Chapter 9: "Build to Win"
July 12, 1998 – Los Angeles, California
Richard's POV
Three months.
Ninety-two days since that night I swore to myself that this time I wouldn't play alone, that this time I wouldn't lose.
And boy, have I tried.
Before, my life was like a bugged speedrun: running aimlessly, stumbling, dying a thousand times, and repeating the same mistakes expecting different results. A routine of failures with infinite respawns.
Now… now I feel like I'm in a new game plus. My stats are no longer those of a supporting player. I have high intelligence, athletic reflexes, and, although it's hard to admit, a charisma that works better than I expected. But what really changes everything isn't my stats: it's that this time I have a party worth protecting.
At school, I'm no longer just "the new kid." Ethan, the kid I defended, has become my partner in adventures. He's not perfect, but his loyalty reminds me of those supporting characters who, even if they don't have powers, always appear in the final cinematic.
Sometimes he sits with me at recess and says,
"Hey, Rick, how do you always know the answer?"
I shrug, smiling crookedly.
"Protagonist trick, bro."
At the orphanage, every Saturday, I'm still "one of them." Lily still hugs me as if she's afraid I'll disappear, Tommy challenges me to races as if he can catch me, and Susan... well, Susan always studies me with that look that mixes relief and nostalgia. As if my every laugh is confirmation that it was worth taking care of me all those years.
And at home... there's Jackson.
My grandfather isn't one for sweet talk, but I can read him. When he sees me coming in sweaty from soccer and smiling, he says things like,
"Good job."
His tone is dry, military, but his eyes say something else: "I'm proud of you, kid."
And for me, that weighs more than any trophy.
Of course, not everything is easy. Sometimes doubt creeps in, the voice of my old self whispers that this is too good to be true, that one day it will all fall apart. But then I look at my watch, remember the promises, and think:
> "No. This time I'm not running alone. This time I built to win."
—
Elementary school was no longer hostile territory.
At first, I felt like a random NPC on a premium map, surrounded by kids talking about horses, yacht trips, and ski camps. I, on the other hand, had just kicked deflated balls around a yard with a rusty fence.
But over time, I figured out how to play the game.
Ethan, for example.
The skinny, shy kid with oversized glasses and a "favorite target for bullies" face. From the moment I saw him, I knew that sooner or later he'd once again be the target of those who needed to feel great at someone else's expense. And I wasn't wrong.
One afternoon, I found him cornered again by three mini-idiots who thought they were Cobra Kai villains. They were pushing him against the wall, laughing at his shaky voice.
"Hey, what are you doing?" I said, crossing my arms.
"Nothing, we're just messing around with the four-eyes," one said, giving him another shove.
I ambled over, putting on the best "mini-John Wick" face I could muster.
"Well, now they're joking with me."
I don't know if it was my tone, my posture, or the fact that they were starting to realize it wasn't such a good idea to mess with me, but they started muttering cheap insults.
Ethan looked at me as if I'd just thrown a live Kamehameha at him. His eyes were wide open, his mouth trembling between gratitude and fear.
"T-thanks," he murmured, lowering his gaze.
I shrugged.
"Calm down, bro. I'm not Batman... I'm more like Deadpool."
He laughed, and with that laugh, some of the fear that surrounded him was shattered. Since then, he's followed me around like he's my sidekick. And even though I tease him by calling him "Nerd Version Robin," the truth is I like it. Because I know what it's like to have no one to defend you.
The teachers also started looking at me differently. Before, I was "the new kid," the quiet kid who only gave the bare minimum of answers and never seemed to fit in. But now... now I raised my hand in class, solved math problems that others didn't even want to try, and even Ms. Rodriguez looked at me with a mixture of surprise and pride.
Sometimes I have to pretend I'm wrong so I don't look like a robot with an IQ of 191. Nobody likes the insufferable know-it-all. But I don't do it just to "fit in": I do it because I've understood that it's not about shining alone, but also about illuminating those around you.
With Ethan, for example, when he doesn't understand something in science, I sit down with him and explain it. It's not hard for me, and seeing him smile when he gets it gives me a strange satisfaction. As if this "new game plus" wasn't just for me, but also for those who choose to walk with me.
And so, without realizing it, I stopped being "the new weirdo" and became something more: someone who could make a difference.
—
Saturdays are still sacred: from 7 to 2, I'm Richard the Orphan, not Richard the Millionaire Grandson.
