"Are you happy now?"
Dranred's voice trembled with restrained anger as he stared at his grandfather — then at the man standing behind him, the same man who had led the raid on James's house.
The congressman turned off the television and rose slowly. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
"Don't deny it," Dranred said sharply. "You ordered their deaths."
The old man's expression darkened. "Are you accusing me?"
"I'm not accusing you," Dranred replied, his voice steady. "I saw the faces of your men. I know what I saw."
A tense silence filled the room.
"Do you really think anyone would believe that?" the old man finally said, his tone mocking. "People will say you're just a rebellious boy — acting out, like your father did. You're at that age when—"
"I'm leaving this house."
The words hit like a slap. The old man froze. "And where will you go? You think you can survive on your own? If not for me, you'd be starving on the streets. I took you in when no one else—"
"I never asked you to," Dranred cut in. "Maybe it would've been better if I'd died with my parents — instead of living knowing that my grandfather is a murderer."
The congressman's eyes flared. "What did you say?"
"I'm leaving," Dranred said firmly. "You can cut me off, disown me, do whatever you want. But I won't stay in a house built on blood. I'll keep silent — because you're still my family. But if you touch James or what's left of his family again, I'll go to the police myself."
"You're threatening me?"
"No," Dranred said quietly. "Just telling you the truth. Your blood runs in my veins — and that means I can be just as ruthless as you. But unlike you, I'll use that strength to protect, not destroy."
He turned toward the door, his eyes on the man who'd led the ambush. "Tell your men to stay away from the hospital. If they show up there, the next cell they see won't have windows."
He walked out, not looking back.
Behind him, the old man exhaled slowly.
"Don't follow him," he told his aide. "He won't betray me."
"You're sure, sir?"
The old man smiled faintly. "He's his father's son — righteous to a fault. But blood is blood. He'll come to understand that someday."
Then his tone hardened. "But if my name ends up in that report — I'll have your head first. The election is coming. We can't afford mistakes."
"Yes, sir."
Outside, Dranred stopped at the gates, staring at the city lights below. He had nowhere to go — no home, no family, no safety.
But he had something far stronger.
The truth.
And he wasn't going to let it die quietly.
Dranred arrived at the hospital where James and his sisters had been brought.
The doctors told him that James had undergone surgery — severe damage to his legs. There was a chance he might walk again with therapy, but basketball was out of the question.
The words hit Dranred hard. The professional draft was only months away. James had trained for it his whole life.
He also learned that Rosette's eyes were badly injured — possibly beyond recovery. Estelle had suffered a mild concussion but would heal in time.
When he entered the room, two police officers stood guard by the door. Inside, James and Estelle were asleep, both pale and covered in bruises. James's leg was in a cast; Estelle's arm was bandaged.
A small, trembling voice broke the silence.
"Who's there?"
Dranred turned. Rosette was sitting up on her bed, her eyes wrapped in white bandages.
"Hey," he said softly. "It's me. It's Red."
"Red?" she whispered, her head turning toward the sound. "Where are you? What happened? Why—"
Her voice faltered as her hands rose to her face, touching the rough fabric over her eyes. Her fingers froze.
Dranred quickly went to her side and held her shaking hands.
"I'm here," he murmured.
She gripped his arm tightly, her small body trembling. The guilt in his chest twisted like a knife. He couldn't stop thinking — this happened because of my grandfather.
"Where's James? And Estelle?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"They're right here," Dranred said. "They're sleeping."
Then, in a broken whisper: "Red… How about -----Mama…"
Her breath hitched. "Mama and Papa… they're gone, aren't they?"
Dranred couldn't speak. He only nodded, though she couldn't see it — and then he pulled her gently into his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry for what happened."
Rosette began to sob quietly against his chest.
"Don't cry too much, okay?" he whispered, his hand on her back. "The doctor said you need to rest — your eyes are still healing."
But his voice broke on the last word.
He knew nothing he said could take away her pain. He'd lost his parents young, too. He knew that kind of emptiness — the one that never really leaves.
All he could do was hold her hand and promise himself, I won't let her lose anything else.
Dranred sat quietly by Rosette's bedside, holding her hand as she finally drifted to sleep after crying herself hoarse.
When he heard movement from the other bed, he turned. James was awake.
"James," he said softly, standing. "How are you feeling?"
James looked at him — and the moment their eyes met, the warmth in the room vanished.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp, bitter. "Did your grandfather send you? To check if anyone in my family's still alive?"
Dranred froze. "What are you talking about?"
"What am I talking about?" James gave a broken laugh. "Look at us, Dranred. Look at what's left of us. Then tell me it's nonsense."
Dranred opened his mouth but found no words.
"My parents are dead. My little sister might never see again. And me?" He lifted his bandaged leg slightly, grimacing. "All because of your grandfather."
"James—"
"Get out."
His voice cracked, but his glare was steady. "I don't want anything to do with you. I don't have friends with a murderer's blood."