Marcus Norwood sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across his cluttered room. The walls, papered with fading posters of bands he no longer listened to, felt like a cage closing in. At twenty-two, he was a stranger in his own skin, his hazel eyes—his mother's eyes—red-rimmed from sleepless nights. The journal Sophia had found lay open on his lap, its pages filled with jagged poetry that bled his pain: I'm a ghost in their empire / Invisible, expendable. The words stared back, mocking him. He'd written them in a haze, but now they felt like a prophecy.
The past few days had been a spiral. His flight to Chelsea Piers, staring into the Hudson's dark waters, had been a desperate bid for escape—not from life, not quite, but from the suffocating weight of being Byano's son. Elena had found him, her voice gentle but firm, bringing him back to the mansion. Yet the fog of depression clung tighter, fueled by the tabloid's venomous headlines and his mother's voice, cold and opportunistic, echoing from overheard arguments: Marcus needs support, Byano. I'm fighting for him. A lie. Victoria's fight was for herself, her divorce demands a calculated grab for his father's fortune. Marcus was just her excuse.
His phone buzzed, a text from Dr. Carter, his therapist: Marcus, I'm here if you need to talk. Call me. He ignored it, his thumb hovering over another message, the anonymous one from days ago: Someone who knows the real Byano. He hadn't told his father about it, shame and fear knotting his tongue. What if the sender knew something true—something that could shatter the fragile trust he still had in Byano?
Marcus's room smelled of stale coffee and unwashed clothes, a stark contrast to the mansion's polished elegance. He stood, pacing, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood. The note he'd left—I need to get away—had been impulsive, a cry he hadn't expected anyone to hear. Sophia's discovery of his journal had exposed him, her worry and Elena's protectiveness both a comfort and a burden. They loved him, but love felt like a spotlight, illuminating his failures.
He sank to the floor, back against the bed, and closed his eyes. Memories flooded in: high school, when he'd been the golden boy, acing exams, his poetry winning quiet praise. College had broken him—Stanford's tech-driven culture, the expectation to follow Byano's path. He'd flunked out sophomore year, the shame a weight he couldn't shed. Therapy helped, but the suicidal thoughts crept back, whispering in the quiet moments. You're dragging them down. They'd be better off.
A knock jolted him. Byano entered, his suit rumpled, his face etched with exhaustion. "Marcus," he said softly, sitting on the bed. "We need to talk."
Marcus's throat tightened. "About what? The tabloid? Mom?"
"All of it." Byano's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed worry. "I know you're hurting. I see it. But running to the pier, that note—you scared us."
Marcus looked away. "I didn't mean to. I just... needed out."
Byano leaned forward, his hands clasped. "I'm here, son. Whatever you need—a project, a break, anything. Name it."
Marcus wanted to believe him, but doubt gnawed. "You can't fix this, Dad. Not with money or... whatever. I'm not like you."
"You don't have to be," Byano said, his voice raw. "I built this for you, for Elena, for Sophia. But it's crushing you, and I hate that."
Marcus's eyes stung. He wanted to scream, to confess the thoughts that haunted him, but the words stuck. Instead, he whispered, "Mom's using me. She doesn't care."
Byano's jaw clenched. "I know. I'm handling her. But you—focus on you. Dr. Carter says there's a program, intensive therapy. I'll cover it, no questions."
Marcus nodded, but the fog didn't lift. Byano left, promising to check in later, and Marcus was alone again. He opened his journal, pen shaking, and wrote: One thing worth living for: Dad's trying. It felt hollow, but it was a start.
Hours later, alone in the dark, Marcus's phone lit up. Another anonymous text: Your father's lies will destroy you all. His heart raced. He stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, but the mirror showed a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed. The thoughts surged: End it. Make it stop. He gripped the sink, fighting the urge to open the medicine cabinet, where pills from an old prescription waited.
A sound—his phone, ringing. Sophia's name flashed. "Marc, you okay?" Her voice was frantic. "Dad told me about the tabloid. And Elena said you got a weird text."
"I'm... here," he managed. "Soph, I don't know what to do."
"Stay put. I'm coming over."
As he hung up, a crash came from downstairs—glass shattering. Marcus froze, heart pounding. Was it an intruder? Or something worse?
Cliffhanger: Marcus creeps downstairs, finding a broken window and a note taped to a brick: Time's running out, Byano.