Author's Note:
Sometimes the weight doesn't hit until it's quiet again.This chapter is about reactions—honest ones. From a best friend trying to keep up… and from someone who just realized the world he lived in wasn't built to protect him.
Sera's Penthouse, Late Morning
Niv's phone buzzed on the marble countertop.
He glanced over, saw the name, and picked up.
"Yo," Ethan's voice came through, light, like nothing in the world was wrong. "My exams are finally over. You alive?"
"Barely."
"You at your place?"
"No. Sera's."
A pause.
"Ah," Ethan said, clearly grinning. "You moved in and didn't tell me? Love that."
"No I didn't. Come over if you want."
Niv turned slightly toward one of the quiet guards posted by the door and gave a small nod. The man tapped a comm and murmured something low. Confirmation passed through the walls like a breeze.
Twenty minutes later, the elevator doors opened.
Ethan stepped out with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been shot at in his life—and immediately froze.
Four bodyguards stood near the hallway. Posture relaxed, but not casual. All had earpieces. All were very visibly armed.
"…Okay," Ethan muttered. "We've upgraded to Secret Service LARPing."
He stepped inside and—
"Jesus Christ, Jaime."
Jaime stood near the door, leg braced, shoulder taped, sipping black coffee like it was a ritual. He didn't move. Just gave Ethan a flat look.
"Scary Jaime. Still terrifying," Ethan muttered. "Nice to see you upright."
"Kid," Jaime said, and limped past him out the door.
Ethan watched him go. "Okay. Good talk."
He turned toward the living room and saw Niv on the couch, barefoot, holding a cup of chai. Sera sat curled beside him, long legs tucked under a blanket, hair still damp from a shower.
The room smelled like toasted bread and leftover spice.
There was peace to it—but the kind that comes after a car crash. Too still. Too clean.
Ethan flopped into the nearest chair.
"Alright. What the hell happened?"
Niv looked at Sera. She nodded once.
"We got hit," Niv said. "Last night. Rooftop ambush."
Ethan blinked.
"Hit?"
"Eight mercs. Two snipers. Jaime got clipped. They weren't local."
"What the—are you serious?"
"It was a hit," Niv said plainly. "On Sera."
The words landed like stone.
Ethan's mouth opened. Then closed.
Sera spoke, quieter now.
"Lucía invited me. She… didn't make it."
That shut Ethan up. He stared at her for a beat too long.
"…Jesus."
"My father called," Sera said, meeting his eyes. "We're going home for a bit."
"By 'we' you mean Niv too?"
"This evening," Niv said.
"You're not worried about, like… cartels or anything?"
They laughed.
A little too easily.
"Okay," Ethan rubbed his face. "Cool. Awesome. We're living in Narcos now. And I'm the comic relief side character."
Sera handed him a plate a few minutes later. They all sat on the floor with chai and food and a kind of quiet that wasn't awkward—just full.
Eventually, Ethan stood and stretched.
"Alright. I'll let you lovebirds prep for international criminal romance travel. Stay alive."
"You know how to reach me," Niv said.
"Yeah. But honestly?" Ethan's voice dropped a bit.
"I hope I don't have to."
Sera walked him to the door. Jaime's shadow had long since vanished.
As the elevator doors began to close, Ethan gave a lazy salute.
"Try not to start any wars."
No one answered.
But for some reason, he left quieter than he arrived.
Ethan's Apartment, Night
The lights were low. The skyline outside pulsed like a slow heartbeat.
Ethan stepped inside and shut the door. Tossed his hoodie onto the back of a chair.
The silence felt thicker than usual.
He walked to the kitchen. Poured a glass of whiskey.
Didn't drink it.
He just stood there.
FLASHBACK – His sister's voice, memory echoing:
"You're not untouchable, E. Not because you're weak. Because you still think the world plays fair."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"I told her I didn't want to live paranoid."
He took a sip. Not a deep one.
Then walked down the hall. Opened a closet.
Pushed aside stacked board games and an old duffel bag.
Pulled out a matte-black lockbox.
Set it on the counter.
Stared at it.
FLASHBACK – His father, stern and unimpressed:
"You don't have to carry it. But you'll wish you had it someday."
"Don't be the rich kid who dies because he thought bodyguards made him brave."
Click. The box opened.
Inside: a pistol. Clean. Never fired.
Birthday gift. Family tradition. Rejected, then forgotten.
Ethan picked it up.
Felt the weight.
Loaded it. Smooth. Practiced.
Muscle memory from a lesson he never thought he'd need.
He set the gun down gently.
No drama. No panic.
Just… the quiet arrival of awareness.
Ethan (to himself, flat):
"I'm a McAllister."
"That's not a shield. It's a target."
He sat down. The city glowed behind him.
And for the first time, he didn't feel safe.