The fluorescent lights of Dr. Helen Carter's office buzzed faintly, a sterile hum that seemed to amplify the silence between Marcus Norwood and his therapist. He sat slouched in a gray armchair, his hoodie swallowing his thin frame, his hazel eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the hardwood floor. At twenty-two, Marcus felt like a ghost haunting his own life, each day a blur of heavy limbs and heavier thoughts. The room smelled of lavender diffuser oil, meant to soothe, but to him, it was just another reminder of how out of place he felt in this curated world.
Dr. Carter, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a notepad that never seemed to judge, leaned forward. "Marcus, let's start with how you're feeling today. You didn't make it to Sophia's art show last night. Want to talk about that?"
Marcus shrugged, his go-to defense. "Didn't feel like it. Too many people." His voice was flat, but his mind replayed the text he'd sent Sophia: Sorry, not up for it. She'd responded with a heart emoji, no pressure, but the guilt gnawed at him. His sisters were out there, shining—Elena with her fashion empire, Sophia with her art. And him? He was the failure, the one who couldn't even finish college, let alone live up to the Norwood name.
Dr. Carter waited, her silence an invitation. Marcus hated that—how she'd sit there, letting the quiet stretch until he cracked. "It's just... Dad's this legend, right? Byano. Everyone expects me to be like him, but I'm not. I'm nothing." The words spilled out, bitter. "Mom doesn't help. She acts like I'm broken, like I'm her ticket to more of Dad's money."
Dr. Carter nodded. "That sounds heavy. How does your mother's behavior make you feel?"
"Like shit," he said, then winced. "Sorry. Like I'm a pawn. She keeps saying she's 'worried' about me, but it's fake. She hasn't asked how I'm doing in months, not really. Just wants to use me in this divorce thing."
The session dug deeper, peeling back layers of his depression. Marcus described the fog that clung to him, how getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. He'd been a bright kid, acing high school, but college had unraveled him—pressure to major in tech like his father, to be a "visionary." When he flunked out, the shame had buried him. Now, therapy was his lifeline, but the suicidal thoughts lingered, a shadow he couldn't shake. "Sometimes I think... it'd be easier if I wasn't here," he admitted, voice barely audible.
Dr. Carter's expression softened, but she didn't flinch. "That thought is part of the illness, Marcus. It's not you. You're still here, fighting. That's strength."
He wanted to believe her, but the weight of his father's empire, his mother's greed, and his own failures pressed down. The session ended with homework: write one thing each day that felt worth living for. Marcus doubted he'd find anything.
Outside, the September air was crisp, the city alive with honking taxis and hurried pedestrians. Marcus walked, hood up, avoiding eye contact. His phone buzzed—Elena: Hey, you okay? Missed you at Soph's show. Lunch soon? He didn't reply. His sisters were anchors, but even their love felt like pressure to be "better."
Back at the mansion, Marcus retreated to his room, a dim cave of posters and unwashed laundry. He tried to write for Dr. Carter's assignment, but the page stayed blank. Instead, he scrolled through social media, wincing at photos from Sophia's exhibit—her smiling beside their father, Byano's pride evident. Marcus envied that bond, the way his sisters thrived in their father's orbit. He loved Byano, but the man's success was a mountain Marcus couldn't climb.
A knock startled him. Byano stood in the doorway, still in his suit from some high-stakes meeting, his face etched with worry. "Mind if I come in?"
Marcus shrugged, and Byano sat on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Sophia's show was great. She missed you. We all did."
"I know," Marcus muttered. "Just... couldn't."
Byano's eyes searched his son's face, seeing the echoes of his own youth—those hungry, desperate days when failure wasn't an option. "Marcus, I don't expect you to be me. I just want you to be okay."
"Okay's a long way off," Marcus said, his throat tight. "Mom's making it worse. She keeps saying I need 'support,' but it's not about me. It's about her getting more from you."
Byano's jaw clenched. "I'm handling her. Focus on you. What do you need?"
Marcus hesitated. "I don't know. Something... real. Not this." He gestured vaguely at the mansion, the wealth, the expectations.
Byano nodded, his mind racing. He'd built this empire for his family, but it was crushing his son. "Let's find that something. Together."
As Byano left, Marcus felt a flicker of hope, quickly smothered by doubt. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the shadow of his depression looming. Downstairs, he heard raised voices—Byano and Victoria, arguing again. Her words carried: "You can't keep me out of this, Byano. I deserve my share."
Marcus closed his eyes, the fog thickening. His phone pinged—a text from an unknown number: You're not alone, Marcus. We see you. His heart raced. Was it a friend? A prank? Or something tied to the threats his father had mentioned?
Cliffhanger: Marcus replies to the mysterious text, asking who it is, only to receive a chilling response: Someone who knows the real Byano.