That's my deal with Grandpa Jack. And though it was hard for him to understand at first, I now know he respects that space as if it were a mass.
The moment I walk through the doors of the orphanage, it's like taking off a disguise. The echo of laughter, the smell of the sweet bread they sometimes manage to bake, the joyful chaos of the little ones... all of this reminds me of who I was before and who I still am deep down.
Lily is always the first to arrive running, with open arms and the biggest smile I know. She hugs me so tightly that sometimes I think she's going to break a rib, but I let her. Because in that hug, I feel something that neither my grandfather's private club nor fancy meals can give me: belonging.
Tommy, on the other hand, is different. He doesn't say much, he doesn't smile much. But when he takes my hand, he holds it firmly, almost desperately, as if he wants to make sure I'm back next week. That small pressure on my fingers is a silent reminder: to him, I'm not a visitor. I'm his big brother. And to me... well, he is too.
The rest of the morning is spent playing silly games we invent. Stick fights that turn into lightsabers, races where the little ones blatantly cheat, "villain versus hero" games where, for some reason, I always end up the defeated villain. I'm thrown to the ground, crushed by everyone, covered in dust and scrapes. And even though I end up exhausted, my shirt a mess, I wouldn't trade it for anything. That tiredness is pure happiness.
Susan, on the other hand, plays in a different league. She doesn't run and shout like the others, but she has a presence that balances everything. Sometimes she sits with me on the playground while the kids run around, and her calmness is like an anchor.
"You're growing up fast, Richard," she tells me, with that knowing smile that always seems to see more than she lets on.
I shrug, trying to downplay it.
"It must be my grandfather's cooking," I reply, half-jokingly, as always.
She laughs, but her gaze stays fixed on me, as if she can read between the lines. And that's when it hits me. Because what she doesn't know is that, when I look at her, I feel that warmth a mother should give. It's not something I say out loud. Not to her, not to anyone. But silently, I treasure it.
Susan doesn't have superpowers or an IQ of 191. But she has something I sometimes lack: perseverance. It's like an emotional checkpoint in the middle of this life that has me jumping between two worlds. With her, I can let my guard down, even if it's just for a little while.
And I realize something: it doesn't matter how much money my grandfather has or how brilliant he is in school. Here, in this place, I'm still Richard. And that Richard, the one who runs, gets dirty, and laughs with these kids, is just as real as the other one. Maybe more so.
—
Jackson's POV
I never imagined I'd have to negotiate with a five-year-old boy.
When Richard asked me to continue going to the orphanage on Saturdays, my first instinct was to say no. "Why go back to a place that only brings back memories of abandonment?" I thought. But then I looked into his eyes, with that mix of firmness and vulnerability that shouldn't exist in someone so young, and I understood it wasn't a whim. It was a necessity.
So I agreed. And every Saturday, the driver takes him and picks him up, while I wait at home with the clock ticking away like kilometers in the desert. Sometimes I find myself pacing, worried. What if he feels torn between two worlds? What if the poverty of that place competes with what I try to give him? What if he can never accept that he now has a home?
But then I see him come back.
Tired, with dirty clothes, disheveled hair, and that unfake smile. And in that instant, I know I've made the right decision.
Richard doesn't return empty-handed; he returns loaded with stories, laughter, names that he repeats with the ease of someone protecting his own. He talks about Lily, Tommy, Susan... and when he does, his voice has a brilliance that not even the best private schools can match.
I watch him silently, from the distance he still needs. And I think: "This boy isn't just brilliant, he's not just strong. He has something else... something I don't know if he inherited from me or Laura, but that makes him different: he knows how to take care of others."
In those moments, I remember the promise I made, the one that keeps me up at night: to give my grandson a decent life, a life with opportunities. But when I see him, I begin to wonder if I'm the one protecting him... or if, in some way, he's the one saving me.
Because every Saturday, Richard reminds me of something I'd forgotten in my world of hospitals, businesses, and meetings: that true value isn't in what you have, but in who you choose not to forget.
—
One Saturday, I decided to pick Richard up myself. I didn't want to delegate it to the driver. There was something inside me that wanted to see with my own eyes what this place I still considered his was like.
When I walked through the gates of the orphanage, the air hit me differently. It didn't smell of hospital disinfectant or expensive perfume from a private club; it smelled of damp earth, sweat from playing, and reheated soup. And there he was: running with a group of children, laughing like I'd never seen him before. Not the restrained Richard he displayed at school, nor the cautious Richard at home. He was a whole, free child.
