees who greet me with polite smiles, as if I were someone important.
Every time I cross a hallway, I feel like I'm playing The Sims, but with all the cheats activated.
I respond with a shy "hello," lowering my head, even though inside I'm thinking:
> "Bro... what do I do with a butler in real life? Do I say thanks, Alfred... or do I make a Tony Stark joke? Because, honestly, I don't feel like a millionaire at all."
Mrs. Margaret, the housekeeper, was the first to notice my oddities. She's different from the other employees: she doesn't see me as "the boss's grandson," but as a child who needs to be reminded to eat and sleep on time. The first time she served me pasta on a china plate, I froze. It was white, shiny, heavy, and even had a gold rim. I looked at it as if it had just handed me the Holy Grail.
Margaret raised an eyebrow, amused.
"It's just pasta, darling."
"Just pasta." Two words that never meant the same thing to me. At the orphanage, food was a battlefield disguised as a mess hall. You had to eat quickly, because otherwise someone would ask for "just a little," and that little bit would end up being half a plate. Many nights I kept stale bread under the bed, wrapped in napkins, "just in case." I still find myself doing it: my hand hiding crackers in my pocket, my eyes making sure no one was watching me.
Jackson noticed it right away. He didn't yell at me, didn't scold me. One night, when he found a piece of bread under my pillow, he simply picked it up, stared at it for a few seconds, and then looked me in the eye.
"Richard," he said in that deep voice that seems to fill the entire room, "you don't need to hide anything here." No one's going to take that away from you.
His words were so simple they disarmed me. I didn't know what to say. I just nodded, with that strange mix of discomfort and gratitude I feel every time someone treats me like someone worthy of trust.
That gesture, so small, opened my eyes: my grandfather wasn't just giving me a roof and food. He was giving me something I never thought I'd have: permission to let my guard down. To stop living as if everything would disappear at any moment.
That night I didn't hide anything under the bed. And although I still found it hard to believe, I slept more peacefully than ever.
—
At first, I moved around the house like a ghost. I walked on tiptoe, silently, afraid of breaking something that cost more than my entire life. But little by little, I began to discover that the house wasn't a museum: it was a place I could inhabit.
Margaret showed me where things were, without that feigned patience adults use when they just want to get things done quickly.
"The refrigerator doesn't bite," he told me one day when he found me waiting for someone to bring me juice.
He led me to the kitchen, opened the doors of the enormous refrigerator, and pointed to the shelves.
"Whatever you see, you can have it. This is your house, too."
I felt a flutter in my stomach. Not because I wanted juice, but because no one had ever said anything like that to me before. At the orphanage, "opening the fridge" was practically a crime. Here, however, it was an invitation to trust.
With Jackson, it was different. He wasn't one for long speeches or constant hugs. His way of caring for me was more silent: just being there. Every morning, when I went down to breakfast, I found him reading the newspaper at the table, coffee steaming beside him. At first, I didn't know whether to interrupt him or stay quiet. Once, without thinking, I sat across from him and opened a comic book. We didn't say a word for half an hour, but when I looked up, I realized he was smiling. It was at that moment that I understood that "being there" could also be a way of loving.
My routine began to take shape. In the mornings, I went to school (another story of social glitches, but that would come later). In the afternoons, I took refuge in the house's library, a huge room filled with bookshelves that smelled of old paper and new promises. There I discovered I could lose myself in worlds other than video games.
"Have you never read Treasure Island?" Jackson asked me one afternoon, placing a book in my hands.
"I... no." I replied with a shrug.
He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and sadness.
"Well, let's change that."
And so, between comics and novels, between snacks with Margaret and shared silences with Jackson, I began to feel something I was afraid to accept: that this life, so different from the one I knew, could truly be mine.
Of course, I still had those survivor tics: counting how many cookies were left in the jar, making sure my bedroom door was properly closed before going to sleep, looking twice at people to see if their smile was real. But I wasn't the same kid who hid stale bread under the bed anymore. Something in me was starting to let go of fear.
For the first time in a long time, I was starting to believe that a future with a family wasn't a "premium DLC" that would end at any moment. It was the full game.
