Chapter 104
S. Pov
Morning crawls in like an uninvited guest. Light slipping through the cracks of my broken blinds, cutting across the stained peeling paint and the dust hanging in the air. I squint and turn away, trying to cover my eyes with my blanket but it’s no use, the day has already found me.
The ceiling above me groans, the sound of my neighbour’s feet dragging from one end to the other. Same routine.... Same thin walls..... Same everything. I exhale, long and tired, and push myself upright. My back aches from another night on the too-thin mattress.
The clock on the wall ticks like it’s mocking me, each second, a reminder of what time used to mean. It’s crooked, the glass is cracked, but it still works. A cheap survivor.... like me.
6:15 a.m.
Time to go.
I swing my legs off the bed, rub my face, and stand. The floorboards creak under my weight. There is a chill in the air, the kind that made me wish I had not gotten out from under the blanket.
In the bathroom, I twist the faucet. It gurgles, spits out air, then nothing. I twist it harder. Nothing still.
“Great,” I mutter. “Just great.”
The pipes rattle in protest, like they were laughing at me. I stare at the rust-stained sink and sigh. “Guess I will have to take a shower at work again.”
The mirror over the sink is cracked right through the middle, splitting my reflection in two. One half looks older than the other. I don’t bother shaving. There’s no point. My razor went dull weeks ago, and even if it had not, what’s the use?
I throw on my clothes, the same brown jacket, same faded jeans, same work boots whose soles are beginning to come apart. My breath fogs faintly as I exhale. The air in the apartment smells of dust and cheap whiskey, the only scent that has not left me.
I grab my bag and step outside. The hallway smells of mildew and old takeout. Someone’s baby cries from down the corridor. The landlord still has not fixed the lights. The flicker above my door blinks on and off as I lock up.
The morning hits harder outside. Grey skies. Air is thick with the smell of asphalt and gasoline. The city is already awake, cars honking, street vendors shouting, people hurrying past without looking up. I join them. Just another face in a crowd of ghosts.
As I walk, I hear the rhythmic clang of metal against metal— the sound of construction. Curious, I look up.
At the end of the block, a group of workers in neon vests are gathered beneath a massive billboard. The old poster is being peeled away, one rusted corner at a time.
I stop walking.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching the workers tug and rip at the faded image. It takes me a second to realise what it is.... or rather, who.
The years have dulled the colours, the sharpness of the features, but I can still see it. The confident smile. The expensive suit. The bold letters underneath:
Victor Crane — Vision. Power. Legacy.
I stare at it until the workers rip away half the face, leaving just one eye staring back down at me. Then the next poster goes up. A new man replaces the old.
Elias Crane.
His picture gleams in fresh ink. It was clean-cut, poised, the golden heir with that same Crane look of command. The words beneath his photo read:
Elias Crane — The Future of Crane Industries.
My jaw tightens. I can feel my nails digging into my palms.
The workers laugh at something one of them says, the sound blending with the city noise. I don’t hear the words. All I hear is the echo of old applause, the flash of cameras, and cheers.
Now they cheer for him. Elias.
I force myself to look away.
Keep walking, I tell myself. You are late already.
But before I can take another step, a voice speaks beside me.
“I see they are replacing that old poster.”
I turn slightly. A man stands a few feet away, dressed head to toe in black. He was wearing a black coat, gloves, everything. He’s lighting a cigarette, the tip flaring orange in the grey morning. His voice is smooth and casual..... Too casual.
“Yeah,” I reply after a beat, trying to keep my tone even.
He exhales a plume of smoke, eyes still on the billboard. “Can’t say I am surprised. The old man had it coming, didn’t he?”
I glance at him. He does not look at me. He just smokes, calm as ever, like we are just two strangers making small talk.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
He shrugs. “You know how people are. They do not forget scandal, especially one that juicy. The man tried to kill his own son, for God’s sake.”
My stomach twists.
He flicks ash to the ground and continues, “You would think someone with that much power would have seen it coming. Guess madness runs in the blood.”
I do not answer. My pulse is climbing, slow but steady. I force myself to take a step back.
“Anyway,” he says, “good riddance, right? The company is better off without him. The world, too.”
That is when I turn to leave.
My hands find my pockets, my pace quickens. My heart beats faster with every step. The air feels thinner.
I can still feel his eyes on my back.
Do not panic.... Do not turn.... Just keep walking.
But then I hear him again, his voice calm and casual like a blade sliding from its sheath.
“Where are you going to so soon?”
The sound of the city fades into the background. All I can hear now is the low hum of a passing truck and the faint crackle of his cigarette.
“Victor Crane.”