"He looks happy, doesn't he?" said a voice beside me.
I turned and found a woman with calm eyes and a gentle smile: Susan, the caretaker.
"Yes..." I answered honestly. "Sometimes I think this is where it's most important."
She nodded, as if confirming a secret I already knew.
"Richard always had something different about him. Even before you came along. A way of looking at others... as if he were checking on us all to make sure we were all okay. It's rare to see that in a child."
I remained silent. That sentence pierced me. Because it was true: I'd noticed that protective instinct at home too, in the way he talked to me about his friends, about Ethan at school, about those children here.
"I thought he needed someone to look out for him," Susan continued, her voice low. "But I'm starting to think he actually needed someone to look after... while still being a child."
I looked at her, surprised by the precision of her words. That woman knew my grandson from an angle I was only just beginning to discover.
"My daughter, Laura..." I heard myself say, a lump in my throat. She couldn't see it. Or she didn't want to. But I promised this child would never feel abandoned again.
Susan placed a gentle hand on my arm.
"And he's keeping his promise. Believe me. Although... don't be surprised if you discover that, along the way, Richard ends up taking care of you too."
I watched him again, running in the sunshine, the children following him as if he were the leader of an expedition. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something resembling hope.
—
Richard's POV
The hours at the orphanage always fly by. One second I'm running around with Lily in tow, the next Susan is calling us because it's time for me to leave.
That moment is always the worst. I don't want them to think I've forgotten about them just because I now sleep in a huge bed and eat on china plates.
"Are you leaving?" Tommy asks, grabbing my hand as if he could stop me with his childlike strength.
I wink at him.
"It's not 'game over,' it's just a 'break.' We'll continue the game next Saturday."
Lily crosses her arms, her brow furrowed as usual.
"You better."
I crouch down in front of her and tickle her until she laughs out loud.
"Relax, General. I'm not abandoning the mission."
Everyone comes forward to hug me. It's an awkward squeeze, with small arms all around, but for me, it's like I'm being recharged with life, like a secret checkpoint.
When I pull away, Susan is at the door. She smiles at me with that calmness of hers, but I can see in her eyes that she's also struggling to let me go.
"See you soon, Rich."
"Always," I reply, and I mean it.
I walk toward the car, where my grandfather is waiting for me. But before I get in, I turn and make a Spider-Man web-slinging gesture toward them. The kids squeal and return the gesture, as if we're connected by an invisible thread.
I get in the car, still with that silly grin plastered on my face. And when I glance over, I see Jackson watching me. He doesn't say anything. He just nods, with that silent pride of his.
And I realize he saw me. That he knows I'm not just "his new grandson," but someone who belongs to two worlds, and who doesn't intend to let go of either.
---
Jackson's POV
The car moved slowly through quiet streets, and Richard looked out the window, his forehead resting against it. He still wore the smile from his farewell, but I already knew him: behind that smile were a thousand tangled thoughts.
"I saw you," I said, breaking the silence.
He turned his head slightly. "What? When I did the Spider-Man gesture? Because that was art, Grandpa."
I let out a short laugh. "No. I saw you with them... with your friends. How you hugged them. How you promised to come back."
Richard shrugged, as if he wanted to downplay it. "Well, they're... my other party, you know? Like in an RPG: you're the tank that protects me, they're the allies I can't abandon."
I was silent for a moment, processing his way of translating feelings into games.
"Richard, you don't need to choose between one family or the other. You can have both."
He looked down at his hands, uneasy.
"That's what I think... but sometimes I'm afraid they think I'm going to trade them for all this." He gestured to the interior of the elegant car. "And I'm also afraid you think I don't value you enough."
There I saw it: the boy and the man fighting in their eyes. Vulnerability and maturity mixed in the same gaze.
I placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Listen to me carefully. What you do for them... that also speaks volumes about you. You're not just smart or fast. You have a heart. And I'm proud of that. Very proud."
Richard took a deep breath and, to ease the tension, blurted out:
"I mean, proud like when you beat the level in Mario Bros. without losing a single life?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Exactly like that."
He smiled, relaxed, and looked out the window again. But this time he didn't look like a child lost between two worlds.
He looked like someone learning to bridge the gap.
"Thanks, Grandpa," I heard him murmur, and I could only smile, feeling a pleasant warmth in my chest.