—
Richard's POV
Despite all the luxury, I negotiated a deal with Jackson: to return to the orphanage on Saturdays.
He raised his eyebrow, as if I'd asked him to bring a lightsaber to church, but he accepted. But not before saying in that deep voice he used to close deals:
"Okay, but promise me that when you're there, you'll remember who you are now."
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
And thank goodness. Because every Saturday, as soon as I got out of the fancy car, I shook off the "grandson Evans" act and went back to being Richard, the same old me. No ties, no formalities, just a kid running barefoot across the playground.
Lily jumped on me as if she hadn't seen me in years, and I easily caught her in my arms—a perk of my new athletic build. Tommy held my arm tightly, with that serious look that said more than words: "Don't forget us, okay?"
We played like always, although I took any excuse to show off. An impromptu race would end with me crossing the finish line far ahead, and them panting behind.
"Look at this!" I'd announce before doing a flip in the air, landing on my feet as if it were an everyday occurrence.
They clapped wildly, as if they had Spider-Man live right in front of them. I smiled, although I also bit my lip: I didn't want my "advantage" to make them feel less than. So, after each stunt, I always lifted them onto my shoulders, making them feel part of the show.
Susan watched us from a distance, with that knowing smile that mixed pride and nostalgia. She always finished the same way, as if it were a ritual:
"I see you taller now. Your grandfather's cooking is doing you good."
I feigned annoyance, shrugged, and made a sarcastic joke. But inside, I was smiling. Susan was my emotional checkpoint. The confirmation that, although my life had changed, I was still me.
On those Saturdays, I understood something I hadn't before: I didn't have to choose between worlds. The luxury of Jackson's house, the new comics, the elite school… and the laughter in the orphanage playground, the absurd games, the promises of eternal friendship. All of that was mine.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel divided. I felt whole.
—
That Saturday, after running, jumping, and performing my Spider-Man-mode acrobatics, I lay down on the grass with Lily and Tommy on either side. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange, and for a second everything seemed frozen in a memory I didn't want to let go of.
Lily snuggled into my arm, with that innocence that breaks and heals you at the same time.
"I hope you never leave, Richie," she murmured, almost as if she were talking in her sleep.
I felt a lump in my throat. Before, I would have dodged the comment with a joke or a gamer prank. But now… now I didn't want to hide.
"Listen," I said, looking at them both. "My life has changed a lot, I know it. I have new things, a new school… even a room so big that if I shout "echo," it can actually be heard."
Lily laughed softly, and Tommy looked at me without blinking.
"But none of that matters if I lose you. You're..." I paused, searching for the words. "You're my family too. It doesn't matter how big my grandpa's house is or how fast I run on the court. If I ever feel like I'm forgetting about you, I want you to tell me to my face. Promise?"
Tommy frowned, as he always did when he was processing something serious.
"What if you grow up and don't want to come anymore?" he asked with that harshness that was actually disguised fear.
I looked at him straight, without running away.
"Then I'll come anyway. Because you're part of my story, and I'm part of yours. There's no 'new level' that will change that."
Lily hugged me tightly, burying her face in my sweaty T-shirt. Tommy didn't say anything, but gave me a friendly punch on the shoulder, which in his language meant "I trust you."
In that instant, I understood something that no skill, no high IQ, nor protagonist charisma could give me: the certainty that I didn't want to be just the boy who survived... I wanted to be the one who cared.
—
Jackson enrolled me in a private elementary school that looked like Hogwarts, but without wands or spells. Well... almost. Because the cafeteria, with its long tables and endless trays of food, had its own kind of magic: an unlimited buffet.
The first week was like falling into another universe. The hallways were lined with display cases, the impeccable uniforms, the kids talking about trips to Aspen, summer camps in Maine, private piano lessons, and vacations in Paris. I, on the other hand, had to fight to keep from blurting out:
> "Uh... I once found a nearly new comic book in the orphanage trash."
It wasn't the kind of "luxury story" that impressed. So I kept quiet, observing, trying not to feel like an NPC lost on the wrong map.
