Chapter 2

The morphine did little to dull the coldness that had settled deep in my bones. It was a chill that had nothing to do with the hospital room's air conditioning. It was the ice of betrayal.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that alley. The foul breath of the thugs, the glint of the knife, the sickening crunch of my own bones. But the most terrifying image wasn't the violence.

It was the sight of Eleanor, Olivia, and Sarah standing at the edge of the light, their faces impassive, watching as my world was torn apart. They watched it happen. They had to have been there the whole time, waiting for the signal that the job was done.

The thought was a physical blow, worse than any kick to the gut. They didn't just orchestrate it; they witnessed it. They watched me bleed and break, and did nothing.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, and I fought to breathe through the pain in my side. The incision where they' d taken my kidney burned with a furious, deep-seated fire. My own body felt like a foreign country, a landscape of ruin.

I must have passed out again, because when I came to, their voices were back, a low murmur from the family waiting room down the hall. I strained to listen, my entire being focused on their words.

"The police are calling it a random mugging," Eleanor said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "No witnesses, no suspects. They said it's a 'high-crime area'."

"Good," Olivia said. "That simplifies things. Now, what about the scholarship? The dean called. He expressed his sympathies, but he needs a final decision. Caleb's acceptance is provisional."

My stomach clenched. They were already moving on, cementing Caleb's victory.

"We need to make sure there are no loose ends," Eleanor continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We need a reason why Ethan won't contest this. Why he won't try to apply again next year."

"What are you thinking, Mom?"

"We could say the trauma affected his mind," Eleanor mused. "That he's become unstable. Or maybe... maybe we can hint that he was involved in something shady. That the 'mugging' wasn't so random. That he owed people money. Drug debts, maybe."

I felt the air leave my lungs. They weren't just content with destroying my dream; they were going to destroy my name, my reputation, my very character, just to be safe.

"That's a good idea," Sarah chimed in. Her agreement was quick, seamless. "It would explain everything. People would feel sorry for us, for having to deal with all this. It makes Caleb's success even more poignant, rising above his brother's tragic downfall."

The clinical cruelty of her words left me breathless. Tragic downfall. She was scripting my life as a tragedy to better frame Caleb's heroic story.

"I'll take care of it," Eleanor said decisively. "I'll make a few calls. Plant a few seeds. People are always willing to believe the worst."

I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping and tracing a hot path down my temple. I thought of all the years Eleanor had bandaged my scraped knees, praised my drawings, and called me her "special boy." Was it all a lie? Was all that affection just a performance, easily discarded when it became inconvenient?

When had I become so disposable to them?

The door to my room burst open, not with a gentle knock, but with a sudden, jarring bang. A flash of light blinded me.

"Mr. Miller! Is it true you were attacked over a gambling debt?"

"Sources say you were involved with a local gang! Do you have any comment?"

Two reporters, a man with a camera and a woman with a microphone, had pushed their way into my room. They were like vultures, their eyes gleaming with rapacious hunger.

I tried to sit up, to deny it, but the pain was too much. I could only stare at them, speechless and horrified.

"He's in no condition to talk!" a nurse yelled, rushing in to push them out.

Just as they were being shooed away, I saw Eleanor and Sarah in the hallway. Eleanor had her arm around Sarah, comforting her. She met my eyes for a fraction of a second. There was no apology, no shame. Only a cold, hard finality. She had done this. She had fed me to the wolves.

"Get them out!" the nurse shouted, finally managing to close the door. She turned to me, her face a mixture of pity and outrage. "I am so sorry, Ethan. I don't know how they found out where you were."

But I knew.

I lay back against the pillows, the fight draining out of me. What was the point? They had thought of everything. They had a story for the police, a story for the school, and now a story for the public. In every version, I was the cause of my own destruction.

I wished I had died in that alley. At least then, the pain would be over. The humiliation wouldn't have to be endured. The thought of disappearing, of simply ceasing to exist, was a comforting blanket.

Later that day, a doctor came in to review my chart.

"Well, Mr. Miller," he said, his tone professionally detached. "Your vitals are stabilizing. However, the surgeon who specializes in complex hand reconstructions is unavailable until the end of the week. And the nephrologist wants to wait for your inflammation to go down before scheduling the follow-up for your... loss."

He meant my kidney. They were deliberately delaying my care. Probably on Eleanor's instructions. Keep me here, weak and isolated, while they cemented their lies.

I didn't argue. I didn't protest. I just nodded.

Let them delay. Let them think they were in control.

Time was on my side now. Every tick of the clock was one second closer to General Peterson's arrival. One second closer to my escape.

I would endure the pain. I would endure the whispers and the lies. I would let them think I was broken.

But in the silent, cold place inside me, a new kind of strength was beginning to form. It wasn't the hopeful strength of an artist. It was something harder, sharper. The strength of a survivor. And I would survive this. I would wait. And I would remember.