Ryan stood in silence, still processing what the boy had just said.
"I would really appreciate it if you did," the boy had whispered, his eyes cold, his voice calm. It wasn't a bluff. It wasn't bravado. There was a strange truth in his words, something raw and dark and heavy for a child to carry.
For a long second, Ryan didn't speak.
Then, to the shock of even his own bodyguard, Ryan laughed.
Not a mockery, not a sneer. A real, shaking, unexpected laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, then bent over slightly as if catching his breath. The boy stared at him, unmoving, eyes sharp as blades.
"You," Ryan said, between breaths, "you are something else."
The boy stayed quiet. His shoulders relaxed, but his eyes never blinked. He was watching. Calculating.
Ryan straightened up and slowly, carefully, reached forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
The boy didn't move.
"Who hurt you?" Ryan asked softly. "Who made you like this?"
The question caught the boy off guard. His brows furrowed, but he didn't answer.
"Someone had to," Ryan said, eyes narrowing slightly. "Because no one is born this angry, this empty. Someone taught you how to look at the world like it's already abandoned you."
The boy opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. His lips trembled for the briefest second, but he quickly masked it with a scoff.
"You think you know me?" the boy said. "You don't know shit."
Ryan nodded slowly, as if agreeing.
"No," he said, "but I know pain when I see it."
There was a pause.
"I could give you something better," Ryan offered. "Not out of pity, not because I care, but because I see potential in you. You're strong, and you're sharp. That's rare."
The boy laughed bitterly.
"You want to adopt me or something? Is that your twisted idea of family?"
Ryan smiled. But this time, it wasn't cruel.
"Not family," he said, "more like... an experiment."
The boy's eyes darkened. "You touch me and I'll gut you like a pig."
Ryan raised his hands. "Relax. I'm not that kind of monster."
The bodyguard, who had been watching silently a few steps away, shifted his weight. His eyes darted toward Ryan as if asking, Should we act?
Ryan gave him a small shake of the head. Not yet.
He crouched down, face level with the boy now. He studied him like a mirror, like a memory.
"You know," Ryan said, "I was like you once."
The boy didn't reply, but his eyes flickered, curious despite himself.
"Abandoned. Broken. Angry. I wanted to burn everything down," Ryan continued. "And I did. I hurt people. I became something... else. But I never forgot who I was before it started. And maybe that's the only thing that kept me from going all the way."
The boy's hands clenched into fists.
"You talk too much," he muttered.
Ryan chuckled. "Yeah. I get that a lot."
They stared at each other for a moment, silence stretching between them like a tightrope. Then, Ryan stood up and sighed.
"Fine," he said. "You win. You don't want help, you don't want a home, you don't want to change anything. You just want to be left alone to rot in the streets like some discarded toy."
He turned around slowly.
"Too bad," he added, voice lower now, "I don't leave toys behind."
He gave a subtle nod to the bodyguard.
The boy sensed it too late.
Before he could react, the bodyguard lunged forward and wrapped a thick arm around his chest, covering his mouth. The boy kicked and struggled, flailing his small limbs with everything he had, but the man was built like a tank.
Ryan turned back, calm again. The look in his eyes had shifted—colder now, professional.
"You'll thank me later," he said softly.
The boy's vision blurred. His lungs burned as he kicked the air, but the effort drained him fast. The bodyguard's grip tightened like a vice, and eventually, everything faded.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
When the boy woke up, he was lying on a bed. Not a street bench. Not a cardboard sheet. A real, soft bed with a white blanket tucked over him. His wrists hurt. He realized he had been handcuffed, and someone had just removed them.
His vision cleared.
A woman sat beside him.
She looked around thirty. Her black hair was tied neatly in a bun, and her face was tired but kind. She was holding a bowl of water and a cloth, which she dipped and gently dabbed against his forehead.
"You're awake," she said, smiling faintly. "Good."
"Who... who are you?" the boy whispered. His throat was dry.
"I'm Maria," she said. "And you're safe, for now."
"Where am I?"
"In Ryan's house."
At that, he jerked upright, panic in his eyes.
"No, no, no," he said quickly. "He's crazy. He's—"
Maria held up a hand.
"Trust me, I know. I've worked here long enough to know exactly what he is. But he said you were his adopted son now. That he wanted you protected."
"Protected from what?" the boy snapped.
Maria didn't answer.
Instead, she looked at him carefully, like she was studying his face. There was something there. A question she hadn't yet asked.
"You remind me of someone," she whispered.
The boy turned his head.
Maria looked away.
Ryan's voice echoed from the hallway. "Maria, come downstairs."
She stood up.
"I'll be back," she said. "Try not to run. The door's locked anyway."
The boy sat there, breathing heavily. The room was warm. Too warm. Too safe. It felt wrong.
On the desk nearby, he noticed something—a small photo frame. Inside it, a younger Maria was standing with a boy about his age. The image was faded, but the resemblance...
Was that her brother?
His heart thudded.
He looked around the room again, noticing for the first time that the walls were not painted, but padded, like the inside of an asylum.
And the door was indeed locked.
A toy, Ryan had called him.
But he wasn't anyone's toy.
Not anymore.