Late at night in Beverly Hills, Los Angeles.
In the basement of a mansion worth tens of millions, the air was thick with mold and rust.
Ken's ribs had snapped in two places. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the cold marble floor, spreading into a dark, murky stain.
Three days earlier, when Richard — his father, CEO of the Wall Street–listed Richard Group — had dragged him down here, Elaine — his mother, a permanent fixture of the socialite circuit — had stood at the top of the stairs, silk scarf pressed to her nose in disgust.
"If I'd known back then that losing you at Disney was going to save us this headache, I never should've bothered finding you. And now look at you — daring to steal money from the company."
"Back then" meant when Ken was three years old. His parents had taken him to Disney World in Orlando. Richard was busy taking business calls, Elaine was too focused on selfies with her girlfriends. By the time they remembered him, the little boy in blue overalls had vanished.
He stayed lost for 17 years. At 19, after getting into Boston University on his own, he happened to register his DNA in a genetic database. That's how Richard found him.
Naively, Ken thought he was finally going to have a family.
But in the six years since he returned at age 20, all he'd gotten was exploitation:
The music theory he taught himself? Turned into Olivia's hit songs — she was his eldest sister, 30, a top Hollywood pop star.
The stack of business books he slogged through late at night? Became the leverage Sophia, the second sister, used to keep her role as COO of Richard Group.
His casual design sketches? The inspiration behind Chloe's meteoric rise at 24 as a New York fashion designer.
Even the experimental migraine cure he'd dug up from medical journals? Elaine bragged about it in her socialite circle as if she'd discovered it herself.
Only Emma — the third sister, 26, a Yale sociology lecturer — treated him "not too good, not too bad." But whenever she had to pick a side, she always chose Liam — the 17-year-old adopted son, a perfect little angel on the surface, the "replacement" son his parents had taken in after losing him.
BANG!
The heavy wooden basement door slammed open. Richard stormed in, clutching a crumpled piece of paper, champagne stains still spotting his tailored suit from a Wall Street gala.
Behind him trailed Liam, wearing an ivory cashmere sweater with a pearl brooch Elaine had just bought him on Fifth Avenue for his 17th birthday.
When Ken had been "found" at 20, his parents had given him nothing but a supplementary credit card with the words "Spend as you like." Later, when he refused to buy Liam a pair of limited-edition sneakers, they scolded him as "selfish and immature."
"Talk!" Richard slammed the paper into Ken's face, the edges cutting his cheekbone raw. "Was it you who wired the five million to Boston?"
The forged transfer slip — cooked up by Liam — pointed to a Cayman Islands account secretly owned by Liam, but pinned on Ken as if he'd sent money to "an orphanage friend."
Ken braced himself on the floor, voice shredded like sandpaper:
"Dad, that day I was in Chicago helping Sophia with her merger proposal. The Morgan Stanley team can testify—"
"You still dare to lie?!"
Liam rushed forward, grabbing Richard's arm, his blue eyes shimmering with tears, the perfect image of a frightened little deer.
"Dad, I know he didn't mean it… but the money really is missing. Maybe just… let it go? I don't want the family to fight over this."
Ken had watched this act for six years. From the first day he came home at 20, Liam had used this routine to steal everything meant for him — his parents' affection, his sisters' favoritism, even the trust fund their grandfather had secretly left for him. Elaine had taken that too, saying, "Ken's still young," then used it to buy Liam a sports car.
Richard snapped. He slapped Ken so hard he crashed against the wall, skull cracking against the marble alcove.
Through the haze, Ken saw them: his four sisters, standing at the doorway.
Olivia leaned against the frame, eyes glued to her phone, chatting with her agent about Grammy nominations — no glance his way. Her latest hit single "Starry Night" was one he'd written over three sleepless nights in Boston's library. She'd told the world it came from her "own life experience."
Sophia folded her arms, custom suit pressed sharp at the shoulders. "Dad, don't mess up his face. Next week's Goldman Sachs financing meeting — if the media hears about this, stock prices will tank." Last year, when the company was on the brink of collapse, Ken's valuation model had saved them. She'd told the board it was her doing.
Emma clutched her lecture notes, shrinking back, eyes evasive. She owed her Yale job to Ken editing her paper for top journals and calling in favors from their grandfather's old comrades. And now she couldn't even whisper "My brother wouldn't do this."
Chloe fiddled with her sketchbook, sketches of gowns for New York Fashion Week still drying. Her breakout show had used silhouettes Ken had drawn. She used to say, "Little brother, you're better than most pros." To the press, she swore, "All my original work."
Not one of them spoke.
Ken suddenly laughed, the sound shattering through the empty basement like glass:
"I taught myself music to make Olivia a star. Devoured business books to save Sophia's company. Fixed Emma's paper to get her into Yale. Sketched Chloe's designs so she could blow up. Hell, I even dug through Swiss journals to find Elaine's cure. And this is how you repay me?"
Finally, Elaine stepped in, clutching the very bottle of medicine he'd found for her. She only frowned.
"Ken, stop it. Liam's three years younger than you. What's so wrong with letting him have things?"
"Let him?" Ken coughed blood, spattering his chin. "He's 17 and already forges records to frame me. I'm 26 and still cleaning up after you people! Beat me to death if you want. But don't forget — Grandpa's will leaves me 30% of Richard Group once I turn 25!"
That hit Richard's sore spot. He'd always wanted those shares for Liam. But the will had been notarized at 40 Wall Street — ironclad.
Richard grabbed a custom golf club from the alcove, its head engraved with "R.H." from St. Andrews in Scotland.
"Today I'll kill you, you ungrateful bastard! Spare Liam the trouble!"
The club whooshed down.
Ken didn't dodge. He looked at Liam's barely concealed smirk, Olivia's frown that never turned to concern, Sophia scrolling for "emergency stock price plans," Emma hiding behind her notes, Chloe snapping her sketchbook shut.
The family he'd bled for had never seen him as family.
"Dad, stop!" Liam clutched Richard's arm — then conveniently let go.
The club smashed into Ken's chest. Crack. Another rib gone.
Ken collapsed, vision swimming. The last image he saw: Elaine dabbing blood off Liam's sweater with a tissue, cooing, "Don't worry, sweetheart. Mommy will clean it for you."
In his final conscious moment, Ken had only one thought:
If there's another life, I'd rather be a stray cat on the streets of Orlando than ever be tied to these people again.
No plea for rebirth. No cry for revenge. Just a desperate wish to cut every tie.
But Heaven must've found this tragedy too absurd.
Because when he opened his eyes again, harsh sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, onto the gray hoodie he'd worn the day he first came home — at 20 years old.