—
Richard's POV
That night I stayed up longer than usual. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock on my wrist. I had the lamp on and a comic book open, but I wasn't reading. I was just thinking.
Grandpa was right. I'd always lived with the idea that I had to choose: either fit in with the kids at the orphanage, or adapt to this new world of luxuries and private schools. But why did it have to be one or the other?
Lily and Tommy were my original party, my first chosen family. Susan was that checkpoint that reminded me of who I really was.
And Jackson… Jackson was the promise kept, the tank that appeared just when the game seemed lost.
I turned in bed and looked at the half-open door. As always, he was out there, pretending to read the newspaper, watching me out of the corner of his eye. That routine had become my invisible shield.
I closed my eyes and smiled to myself.
I didn't have to abandon one world to inhabit another. I could connect them, like a bridge between two different maps.
> "I'm not just Richard the Orphan. I'm not just Richard the Evans. I'm both. And this time… I'm going to play to win without losing anyone along the way."
With that thought, sleep caught me. And for the first time, I didn't dream of sad endings. I dreamed of possible futures.
—
Since that day I called him "Grandpa," something changed. It wasn't a radical change, as if I'd activated a secret cheat code, but rather a silent upgrade in our relationship. Jackson is still the general, the guy with a steely gaze and a voice that sounds like a military order even when he orders coffee. But now… now there are cracks in that armor.
At night, after dinner, he sits with me in the study or in the living room. Before, he'd only throw me short phrases: "Do your homework," "Don't get distracted," "Maintain discipline." Now he asks me about school, for real. He listens to me tell how Ethan got nervous at a presentation, or how I scored a lucky goal in the soccer game. He doesn't smile openly, but I know his eyes are enjoying it. And his advice... ugh. They sound like life tutorials.
"Never underestimate the silent one, Richard. Sometimes the silent ones are the ones who think the fastest."
"Trust isn't gained in a day. It's built like a house: brick by brick."
"And remember, discipline isn't a cage. It's the tool to fly higher."
He doesn't say this in the words of a loving grandfather; he says it as if he's training me for a mission. And, somehow, I like that. It makes me feel like he believes in me.
Margaret, on the other hand, plays on another level. She calls me "Richie" as if she's been doing it all her life. At first, it bothered me, as if the nickname broke the serious demeanor I'd settled into. But then… then I understood that "Richie" was his way of telling me I wasn't alone, that there was love here too, the warmth of home. Now, when he says that to me, I feel something inside me unlock: an emotional glitch that reminds me I'm not a stranger here.
And then there's Tom, the driver. That guy is a treasure trove of stories. On the drives to school or the club, he becomes my secret sidekick. We chat, we laugh, and he tells me road stories: from chasing a tire that rolled off its own power to picking up clueless passengers who ended up becoming movie stars. I return the favor with my video game and TV references. Sometimes, we laugh so hard that when we arrive, Jackson looks at us with that "what the hell is going on here?" look.
But what surprises me most about all this is how I feel. Before, the word "home" was a bug, a concept that didn't quite fit in my system. Now… little by little, it's starting to take shape. Between the general softening, Margaret calling me Richie, and Tom making me feel like a co-pilot on a roadside sitcom, I'm starting to believe this game is worth playing to the end.
—
—
With my IQ and physique, each new challenge is like unlocking a hidden achievement in a video game. I feel like the world has given me a premium DLC and I'm just exploring the map.
"Judo, Richie. Learn to defend yourself," Jackson told me one afternoon, in that voice that brooks no reply.
He didn't need to repeat it. Now I go to the dojo three times a week. At first, they saw me as "the new kid," the kid who seemed too small to handle falls or holds. But it only took the first week for everyone to understand that my brain was memorizing movements and my body was responding as if I'd been training for years. Every well-executed takedown gave me a different kind of satisfaction, not just from winning, but because I felt like I was strengthening something deeper: confidence.
"You have good balance, Richie. Not just physically... mentally too," the sensei told me after practice. That phrase stayed with me all the way home.
A few days later, Jackson, as casually as someone asking for bread at the store, blurted out:
"Fencing too."
I don't know if he said this because he wanted to give me more discipline, or because he simply thought wielding a sword would come in handy at some point. I agreed instantly. I'd always fantasized about wielding a lightsaber, so holding a foil was like a dream unlocked in HD. Every duel taught me patience, precision, and, above all, how to control my impulses.
