Chapter 3

The surgery on my hand finally happened five days later. I woke up alone. The room was dim, the evening sun casting long shadows on the floor. No flowers, no cards, no concerned family members waiting for me to open my eyes.

The absence didn't hurt anymore. It was just a fact. Like the constant, grinding ache in my reconstructed hand or the hollow space in my side. I had expected nothing, and they had delivered.

A nurse came in to check my vitals. She had kind eyes.

"Feeling okay, sweetie?" she asked softly.

I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

"A package came for you," she said, placing a slim, official-looking manila envelope on my bedside table. "It was delivered by a military courier. Very serious-looking man."

My heart gave a small, steady thump. He had come through.

With my left hand, I carefully tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It wasn't a letter. It was an acceptance notice.

`NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE & SECURITY ACADEMY (NISA)`

`SPECIAL RECRUITMENT PROGRAM`

`CANDIDATE: ETHAN D. MILLER`

`STATUS: PROVISIONALLY ACCEPTED`

It was real. My escape was real. General Peterson was a man of his word. A quiet sense of relief, cold and clean, washed over me. This was my new path. The old one was a burnt-out ruin.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling, and let my mind drift back over the last seven years. Seven years of giving ground, one small piece at a time.

I remembered being fourteen, a skinny, quiet kid fresh out of the foster system, arriving at the Wilsons' big, beautiful house. Eleanor had hugged me, calling me the son she'd always wanted. For a while, it felt like a dream.

The dream started to fray when Caleb, two years my junior, began to see my presence as a competition. He wasn't overtly hostile, not at first. He was a master of passive aggression, of subtle manipulations that painted me as the bad guy.

If I got a better grade, he would have a "depressive episode" that required the whole family's attention. If I made a new friend, he would complain of feeling "abandoned and lonely," and Eleanor would ask me to spend more time at home with him. I gave up a spot on the track team, quit the school band, and let friendships fade, all to appease Caleb's supposed fragility.

I did it because I was desperate for the family I never had. I was so grateful to be chosen that I was terrified of rocking the boat. I thought that by making myself smaller, I could make everyone happy.

The nurse from before came back in with a tray of food. She glanced at my untouched bedside table, then at me.

"Your family hasn't been by since the surgery," she said, her voice gentle. "Is there anyone you'd like me to call?"

"No," I said, my voice hoarse but firm. "There's no one."

She looked at me with a deep, professional pity that was somehow more validating than any of Eleanor's fake hysterics. She knew. She saw it.

Later that night, unable to sleep, I picked up my phone. I hadn't looked at social media since the attack. Curiosity, like picking at a scab, got the better of me.

I opened Instagram. The first post in my feed was from Olivia.

It was a picture of the whole family-Eleanor, her husband Robert, Olivia, and Caleb-all beaming. They were at a fancy restaurant. Caleb was holding up a letter, the logo of the art academy clearly visible.

The caption read: "Couldn't be prouder of my amazing brother, Caleb Wilson! He got the full scholarship to the Northwood Academy of Art! Celebrating his bright future! Hard work pays off!"

And then, at the very end, a final twist of the knife.

She had tagged me in the photo.

A blank, cold numbness spread through my chest. It wasn't even anger anymore. It was a kind of detached fascination with their sheer, unmitigated cruelty. They were celebrating his "bright future" built on the wreckage of mine, and they wanted to make sure I saw it.

I clicked on Caleb's profile. He had reposted the photo with his own caption: "Feeling so blessed. Thanks to my family for always believing in me, especially when things were dark. This is for you."

I remembered all the times Caleb had "believed" in me. The time he'd "accidentally" spilled turpentine on my final painting for a competition. The time he'd "lost" my portfolio just before a college interview. Every single time, he'd put on his best performance-tears in his eyes, voice trembling-swearing it was an accident, that he was just clumsy and useless.

And every single time, Eleanor and Olivia would rush to his side. "Don't be hard on him, Ethan. He doesn't mean it. You know how sensitive he is."

I finally understood. Their love for Caleb wasn't conditional. It was absolute. It was a force of nature that would flatten anything and anyone that stood in its path. And I was just something in the path. My pain, my talent, my life-it was all secondary to the primary directive: protect Caleb. Make Caleb happy.

There was a strange peace in that realization. It meant I didn't have to wonder anymore. I didn't have to hope for a change of heart. There was no heart to change.

I closed my phone and set it down. The decision was no longer a decision. It was an inevitability. I was done with them.

The next morning, they appeared. All of them. Eleanor, Olivia, and Sarah. They walked in carrying a basket of fruit and cheap balloons, their faces arranged in practiced expressions of remorse.

"Ethan, honey," Eleanor began, her voice thick with fake emotion. "We are so, so sorry we weren't here when you woke up. We were just so exhausted from worry."

I just looked at them. My silence seemed to unnerve them.

"We saw the news," Olivia said, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. "Those reporters were horrible. We told them it was all lies."

"We're going to take care of you, Ethan," Sarah added, stepping forward and trying to take my good hand. "Once you're home, everything will go back to normal."

I pulled my hand away.

Her smile tightened. "Don't be like that, Ethan."

Eleanor stepped in, her tone shifting from cloying sympathy to stern warning. "We need you to be strong right now. For Caleb."

I almost laughed. Of course. It always came back to Caleb.

"He's been having a terrible time," Eleanor continued, her voice dropping as if sharing a great secret. "He feels so guilty about what happened to you. He thinks it's somehow his fault that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Her eyes bored into mine, delivering a clear, unspoken message: Play along. Don't you dare upset him.

"He's fragile, Ethan," she finished, her voice a low threat. "Don't do anything to provoke him."

I met her gaze, and for the first time, I didn't look away. I didn't shrink. I just stared, letting the full weight of my cold, silent contempt wash over them. And I saw something in their eyes I'd never seen before.

Fear.