The hospital lobby was the final stop on a long road of failures. Jake didn't even get a seat for the news. His supervisor caught him right at the reception desk as the night shift patients groaned in the background.
"Budget cuts, Jake. The government isn't funding the night staff anymore. Here's your final pay." The man dropped a thin white envelope onto the counter. No office. No respect.
As Jake reached for the envelope, the supervisor's eyes flicked to Jake's chest. "And the uniform. Drop it before you go. We're short on sizes for the new volunteers."
Jake froze, his hand hovering over the counter. "You want it now? In the lobby?"
"The policy is clear, Jake. All hospital property stays on hospital grounds. Take it off or I'm docking the cost from that envelope."
With trembling hands and the eyes of a dozen waiting patients on him, Jake unzipped the thin blue hospital windbreaker. He felt the cold air of the lobby hit his skin through his tattered undershirt. He bundled the uniform into a ball and shoved it across the desk. It felt like he was handing over the last shred of his dignity.
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," the supervisor muttered, turning his back.
Jake walked back to the cramped, decaying neighborhood he called home, but the nightmare wasn't over. His belongings were already on the sidewalk. In a place like this, leaving things unattended for even an hour was a death sentence for your property. The local criminals had already picked him clean. His laptop, his small TV, even his decent shoes—gone. All that remained were a few water-soaked books and some torn clothes the thieves didn't think were worth the effort of carrying.
With nothing left and no one to call, Jake found himself standing on the edge of the city bridge. The rain hammered down, masking the tears on his face as he stared into the churning, black water below. He was twenty-three, homeless, and discarded by a world that didn't even know his name.
He gripped the railing, his knuckles white. Just as he leaned forward, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A notification lit up the screen through the raindrops.
Subject: Legal Summons - The Estate of Arthur Vane
Message: You are required for the reading of the will tonight at Vane Manor.
Jake stared at the screen. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the thin envelope his supervisor had tossed at him—his final pay. It wasn't much, but it was enough for one last ride.
"One last thing," he whispered, pulling himself back from the cold edge of the bridge. "I'll see that man's legacy one last time before I go."
He stumbled toward the street and waved down a passing taxi. He handed the driver a crumpled bill—half of his remaining life's earnings—and gave the address of the Vane Estate. It was a one-way trip.
The taxi dropped him off at the rusted gates. A sleek black limousine purred up seconds later, splashing mud over Jake's already soaked clothes. Thomas Vane stepped out, his tailored ash-blonde hair perfectly slicked back.
"Still trying to look like a tragedy, I see," Thomas sneered, his ice-blue eyes scanning Jake's shivering frame. "I'm surprised you haven't jumped off a bridge yet."
Jake didn't answer. He just looked at the man who had been the "golden child" while Jake was treated like a servant in his own home. Their father, Arthur, had been a ghost—a man who spent his life building a political empire, giving Thomas every tutor and every luxury while Jake was left to fend for himself. Thomas had been groomed for power; Jake had been groomed for silence.
The massive doors creaked open. Mr. Tesla, a man with skin like old paper and a magnifying glass held to his eye, stood in the shadows. "The brothers have arrived. Please, follow me."
The house was a bohemian maze, smelling of wet stone and secrets. Once inside the study, Tesla didn't waste time.
"To Thomas," he whispered, "I leave the liquid wealth, the shares in the family investments, and the estate in Madrid."
Thomas smirked, his eyes already on the door. It was exactly what he expected. He was the favored son, the one who had stayed by their father's side while Jake had tried to carve out a life as a common receptionist.
"And to Jake," Tesla said, looking at the shivering, soaked young man. "I leave this house and everything within its foundations."
Thomas let out a jagged laugh. "A pile of wood and dust? Perfect. Father always knew who was worth the gold and who was only worth the dirt he stood on. Keep the coffin, Jake. I'm going to Madrid."
Thomas swept out, leaving Jake alone with the deed and the key. The adrenaline that had kept Jake from the bridge finally vanished. He was exhausted—emotionally, physically, and spiritually.
He sank into an old leather sofa. It let out a long, low groan, as if it were the only thing in the world that understood his pain. He looked up at the high, shadowed ceiling. He had no money, no job, and his few possessions had been stolen. But as he listened to the rain hammer the roof, a single thought grounded him.
He finally had a place of his own. Even if it was just a ruin that his father didn't want, it was his.
Within seconds, he was dead to the world, falling into a sleep that felt like it would never end.