Friday. Last day of suspension.

  Not that it mattered. Pete wouldn't ease up just because school started Monday.

  Rory sat cross-legged in the hallway, a rag in one hand, a tin of polish in the other. Pete's shoes lined the wall like obedient soldiers, leather dull under the light. He rubbed until his shoulder ached, the smell of wax and polish clinging to his skin.

  This wasn't like the other chores, mowing, scrubbing grout, washing windows. This one was smaller. Pettier. Pete could've done it himself in five minutes, but he wanted Rory on his knees, polishing proof of his obedience.

  Each stroke made the craving worse. He wanted a drink, a smoke, anything that might relieve some of the tension. But Liz's bottles were too risky now, and the stash behind the loose brick was long gone. All he had was the ache in his back and the smell of polish in his throat.

  Then came Nick's voice, slick and insistent: I'll get you whatever you want...Just find me something of Dad's. Anything labeled Parity.

  Rory dug his thumbnail into the rag until it tore. His eyes drifted from the neat row of shoes to the office door down the hall.

  He told himself no. He wasn't Nick's errand boy.

  But curiosity itched beneath his skin, sharper than boredom or rules. Maybe Nick really would come through. The promise of a high at the end of it dug deeper, steady and mean.

  He dropped the shoe, rag sliding to the floor, and stood. His pulse thudded against his ribs as he crossed the hall. The door handle was cool under his palm. One slow press, click.

  The smell hit first, old books, dust, and the sharp bite of aftershave. His dad's office hadn't always smelled like that. Once, it had been paper, ink, and the warm, metallic scent of solder, something alive in the air instead of gone. Now Pete's scent clung to everything, layered over the ghosts.

  The desk, the shelves, even the chair had been his father's once. Back then, they'd been buried under schematics and circuit boards. Now, they were littered with tax folders and insurance forms. Pete's new world, neat, dull, ordinary. He'd changed jobs after Mum left, cut clean from anything that tied back to Dad.

  He'd claimed the office the same way he claimed everything else.

  Rory's chest tightened. This wasn't a workspace anymore. It was an erasure.

  He started searching. Slowly. Carefully.

  The top drawer was all clutter, pens, crumpled receipts, a notebook scrawled with half-finished lists. The ones below were worse, packed tight with invoices and bills, Pete's heavy handwriting stamped across every page. Nothing. No blueprints. No drives. No trace of the world his father built.

  He replaced each exactly as he found it, aligning edges, listening for the crunch of tyres outside. Every creak of the house made his pulse spike.

  The shelves were worse, binders labelled Tax, Compliance, Property. Dry. Lifeless. Pete's universe. Rory slid one out, scanned the front page, legal copy, and slipped it back.

  When he finished, he stood in the middle of the room, breath shallow, chest tight. Nothing. No sign of Parity. Not even a whisper of their dad. Pete had wiped it all clean.

  He shut the door quietly and stood in the hall, head bowed, the aftershave smell still clinging to him.

  Upstairs was next.

  The master bedroom door hung slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling through the crack. He could smell it from here, fabric softener, aftershave, and something older beneath. Dust. Memory.

  He hated this room. Always had. Even walking past it made his stomach knot. It had been his parents' once. His dad's armchair used to sit by the window, his mum's scarf hanging over it. Now it was Pete's bed. Pete's scent. Pete's rules.

  He stepped inside.

  Everything was unnervingly neat. Shirts ironed and ordered by colour. Watch and ring on the dresser beside cologne. Liz's perfume beside it, the scents warring faintly in the air.

  He started with the drawers. Ties. Socks. Receipts. Nothing. He worked carefully, hands steady, heart not.

  Then his fingers brushed something caught in the fold of a T-shirt. A small photograph.

  He drew it out.

  His mother, Lyela, smiling in the sun outside their old house, hair windblown, eyes bright. The picture was worn at the corners, the colours fading. It had been handled often.