But on the soccer field, everything changed. There, vacations and summer vacations didn't matter. There, legs, stamina, and the ability to anticipate the ball ruled. And there, for the first time, I discovered I had an advantage. I ran faster than most, jumped like I had springs in my shoes, and my reflexes were like those of a video game on expert mode.
At first, they looked at me strangely: "Where did this guy come from?" After a couple of goals and after I took the ball from the team captain, the looks changed.
"Hey, Evans, are you playing with us tomorrow?"
"Richard, come over to the blue side, we need your speed."
Suddenly, I went from being "the new weirdo" to "the guy everyone wants on their team." And even though it made me laugh, because notifications popped up in my head like in an RPG—Stats unlocked: Speed +10, Stamina +15, Ego +5—deep down I felt… good. As if I'd finally found a language where I could compete on equal terms.
When I came home, sweaty, with my knees scraped, and a smile so big my face hurt, I always found Jackson in the office or the living room. He never threw a party for my stories, but he had that way of saying a lot with few words.
"You have talent. Don't waste it," he said to me the first time, while folding the newspaper.
His tone sounded like a military command, almost like an order. But I heard it differently. I translated it in my head and understood it for what it was:
> "I'm proud of you, grandson."
And that translation, believe me, was worth more than any trophy.
Over time, I stopped hiding so much in the school hallways. I started talking a little more, cracking a few jokes (even if they were weird), and feeling like maybe, just maybe, I wasn't an intruder. That I could be there, belong, without having to pretend to be someone else.
Because yes, I was the boy with the used comics, the one who kept bread under the bed in another life, but I was also the one who could run the fastest and come home knowing someone was waiting for him, proud, at the table.
—
Soccer was my entry point, but it didn't take long for me to realize I could play on more than one field.
The lottery I pulled off with Steve, that old cheat dressed in black, was no joke. I knew it. Intelligence on the edge, a physique fit to match Olympic athlete behavior, and, if that weren't enough, the charisma of a sitcom protagonist. It was like having a cheat code activated in real life.
The first time the teacher asked them to read a story aloud, most of the children did so in a monotone, slurring their words. I'd already worked it out: project their voices, vary their pitch, insert a dramatic pause here and there. When I finished, some applauded without the teacher's prompting.
"Very good, Richard," she said, surprised.
I just smiled and responded with, "Thanks, I'll be here all week."
Laughter. Genuine laughter. And in my head, I heard that sitcom-like music in the background, as if an invisible audience were applauding behind the scenes.
In math, it was another level. With an IQ of 191, problems that took others ten minutes to solve, I solved in two. I didn't boast (I didn't want them to see me as a strange robot), but I managed to deliver the answer as if it were natural, almost casual. And it worked. I went from being "the new kid" to "the smart one in the group," but without being hated.
Charisma did its job. I wasn't the boastful genius. I was the kid who explained the problems with jokes, the one who said:
"Look, solving fractions is like delivering pizza... and believe me, I know a lot about it."
And everyone laughed, even though the pizza was about math.
During recess, the other kids started looking for me not only to play, but to talk. They asked me to tell stories, and I recycled anecdotes from my past life as a gamer, disguising them as "imaginary adventures." It was news to them. For me, it was simply activating that charisma Steve had put in my inventory.
When I came home and told Jackson some detail, he looked at me with that mixture of surprise and pride. He never said it out loud, but I could see it in his eyes: he was impressed.
"So you also excel in class," he commented one day, closing the newspaper.
"Standing out is an understatement, Grandpa. I'm basically a cross between Einstein, Michael Jordan, and Chandler Bing."
He let out a low laugh, the typical one that seemed to escape despite himself, and added:
"Just don't forget that being brilliant doesn't give you permission to be arrogant. Talent is a gift, but respect is earned."
That stuck with me. Because he was right. I could be the fastest, smartest, and most charismatic kid in the room, but what really mattered was that, at the end of the day, Jackson would look at me and think, "That's my grandson."
And with that goal in mind, I decided not only to maximize my stats, but also to learn when to turn down the volume, when to share the spotlight, and when to simply be Richard: the kid who finally had a place in the world.
—
Everything was going well until I saw Ethan, a shy kid with thick glasses, cornered on the playground by two bullies who looked like they were straight out of a Karate Kid casting call.