And as if that weren't enough, I ended up on the basketball team. I tried soccer, of course, because here at the orphanage they always set up impromptu games, but it was basketball that caught my attention. There's something about the speed, the jump, the strategy that reminds me of my favorite video games: reading your opponent, anticipating, passing, attacking at the right moment.
Plus, there's a small detail: I'm already taller than most of my classmates, and I'm barely 5'11" tall. Not bad for a five-year-old. Maybe it's a legacy from Jackson... although I don't know that spoiler yet: I'll reach 5'11".
The coaches look at me like I fell from the sky.
"Kid, where did you come from?" one asked, incredulous, after watching me score two consecutive baskets in a practice match.
I smile, lower my gaze, and scratch the back of my neck, feigning shyness. The truth is, I enjoy it with humility... well, with humility and a bit of that sitcom-star charisma that I can't help.
Ethan, my inseparable friend, always applauds me from the sidelines, even though he's one of those who prefers reading comics to sweating on the court. And when the game is over, he runs up to me with that genuine excitement that can't be faked.
"You're like Jordan, but miniature!" he yells at me.
I laugh, put my hand on his shoulder, and say,
"Nah, I'm more like Deadpool with a ball."
And there we are, both of us laughing, while the others wonder how an "orphan" managed to adapt so quickly to this new universe.
The truth is that every class, every sport, every challenge isn't just a physical workout: it's also a way to remind myself that I'm building something different. A version of me that doesn't run away, that doesn't repeat mistakes, that knows this time the game is for real.
—
Sometimes I feel like I live in two parallel worlds.
From Monday to Friday, I'm "Richard Evans": Dr. Jackson Evans's grandson, the boy who impresses everyone at school, the one who trains in judo, fencing, and basketball as if he'd had a special chip installed in him.
From Saturday to Sunday, I'm simply "Orphan Richard," the makeshift older brother to Lily, Tommy, and company.
And although it may sound tiring, the truth is I like it. It's like walking a tightrope: one wrong step and I fall, but as I move forward, I learn to balance everything I am.
At school, the teachers see me as "that child prodigy." On the court, as "the future athlete." In the dojo, as "the little one with the adult mind." And with my family, as "Richie," the grandson who smiles tenderly when Margaret straightens his tie or when Jackson corrects him with that mix of discipline and pride.
But at the orphanage… at the orphanage, no one sees me as a prodigy or an heir. There, I'm just one of them. And that, far from bothering me, reminds me of who I am at my core.
When Tommy squeezes my hand as if he's afraid I'll disappear, he reminds me that I once felt that way too: lost, afraid that no one would ever come back.
When Susan tells me, "You're growing up fast," I feel that lump in my throat that mixes gratitude and nostalgia. She'll never be my mother… but she occupies a space I no longer dare ignore.
And that's precisely what keeps me balanced: knowing that no matter what I accomplish outside, I'll always have those moments that bring me back down to earth.
Of course, sometimes I get scared. What if I get lost in the comfort of being special? What if I end up forgetting why I'm here?
But then I remember my promise. The one I made in front of the clock on my wrist:
> "This time I'm not going to play alone. This time I'm not going to lose."
So every time I put on my judogi, every time I step onto the court, every time I hear Tom's car engine leaving the mansion, I tell myself the same thing:
It's not just about me.
It's about those around me.
Those who depend on me.
Those who believe in me.
And, above all, those who don't yet know that an "ordinary orphan" can become a game-changer.
—
Jackson's POV
The night was silent, interrupted only by the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway. I'd spent hours reviewing medical papers and hospital balances, but my mind wasn't on the numbers.
It was on Richard.
There was something about that boy… something beyond his prodigious intelligence or the speed with which he absorbed every discipline I put in front of him. It was the way he moved between two worlds with a natural ease that even adults can't achieve.
I left my study and found him on the balcony, gazing at the distant lights of Los Angeles. There was no television or music; just him and his thoughts.
He reminded me of his mother at that age… she, too, took refuge in silence when the world was too big.
"Late for a boy your age," I said in a deep voice, though not to scold him.
Richard turned and looked at me with that mix of humor and premature maturity of his.
"I couldn't sleep. I was… thinking."
I leaned against him, looking out at the city.
"About what?"
"About everything that's going on. School, training, you guys here… and the orphanage on Saturdays." He paused, lowering his voice. "Sometimes I feel like I'm in two different worlds, Grandpa. And I'm afraid I'll get lost in one and forget the other."