  Rory's breath snagged. Pete had kept this? Hidden it? He stared at it for a long moment, confusion curdling into something colder. He couldn't decide which was worse, that Pete still had it, or that he'd buried it here, at the bottom of his own drawer like a secret.

  He put it back exactly where he'd found it and closed the drawer, pressing it shut with his palm until it sealed flush. His stomach churned. The smell of aftershave felt thicker now, clinging to his skin.

  He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, breathing through the faint nausea pressing at the back of his throat. Then he turned and left, careful not to look back.

  The hallway felt cooler. Quieter. The spare room waited opposite Abbey's door, dusty, forgotten, easier to breathe in.

  He pushed it open. The frame stuck, then gave.

  Dust drifted in the half-light. Boxes everywhere, old clothes, broken toys, stacks of books, an exercise bike leaning dead against the window. Donation piles that no one had ever donated.

  This had been Eryn's room once, then Nick's. When Rory was younger, he'd sneak in here at night, curling up beside his brother when the house felt too big or Pete's footsteps too close. Those nights had felt safe in a way nothing else did.

  Now the room was a dump.

  Rory stepped over a tangle of extension cords, scanning the room. Dust clung to the air, thick enough to taste. He crouched beside one of the boxes and peeled it open: Christmas decorations, tangled lights, a stuffed reindeer missing an eye. Another box held Abbey's outgrown toys, and beneath them, a stack of old schoolbooks that might've been his once. Nothing useful. Nothing of his father. He moved slowly, checking under the bed frame, only dust and a single shoe. The exercise bike creaked when he shifted it aside, and the sound made him freeze, head tilting, listening for the front door. Silence. He stood there for a long moment, the air pressing tight around him, before straightening and brushing his palms off on his jeans. The craving pulsed faintly under his skin, not just for a drink or smoke now but for something real, something that meant all this wasn't just busywork and ghosts. There was nothing left of the brothers who'd once lived here. Pete had scrubbed that out too.

  He stayed standing in the doorway for a while, staring at the mess of boxes and half-open drawers, the stale air clinging to his clothes. Nothing. No "Parity," no notes, no trace of the life that used to fill this house before Pete moved in and replaced it all with his own order.

  Everything that had belonged to his father, to their family, was gone. Replaced. The only thing left of them was him.

  He glanced toward the window, the light had shifted. Late afternoon already. His stomach tightened. Pete would be home soon, and the list on the fridge wasn't finished.

  He rubbed his palm against his jeans and swore under his breath. He needed to get back to the chores before they came home. If Pete walked in and found the house half-finished, he'd make sure Rory regretted it.

  Still, as he made his way downstairs, the thought of Nick kept circling back, that grin, that easy confidence, the offer he'd left hanging in the air.

  You look, I'll sort you out.

  He'd looked. He'd searched every room, turned over boxes, found nothing. But he'd done what Nick asked.

  And Nick had promised.

  Whatever you need. Whenever you need it.

  Rory paused at the bottom of the stairs, chewing at his thumbnail, a pulse of something restless beating under his ribs. Maybe Nick had meant it. Maybe he'd actually come through. With a sigh he made his way into the laundry, the house closing in around him again. The mop leaned in the corner, waiting. He picked it up, the handle cool against his palm, and turned toward the sink to fill the bucket.

  The sound of running water filled the quiet, steady and hollow.

  He kept his eyes on the sink and tried not to think about Tuesday.

  ***

  The apartment had gone quiet hours ago.

  Ethan sat alone in his office, the desk lamp throwing a sharp halo over scattered notes and the folded scrap of paper beside him. Owen's handwriting stared back, a name, a number, a risk that had been burning a hole in his pocket since the previous night.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He turned the note over once, then again, thumb running the edge until it softened. The line between necessity and recklessness had blurred days ago.

  He pulled his phone closer.

  "You sure about this?"