One pushed his books to the ground. The other made fun of his stuttering.
And that's when something clicked in my head.
The five-year-old Richard wanted to run and become invisible. The thirty-three-year-old Richard wanted to avoid trouble.
But the Richard who was now both of them, the one with an IQ of 191, athlete reflexes, and sitcom charisma, knew it was time to choose which side he was on.
"Hey, playground geniuses," I said, walking toward them. "Have you finished auditioning for "Bully Number 2" in a bad action movie, or are you still practicing?"
The laughter of those watching was immediate. The pair of bullies turned to me, annoyed.
"What did you say?" —the tallest one growled.
I raised an eyebrow, with all the calm I didn't feel.
"I said, if your master plan for being popular is to push a kid half your weight, well... congratulations, you're headed straight to the Losers' Hall of Fame."
More laughter. But it wasn't just mockery: it was support. The other kids were starting to move, inching closer, making it clear that it wasn't Ethan against two anymore, but Ethan and me against the world.
The big guy took a threatening step toward me. Reflexes to the max, I dodged him with a half-spin like I was playing Street Fighter. I didn't push him. I didn't hit him. I just let him stumble under his own steam.
"Oops," I said, crossing my arms. "I think your 'special move' needs more practice."
The crowd erupted in laughter. The two bullies, red-faced with rage and embarrassment, gathered their things and left, muttering insults.
Ethan was still on the floor, staring at his books as if he couldn't believe they were still there. I bent down and passed them to him.
"Thanks," he whispered, not raising his voice much.
I winked at him.
"That's what teammates are for, right?"
And as I walked him back to the living room, I realized something: Steve (the Grim Reaper) might have given me the best stats in the world, but they weren't worth anything if I only used them for myself.
The real "campaign mode" was this: playing for other people.
—
Jackson's POV
That afternoon, while I was sorting through some papers in the study, the house phone rang. It was the school principal. Her tone was cordial, almost amused.
"Mr. Evans, don't worry, it's nothing bad. I just wanted to let you know that your grandson intervened in a situation on the playground. He stood up for a more vulnerable classmate. And he did it... very intelligently. And, I must say, with a humor that completely disarmed the bullies."
I was silent for a moment. I was used to being called for trouble, not praise.
"Are you saying that...?" I asked cautiously.
"I'm saying you have a born leader at home, Mr. Evans. One who inspires others." The woman laughed softly. "The funny thing is, you make it look easy."
I hung up slowly, standing still for a moment, staring at the phone as if I'd misheard.
Richard arrived later, backpack slung over his shoulder and shoes covered in dust. He simply greeted me with a "hello" as if nothing had happened. No gesture of arrogance, no attempt to boast. As if for him what had happened was… natural.
I watched him silently as he climbed the stairs. His steps were light, sure. And then I saw him clearly: that impossible mix of wit, charm, and physical strength. All in a five-year-old boy.
I poured myself a whiskey and plopped down in the study chair. I closed my eyes.
"Laura…" I thought, summoning my dead daughter. "I found him. I found him, and he is… more than I ever imagined. He has your fire, your hidden laughter, and something beyond. A gift that can change his life… and the lives of others."
I placed the glass on the table, letting the silence of the house envelop me. And I felt something I hadn't experienced since Vietnam, since before I lost her: pride.
Not pride for what I had done, or for my endeavors, or for my medals. But for what I was watching grow before my eyes.
My grandson wasn't just a survivor. He was a protector. A leader.
And I swore to myself, once again, that I would never let him down.
—
Sunday was different. No orphanage, no football at school. That day, Jackson decided to take me to his private club, the kind of place I'd only seen in millionaire movies or on the premium map of some social sim.
The air smelled of expensive leather and aged whiskey, the walls were covered in dark wood, and the waiters looked like they'd stepped out of an elegance catalog. I, on the other hand, felt like a newly spawned NPC on an elite map: I walked slowly, eyes wide open, trying not to bump into anything or say anything that sounded too "orphanage."
It was then that Jackson put a hand on my shoulder and led me to a table. Sitting there was a man with white hair, a sly look, and a mischievous smile.
