***"Running in the shadows***
***Damn your love, damn your lies***
***Break the silence***
***Damn the dark, damn the light."*** *\- Fleetwood Mac*
***Holden Young***
It was an event day. It wasn’t anything grand yet, as we were expanding gradually. It felt like I was still in a trial period. The small theater seemed even smaller with the dozens of fans gathered in line, waiting for photos, autographs, or just a bit of attention.
I enjoyed all the attention I received—I couldn’t be a hypocrite. I liked how easy it was to get things and how good it felt to be recognized for my talent. This was my dream.
There I was, smiling, posing, trying to be as approachable as possible. They had supported me from the beginning, after all. It was the least I could do. I tried to stay active on social media, and the managers liked how I maintained an almost intimate connection with the fans by calling them affectionate nicknames and sending messages.
But some in-person interactions… well, they were uncomfortable. Some girls and even a few guys got a bit bold. Hands lingered too long on my shoulders or waist, inappropriate kisses. Questions loaded with innuendo made me wonder if I was being too uptight to find it strange.
I was never particularly conservative; my college history would say otherwise. But some things seemed too much for me.
"Holden, you’re amazing!" one fan said, asking me to autograph her chest. I signed as quickly as I could, cautiously, trying not to show my discomfort.
Cyrus stood nearby, observing everything with that eagle-eyed gaze that noticed everyone and everything. When the line finally thinned out, he approached me. "You need to relax, Holden. Fans are just affectionate like that."
"That’s not affection," I retorted, crossing my arms. "It’s invasive."
"They love you," he shrugged. "And love comes in many forms, some… *more intense than others.*"
I rolled my eyes but let the subject drop. It wasn’t worth arguing with Cyrus; we did that enough already.
When the event ended, I was ready to leave when a familiar face appeared in the crowd.
"I don’t believe it," Michael, my best friend, was there, wearing that mischievous grin that always made it seem like he knew something you didn’t. "Got room for one more autograph?"
I laughed, walking over to hug him. "Man, what are you doing here?"
"I was in town, heard about the event, and thought I’d drop by," he said, shrugging casually as always. "So, do you still have time for an old friend, or is your schedule packed until 2025?"
"For you? Always," I replied.
\[...\]
We left together once I’d finished with the last of the fans, and I took him to a bar Cyrus always praised, but I had never visited. The place was discreet, with dim lighting and a relaxed vibe—exactly what I needed.
We sat at a table near the bar, each holding a beer.
"So, how’s life?" I asked, raising my bottle for an impromptu toast.
Michael chuckled briefly. "Recently divorced, so… it could be better."
"Damn," I grimaced, taking a sip. "Well, at least now you can explore new things. There are plenty of women out there who’d love to meet someone like you."
He laughed. "Oh yeah? How about we start competing for a few, like the old days?"
"I’m not in that phase anymore," I replied, shaking my head.
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Really? What happened to you?"
I sighed, taking a swig of beer before answering. "Alissa happened."
Michael was silent for a moment, just watching me. Then, he laughed. "Man, you’re really in love."
"I always have been," I admitted, feeling the weight of truth in every word. "The others… they were just fleeting passions. But Alissa..."
"Is different," he finished, nodding with a smile. "You’ve changed, Holden. I never thought I’d live to see it."
We laughed together, but the light moment didn’t last long.
"You know what happened to her, right?" Michael asked, his tone more serious now. How could I forget? Her words still echoed in my mind from that day in the apartment.
I nodded. "I know about the reform school, about what she went through there."
He sighed, running a hand over his face. "That place… Holden, there are countless abuse allegations against that reform school—guards, directors, the entire system. But none of them are taken seriously."
"Why?" I asked, feeling my blood boil.
"Because the inmates are considered unstable, unreliable," he replied, his voice filled with frustration. "It’s like the system is designed to protect them and silence the victims."
It was unfair, but no one knew that better than Michael. Being a Black cop, he faced situations harder than anyone should.
I felt the anger surge—a mix of guilt and helplessness that made me want to punch something.
"It’s not fair," I said, more to myself than to him.
"I know," Michael replied, watching me closely. "But what are you going to do about it?"
I stayed silent because, honestly, I didn’t know.
As I drove him back to the hotel where he was staying, Michael glanced at me.
"Man, there’s something you need to know," he said, hesitant. But I knew that look; I could tell when he had to say something. We’d lived together for years, so I could spot when he was holding back.
"What?"
"During the investigation into Alissa..." he began but hesitated. "I discovered the reform school has direct connections with some powerful figures."
"What kind of powerful figures?" I asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
"Lawyers, politicians… and businessmen," he said reluctantly before continuing. "Holden, your father’s name came up in some of the financial transactions connected to that place."
My heart stopped.
"You’re saying my father… funded that?"
Michael nodded, his expression grave.
"I can’t say for certain what his involvement was, but his name is there, and it’s impossible to ignore." It made sense, especially if the dates coincided with when Alissa disappeared.
I drove the rest of the way in silence, my mind racing with the implications of what Michael had just revealed. This was becoming real, tangible. It felt like a punch to the gut.
I believed Alissa, but knowing this was like seeing it with my own eyes. I wondered just how far my father was willing to go, and that scared me more than my worst nightmares.
So, when I got home, I picked up the phone. I felt a chill down my spine as I waited through those seemingly endless rings. Finally, when he answered, even his voice sounded different.
"Dad?" I asked.
"Holden, you finally returned our calls," he said cheerfully. But me? I didn’t know how long he could keep pretending nothing had happened.