  Will's voice broke through the stillness from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the half-light.

  Ethan didn't look up. "Not really."

  "That's honest." Will stepped closer, barefoot, wearing the same tired T-shirt he'd fallen asleep in on the couch. "You don't even know who you're calling."

  Ethan's jaw ticked. "That's kind of the point."

  "Yeah, but 'underground clinic' doesn't exactly scream trustworthy."

  "It's vetted," Ethan said, more to himself than to Will. "Owen cross-checked the records, encryption routes, domain ages."

  Will huffed, unimpressed. "So he's fifteen and smarter than both of us, is what you're saying."

  Ethan didn't argue. He was already typing the number.

  Will shifted his weight, arms tightening. "Just... be sure, okay?"

  Ethan nodded once, pressed call, and put the phone to his ear.

  The phone rang twice before a woman's voice answered, clipped, polite, neutral.

  "Hello?"

  "I'm calling to make an appointment with Dr. A. Wood," Ethan said, keeping his tone even, the scrap of paper flattened under his thumb.

  A pause. "No one by that name works here," she replied.

  Ethan frowned. "Are you sure? I was given this number and told-"

  "Perhaps you have the wrong number," she said, cool and final. The line went dead.

  He held the phone in his hand a moment, the dial tone loud in the quiet room. Will watched him from the doorway, arms folded, face unreadable.

  "What happened?" Will asked.

  "They said it was the wrong number," Ethan said, irritation threading his voice. He looked down at the paper, then up at Will. "Why would Owen give me a bad lead?"

  Will shrugged. "Maybe the kid's not as good as he thinks he is."

  Ethan picked up his whisky, stared at the amber liquid as if it held a plan. "So what now?"

  "Maybe this is a sign," Will said slowly. "Maybe stop."

  The phone buzzed on the desk, a different number, no ID. Ethan's thumb hovered before he answered.

  "Berfield." He kept his voice steady.

  This time the woman's voice returned, lower, controlled. No name, only business. "Apologies for that. We don't take unsolicited calls. We're going to do a couple of checks. You are not Hector, enforcement, or any branch of government, correct?"

  "No." Ethan's answer was immediate.

  "Good." The voice stayed cold, professional. "Payment is cash only. No IDs. You'll be searched before boarding transport, pockets emptied, pat-down, no exceptions. If you bring tech, you don't get in. You understand?"

  "I understand."

  "We'll send you a pickup location one hour before your slot," she continued. "You'll hand over payment there. You come alone. You leave alone. Fail any condition, and you're denied entry without refund. Do you agree?"

  Ethan exhaled, slow, steady. "Yes."

  "What's the purpose of your visit, consultation, diagnostic, integration, or enhancement?"

  "Integration."

  A short silence. "Seven-five," she said.

  Ethan blinked. "That's higher than I was told."

  "Prices shift," came the flat reply. "Materials, risk, discretion...they add up."

  "I have my own implant," he said, voice even.

  Another pause. A faint scratch of keys. "Seven even," she amended.

  "Fine."

  "Tuesday's clear. Whole day. Pick a slot."

  "First."

  "First it is. Be ready. A driver will contact you from a private number an hour before pickup. Two grand cash on arrival. The rest after installation. Don't bring anyone. Don't call this line again."

  The call ended without a click, just a dead line.

  Ethan lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen for a beat. The air in the office felt heavier, like the conversation had soaked into the walls.

  From the doorway, Will shifted his weight, arms folded. "So we're really doing this?"

  Ethan's jaw tightened. He nodded once. "Tuesday. First thing."

  Will dragged a hand down his face, muttering a quiet curse. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  Ethan didn't answer. He just sat there a moment longer, the silence thick between them. Will eventually turned and walked out, footsteps fading down the hall.

  Left alone, Ethan reached for the small implant case on the desk. He turned it over once in his hand, the plastic catching the light, and knew, whatever line he'd crossed, there was no going back.