"Richard, this is Jay Pritchett. My best friend for over thirty years."
The name hit me like an unexpected spoiler. My neurons immediately clicked.
> Jay Pritchett!
Bro... really? I'm on Modern Family.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from letting out a "Holy Sitcom!"-style shout.
Jay stood up, shook my hand firmly, and examined me with those eyes that seemed to effortlessly X-ray you. Then, in a tone that was half sarcastic, half conspiratorial, he said,
"So you're the tough guy's grandson. I'll tell you a secret: your grandpa snored like a rusty tractor in the army."
Jackson snorted and shook his head, feigning annoyance.
"Don't pay attention to him, he exaggerates everything."
I couldn't hold back my laughter. It was like someone had mixed sitcom with reality. And the best part: Jay winked at me, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Relax, kid," he added, patting me on the back. "If you can handle your grandpa's seriousness, you can handle anything."
I was surprised at how easy it was to fit in. I didn't have to force my "sitcom-starring charisma." It just came out. We talked about football, comics (although Jay clearly didn't understand anything I was saying), and I even ended by telling him how I'd used my speed to save a school game. Jay let out a deep laugh and said,
"See, Jack? You have a grandson with more spark than you and I combined."
I saw Jackson's serious expression soften just a little, just enough to reveal something he rarely showed in public: pride.
And then I understood, sitting between the man who had rescued me and his lifelong best friend: I wasn't watching a sitcom on the screen anymore. I was part of the cast. And my role wasn't that of the lost kid. It was that of the boy who, finally, had a place to belong.
—
Richard's POV
After lunch, Jackson chatted with a couple of club members, discussing hospitals and contracts, things that sounded like a boring DLC to me.
Jay, on the other hand, nodded for me to join him outside on the terrace. The afternoon sun was catching the golf course, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass.
"Sit down," he said, pointing to a chair.
I did, a little nervously. Jay wasn't one to fill the silence with empty words. He settled in, took a cigar out of his pocket (though he didn't light it, just held it between his fingers), and looked at me with that look on his face that seemed to say, "I know more than you think."
"Look, kid," he began, in his deep, measured tone. "I don't care if you run faster than the Flash or if your grandpa says you're a genius." That's fine, of course... but the important thing isn't what you know how to do, but what you do for the people you love.
I remained silent, processing. Jay wasn't one of those adults who tried to sound like gurus, but his words weighed more on me than any lecture.
"Your grandfather is a good man," he continued. "Tough, yes, but good. And if he's here with you, it's because he believes in you more than he'd ever admit out loud."
I looked at him, surprised.
"Does he really believe in me that much?"
Jay let out a dry laugh.
"Believe me, son, it would cost your grandfather more to lose you than to lose an entire hospital. And he loves those damn hospitals."
I laughed involuntarily. And suddenly I felt something strange: trust. As if Jay were handing me an invisible pass to the "family team."
Before we went back inside, Jay patted me on the shoulder.
—Just remember: you don't need to be perfect to be important. Just being yourself is already making more noise than you imagine.
I stared at it, processing. This was the kind of dialogue that, in another life, I would have seen as a funny sitcom moment. But now… now it really hit home.
For the first time, I wasn't thinking just about myself, my talents, or my "reincarnation lottery." I thought about Jackson, Susan, Lily, Tommy. I thought about everyone who depended on me not to fail.
And there, with the sun beating down on the field, I understood: I was learning to be part of something bigger than myself.
—
Jackson's POV
From the club table, with a glass of whiskey in hand, I watched them.
Jay and Richard sat on the terrace, the contrast bringing a smile to my face: the grumpy old man with a cigar in his hand, and the little boy who seemed to absorb every word as if it were secret codes.
I didn't hear what they were saying, but I knew Jay well. He didn't make speeches, especially not to children. If he was speaking, it was because he saw something special in Richard.
I took a sip and let the scene soak into my memory.
In the army, Jay had been my shadow. The guy who knew when to keep quiet and when to push you over the edge. If he was taking the time to guide Richard now, it was a sign that my grandson was touching nerves that even I hadn't touched in him.
And that... that filled me with pride.
