Ayana's room smelled like burnt popcorn and coffee.
Papers scattered. Laptop open.
Her glasses slid down her nose as she paced, phone pressed to her ear.
"Jake! Why are you calling now?!" she snapped. "Why do you only care about Nena leaving? I left too!"
"Because she—" Jake started, irritated.
"I left school too, Jake! So why are you obsessed with her?!"
She slammed the phone down. "Ugh!"
Across the room, Nena's fingers moved like lightning over the keyboard. "I found something."
Ayana stopped mid-step. "What? What did you find?"
Nena pointed at the screen. "Ronson. Years back. Guns. Drugs. Arrests. Real mess. Young, reckless. Entire case files online."
Ayana slid into the chair beside her, eyes narrowing. "Show me everything."
They scanned. Headline after headline. Reports. Court dates. Police blotters.
"Multiple arrests. Questioned for serious incidents. Guns, shady connections. Not clean," Nena muttered.
Ayana pushed her glasses up, leaning closer. "No wonder Mom freaked. No wonder Jake flipped."
"Still more," Nena said, scrolling faster. "Names, dates, outcomes. We need it all. If we're going to understand him—really understand him—we can't stop here."
Ayana's fingers hovered over her own laptop, typing, pulling files. Every word sharp, every link clicked fast.
The room hummed with tension.
Typing. Clicking.
Whispered mutters.
"This is it," Nena said, eyes wide. "The start of everything he did before he became… him."
Ayana leaned in, heartbeat racing. "Let me see."
Nena handed her the files. Ayana's glasses caught the glow of the screen.
And suddenly, Ronson wasn't just a name. He was a history. Dangerous. Complicated. Real.
The room was silent except for the clicks of keys. Sharp. Intense. Focused.
They were not just reading.
They were hunting.
My eyes stayed on the screen, the glow catching against my glasses as the words blurred for a second.
"…Is that what he did?" I asked.
Old reports filled the page — guns, drug connections, investigations that seemed to vanish midway. It didn't look like a mistake. It looked deliberate.
"Looks that way," Nena said.
A quiet knot formed in my chest.
"Should we go to his company tomorrow?" I asked.
"You should."
I turned to her. "You're not coming?"
She shook her head. "Going out with my mom tomorrow. Already promised."
Great.
I pushed my glasses up slightly, staring back at the name Ronson like it might suddenly rearrange itself into something less frightening.
"So… I have to look for him myself."
"Exactly."
I inhaled slowly, letting the weight settle instead of fighting it.
"Okay," I said. "I will."
Nena smiled — calm, confident, completely unbothered.
"Good luck."
I closed the laptop gently, but my mind refused to do the same.
Tomorrow wasn't going to be a normal visit.
It felt like I was about to knock on the door of a past someone had tried very hard to bury.
---
The home library was quiet in the way only expensive houses seemed to manage — thick carpets swallowing sound, tall shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with books arranged too perfectly to be accidental.
A brass lamp cast a warm circle of light over the reading table, and the faint scent of paper and polish lingered in the air.
Mark sat curled slightly into one of the armchairs, messy dark hair falling into his glasses as he read.
Every few seconds he nudged the frames back up with his finger without looking away from the page.
Across from him, Ethan sat straighter, a book resting in one hand, the other loosely supporting his chin.
Still.
Composed.
Like even turning a page required intention.
The only sound was paper shifting.
Then Mark closed his book halfway and looked at Ethan.
"Any thing happened special in your life lately?"
Ethan didn't look up immediately.
He finished the line he was reading before answering.
"…Yes."
Mark's brows lifted. "Good special?"
A small pause.
"…Calm," Ethan said. "Good."
Mark smiled faintly, already understanding more than Ethan had actually said.
Before he could press further, the doorbell rang.
Mark glanced toward the hallway. "I'll get it."
He disappeared downstairs, footsteps light.
A moment later, I stepped inside.
My pink dress moved softly with each step, the white cardigan resting loosely over my shoulders.
I had taken off my glasses earlier; now they hung from the neckline of my dress, swaying slightly as I walked.
"Hi, Mark," I said when he opened the door. "Sorry for the disturbance."
"You're never a disturbance," he replied easily, stepping aside.
At that moment, Ethan appeared at the foot of the stairs.
I glanced at him and blinked once.
"Oh. You too?"
He gave a small nod.
"…Me too."
Mark gestured toward the library. "Come sit."
We gathered around the reading table, the lamplight pulling us into the same quiet circle.
Mark leaned forward slightly. "What's the matter?"
I drew in a breath.
"It's about my dad… Ronson. I'm going to his company tomorrow. I need to see him myself."
Both of them stilled — not dramatically, just enough.
"I was planning for only Mark to follow me," I continued, "but since Ethan is here… you could come too."
Mark adjusted his glasses, thinking fast as always.
"That is statistically unwise to do alone," he said gently. "Two observers increase situational awareness. Three improve it further. You have my support."
Ethan's gaze rested on me, steady.
"…You shouldn't go alone," he said.
His voice was cool, but there was something protective underneath it. "We'll come."
I smiled, relief slipping through me.
"Good. Be ready tomorrow… and don't tell Jake."
Mark gave a tiny amused exhale. Ethan simply nodded once.
Then a thought crossed my mind.
"Wait… where is Liam lately? I haven't seen him."
"Oh," Mark said, "Liam is sick."
I blinked.
"Why is everyone getting sick?"
Mark immediately straightened, slipping into explanation mode.
"Seasonal transition," he began. "Temperature fluctuations weaken immune responses. It's mathematically consistent with increased illness rates this time of year."
I stared at him.
"…You made sickness sound like a math equation."
He smiled.
Across the table, Ethan was not looking at the books anymore.
He was looking at me.
There was a softness in his eyes he probably didn't realize was there — the kind that appeared only when I walked into a room.
Mark noticed it.
And yet, when Mark's gaze returned to me, his expression warmed in that quiet, careful way of his — like he was always measuring his words so they would land gently.
Neither of them said anything.
Neither of them needed to.
Completely unaware, I reached for a book on the table, flipping it open absentmindedly.
"So," I said, "tomorrow might be dramatic."
Mark smiled faintly.
"…Then we'll make sure you're not facing it alone."
Ethan gave the smallest nod.
And somehow, without understanding why, the library felt warmer than before.