There it was. The heart of the matter.
I glanced at him. It wasn't just any confession. It was the voice of a child who had carried too much, too soon.
"Richard," I said calmly, "roots aren't lost as long as you remember them. Luxury, sports, education... all of those are tools. But what you experienced, what shaped you in the orphanage, what you learned through hardship, no one can take that away from you."
I saw his eyes sparkle for a moment, and I knew my words had hit the mark.
"What if one day I forget?" he asked in a whisper.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Then I'll be here to remind you. It's part of my promise." I swallowed. It wasn't easy to say, but it was necessary. "I promised your mother I would take care of you... and taking care of you also means teaching you not to lose who you are."
Richard looked at me silently, and for the first time since he arrived, he didn't joke or hide behind humor. He simply nodded, with a maturity that disarmed me.
And as we walked back inside the house, I understood something: that boy wasn't just learning from me… I was also learning from him.
—
Richard's POV
On Sundays, the private club has become another of my unlocked maps. A different setting, with different rules, but just as useful for gaining experience.
Four hours with Jay Pritchett, listening to his dry jokes and his memories of Jackson. The funny thing is how they treat each other: Jay calls him "Jack," with that brother-in-arms confidence that neither time nor money can erase. I, on the other hand, never change it: to me, he's "Grandpa."
That difference in names makes me smile every time. It's as if the three of us are in the same game, but with different ranks: they, seasoned veterans; I, the rookie just starting to find his place.
Jay usually throws me knowing glances and, every now and then, a comment that swells my chest more than any medal.
"You've got your grandpa's spark, kid. You can tell blood doesn't lie."
I feign modesty, shrugging my shoulders as if it were nothing… but inside, I feel like I've won a legendary trophy, one of those that only comes out once in the entire game.
And it's not just Jay. Shorty and Miles almost always appear at his side, two characters who seem to have come straight out of a comic DLC.
Shorty is pure energy. He talks faster than I can think and always has a story that starts with "I swear this happened" and ends with everyone laughing out loud, even Jackson, who tries to maintain his composure but ends up giving in.
Miles is the opposite: quiet, observant, with dry comments that finish the joke like a perfectly timed critic. Between the two of them, they balance Jay's personality and bring out a side of my grandfather I rarely see at home: the relaxed Jack, the soldier who can laugh without looking at his watch.
I watch them, listen, and slowly integrate. They don't treat me like a child, but like an apprentice who deserves to sit at that veterans' table. And that... gives me a sense of security I never had in the orphanage.
Sometimes they ask me about school. Jay blurts out, "So you already have a girlfriend, champ?" and Shorty adds something like, "When I get a car, watch out, she'll be worse than you, Jay." I laugh, I defend myself with jokes, but I also know how to give mature answers, because I want them to see that I'm not just a lucky kid, but someone who is truly forging his own path.
While the three of them discuss business, war, and women, I stare at my grandfather's reflection in that group. I understand something important: he needs this space too. His friends remind him of where he comes from, ground him, make him laugh. And I... I'm learning to do the same with them.
Inside, I feel like every Sunday at that club isn't just a luxurious outing. It's a kind of social training, a premium map where I learn charisma, team play, and, above all, I begin to feel like I belong to something bigger than myself.
—
That Sunday, the club table was livelier than ever. Jay was telling a story about when he almost lost a contract for mistaking a client's name.
"I called him 'Mr. Gonzales' when it was 'Mr. Gonzalez'!" he exclaimed indignantly.
Shorty nearly choked with laughter.
"So how did you get out of that, Jay?"
"Well... I made up a joke about it. And the guy ended up buying more."
Everyone laughed. I did too, although inside I was thinking, "Classic Jay: sitcom-level improv."
Then Shorty looked at me with that mischievous spark he always has.
"And you, Richie? What would you do in a situation like that? Let's see if you inherited anything from this old man."
I was silent for two seconds, pretending to think about it, and then I blurted out,
"Easy." I said, "Sorry, sir, I'm just so GONZ... eager to do business with you that your name slipped my mind."
The table erupted in laughter. Miles, who rarely speaks, even raised his eyebrow and said, "That would have sealed the deal."
I smiled, but not like a shy kid: I smiled confidently, with that charisma I discovered I could use without fear.