Because Richard wasn't just adapting to this new world of luxury, rules, and expectations. No. He was doing it his way: with that sharp intelligence, that natural charisma that seemed to ignite everyone around him, and that heart that, though still aching, was learning to open.
I looked at the reflection in my glass and thought of Laura.
"I found him. I promised you, and I kept it. But what I never imagined was that he would end up teaching me more than I could ever teach him."
Jay patted Richard on the shoulder and the boy smiled, one of those clean, fearless smiles.
And I, who had spent years believing that success was building hospitals, understood that my greatest achievement was already before me: that child. That grandson.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a sigh.
"You're going to make it, Richard," I murmured softly. "And this time I don't intend to fail."
—
The car moved smoothly down Sunset Boulevard. The city glittered with those lights that seem to promise everything, although I'd already learned that half of them were just mirages.
Beside me, Richard was staring out the window, his arms crossed, his head full of unspoken thoughts.
I knew him. That silence was no coincidence.
"I saw you comfortable with Jay today," I said, breaking the thick air. "Not everyone can get him to talk that much."
Richard smiled faintly.
"Maybe he knows talent when he sees it."
"Yours or his?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He chuckled, but his gaze remained tense. I wasn't fooling myself. That kid wore masks better than any executive I'd ever negotiated with.
I leaned toward him slightly.
"Richard... the professor told me what happened this week."
I saw him turn his head, quickly, surprised.
"What?"
"That you stood up in front of everyone to defend a fellow student."
Silence. Long. I could almost hear him pondering whether to deny it, downplay it, or make a joke of it.
In the end, he shrugged.
"It wasn't a big deal. Just a couple of idiots were bothering Ethan, and... well, someone had to say something."
"That 'someone' was you."
"Yeah, but it's not like I saved the world. I'm not Spider-Man."
I stared at him until he lowered his gaze. And there, without a mask, a flicker appeared: pride mixed with fear. As if he didn't know if it was okay to feel good about what he did.
"Richard," I said slowly, my voice softer than I normally could, "I fought wars, built hospitals, and signed contracts that changed cities. And you know what? None of that made me prouder than what you did this week."
He blinked, surprised. He tried to respond with humor:
"Well... so my charisma stats do help."
"They help more than you think."
The car continued in silence, but not awkwardly. It was the silence of two people starting to truly trust each other. And as I watched him lean back in the seat, more relaxed, I thought of something I didn't say out loud:
"This kid isn't just learning from me. He's teaching me how to be a better man."
---
Richard's POV
Back in my room, the silence was so great I could even hear the clock on my wrist ticking like a war drum.
I tossed and turned under the sheets, unable to sleep.
I had a grandfather who was practically Tony Stark without the iron suit, friends who waited for me every Saturday as if I were the checkpoint for their weeks, a school where I could be someone other than "the weirdo from the orphanage"… and, as if that weren't enough, the absolute confirmation that I was in a universe I knew better than anyone.
Sounds perfect, right?
Well, it wasn't.
Because there was still that voice. That damn voice of my other self, that tired delivery man in a damp New York apartment, reminding me of every mistake, every "game over," every time I'd promised myself things would change… and they didn't.
The difference was that now I had another life.
Another chance.
I sat up in bed and looked at the shelf full of comics. Before, those stories were just escapism. Now, they seemed like user manuals for what it meant to start over, fail, get up, and keep playing.
I pressed the watch onto my wrist. That watch was no longer a simple object. It was the line that separated my two lives: that of the failed man and that of the boy with everything ahead of him.
I smiled, although my eyes burned a little.
> "Okay, Modern Family. Player 2 has entered the game."
Yes, the first time I had played alone, against the world, hoping to win without allies. And I lost.
But this time… this time I wasn't alone.
I had Jackson, who, although grumpy and serious, looked at me with those eyes that said, "You are my flesh and blood."
I had Susan and the children, who reminded me to never forget where I came from.
And I had a future that depended on me, on every decision I made.
I lay back down, closed my eyes, and before sleep overcame me, I promised myself something that sounded like an oath:
> "This time… I'm going to play to win. Not just for me. For everyone."
And for the first time, that voice of my old self fell silent.
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