  ***

  By night, the house had gone still.

  Rory stood at the sink, sleeves damp, scrubbing plates from yet another of Liz's dinners. The rhythmic hiss of running water filled the kitchen, but his thoughts were miles away, still circling the same questions, the same voice. Anything labeled Parity.

  He hadn't found a thing. Just dust and the faint smell of aftershave clinging to everything Pete touched. His shoulders ached, his hands were raw, and still he couldn't stop thinking about Nick. Why now? Why after two years of silence? And why act like Dad's old work suddenly mattered again?

  He rinsed the last plate, stacked it neatly to dry, and turned off the tap. Pete and Abbey's laughter drifted faintly from the lounge, TV light flickering across the hallway. Rory lingered in the hall for a moment, watching their silhouettes move across the wall. For a second, he thought about joining them. But the thought passed. It always did.

  He started up the stairs just as Liz came down, book in hand, her slippers soft against the carpet. She smiled when she saw him. "Hey, you alright, Rory?"

  "Yeah," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I was just wondering... do you know if there's any of my parents' stuff left? Like, old boxes or files...maybe in storage or something?"

  Liz blinked, surprised. "Oh. I'm not totally sure." She hesitated, eyes flicking past him toward the lounge before softening again. "If anything, it'd be up in the attic. But don't get your hopes up, honey. Most of that was cleared out years ago."

  "Right. Yeah, I figured as much," Rory said, trying to keep his voice casual.

  She reached out and squeezed his arm. The touch made him tense. He could see the pity in her face, the kind that felt worse than Pete's anger. He stepped back before she could say anything else.

  Once she'd disappeared into the lounge, he turned and climbed the stairs, the carpet muffling his footsteps.

  The attic was cramped and dusty, filled with mismatched boxes piled in precarious stacks. Rory spent what felt like hours sorting through them, shifting aside knick-knacks and items that held no significance to him. Just as he was about to give up, his phoneflashlight caught something in the far corner.

  A battered cardboard box sat hidden beneath a few others, the word Atwood scrawled across it in faded marker. Rory's heart skipped a beat. He hurried over, tugging the box free and dragging it downstairs to his bedroom.

  Once inside, he ripped away the brittle tape and peered inside. The box was filled mostly with books, notebooks, and papers. Sitting on top was an old photo. Rory picked it up, staring at the image of his younger self, no older than four, posing with his mom, dad, sister, and brothers. He had no memory of that moment, but the sight of it filled him with an overwhelming sadness.

  Swallowing the lump in his throat, he placed the photo back in the box, face down, and began sifting through the rest of the contents. Most of the papers were incomprehensible, filled with equations, diagrams, and notes he couldn't decipher. As he dug deeper, he spotted a black sketchbook shoved to one side of the box. It stood out from the rest: worn but sturdy, unlike the flimsy notebooks scattered around it.

  Rory flipped it open, finding more of the same cryptic notes and sketches.

  Something about the sketchbook felt... different. He noticed a bulge at the back and flipped to the last page. There, stuck to the inside cover, was a small drive. He peeled it o? and held it up to the light. Written across it in tiny writing was a single word: Parity.

  Rory's breath caught in his throat. Was this what Nick had been looking for?

  He carried the drive to his bed, turning it over in his hands. After a moment, he grabbed his laptop and his drive adapter and plugged it in. A single icon appeared on the screen. Clicking it brought up a login window, asking for a password.

  Frowning, Rory flipped through the black sketchbook again, hoping for a clue. He tried a few possibilities, names, dates, but nothing worked. With a frustrated sigh, he ejected the drive and set it on his bedside table. He slipped the sketchbook into his backpack, staring at the dark screen of his laptop until it reflected his own tired face back at him.

  The house creaked. Someone laughed faintly downstairs. Rory leaned back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

  He'd looked. He'd done his part.

  And maybe that was enough to earn what Nick had promised.