Jackson looked at me sideways, with his typical seriousness, but I knew him: his lips were trembling with the desire to smile.
Then, as if it were nothing, I added, "Although, if they want something serious, there's a Harvard study that shows 72% of customers respond better to an apology laced with humor than to a formal one. I read it last week."
Jay blinked, surprised.
"How the hell do you know that?"
"I like reading weird stuff," I shrugged. You never know when it might save your neck.
A brief silence. Everyone was looking at me, as if they'd discovered an unexpected bug in the system. Then Jay burst out laughing and slapped my grandfather.
"Jack, this brat is smarter than the three of us combined!"
Jackson didn't say anything... but the way he placed his hand on my shoulder spoke volumes. It was pride, pure and silent. That gesture was enough for me.
Inside, I thought:
> "Game Over... no. This is already looking like a story mode with cheat codes."
—
It's been three months and two weeks since I swore I wouldn't play alone. Three months and two weeks of waking up in a bed that smells like another life, and still returning to the dusty floor of the orphanage every Saturday as if it were my sanctuary. Three months and two weeks in which sarcasm and humor remain my armor, but they're no longer all I have.
Before, my goal was to survive: to gather the next meal, to make it through the night, to not trust. Now my objective has changed. I'm still a gamer, still the one who makes an absurd comment at the worst possible moment to lighten the mood, but I've learned to use my cheat codes for more than just ego. I play to build. To build a future that won't be erased with a reboot. To build a family worthy of a voice.
Ethan no longer runs after me just for protection; now he calls me for help with homework, or to explain why a basketball play works. I teach him tricks, yes—how to position himself to receive a pass, how to break down a problem into steps in math—but most importantly, I give him back the trust they tried to take away from him. He looks at me as if I were a stable foothold in a bumpy world; and being that foothold makes me strive to be better every day.
Lily remains glued to my side with the same absurd faith as ever. She jumps on me, demands that I take her to the tallest tree, and when she pretends she won't forgive me for introducing her to her "imaginary prince"—a dinosaur with a crown—I laugh and let myself be defeated. In her hugs, I find the tenderness that heals the tough days. Tommy, with his seriousness like a little soldier, reminds me in the mornings that promises are kept: he squeezes my hand and waits for me to come back. And I come back. I always come back.
Susan is my human checkpoint. She's the voice that tells me "you're growing up fast" without sounding like a reproach, the one that challenges me to remain humble when I leave the dojo with bruises and a swollen ego. Her words are the counterpoint that anchors me: they care for me, correct me, and protect me with the patience of someone who's seen too many goodbyes and doesn't want any more.
Margaret calls me "Richie" with that mix of punctuality and affection that heals without me even realizing it. Tom, the driver, tells me road stories that are lessons in disguise: how people can surprise you, for better or worse, and that you learn more by listening than by speaking. Jay and his jokes, Shorty and Miles with their complementary extremes, have welcomed me as if I were the son Jack didn't have time to raise. And Jackson... Jackson watches me, corrects me, demands of me, but when no one is looking, his pride falls over me like a warm layer.
Sometimes I stop and think about the combo I had in Steve's "draft": an IQ of 191, an Olympic physique, and sitcom charisma. Yes, they are powerful tools. They allow me to solve problems in class without breaking a sweat, take the ball away from the opposing captain, and make a boring explanation engaging. But the real merit isn't in the statistics; it's in what you do with them. I can be the know-it-all who doesn't help anyone, or I can be the one who shares, who lifts others up, and who uses their advantage to help others level up as well.
That's why the "party"—Ethan, Lily, Tommy, Susan, Margaret, Tom, Jay, Jackson—isn't a list of names. It's my reason for not falling into the trap of indifference. They are the voices that remind me where I come from and to whom I owe repay what they gave me: care, opportunity, belonging.
I feel more responsible today than I did three months ago. Not because Jackson imposes it on me with his general's voice, but because I truly love him. Not because of the obligation of a promise, but because of the sweet weight of a chosen loyalty. There are nights when the old paranoia returns—the shadow of the New York delivery man I am inside—but I quarantine it: I breathe, touch the watch on my wrist, and remember the hands waiting to see me return.
> "This time… I'm playing to win. And I'm not letting go of control."
I say it quietly, to myself, and I feel like it's no longer just a phrase. It's a plan. A commitment to my party. And with every step, every goal, every hug, and every lesson I give Ethan, I'm fulfilling it.
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