Date: June 19th, 2007Time: Just before 6:00 AMLocation: Rural Stowe, Vermont
A boy sat at the back of the bus, motionless.
Small. Soaked. Silent.
He had no name that mattered. No past worth remembering. Just the hum of the diesel engine beneath his sneakers, the rhythmic tap of rain against the windows, and the flicker of the overhead light above his seat — a weak, sputtering pulse in the dim gloom.
Each time it blinked, his shadow stretched across the aisle, then vanished again.
His hoodie was two sizes too big. The sleeves hung past his knuckles. The fabric stiff with city filth, mottled where rain had soaked in, darker in patches where the blood hadn't fully washed out. The hem was jagged, caught once on a fence when he'd run from something worse than fists.
He didn't look out the window.
Didn't need to.
The world outside was the same as the one inside his head — gray, distant, forgotten.
He was eight years old.
But not in the way children are eight.
Not with scraped knees and peanut butter fingers and sidewalk chalk on summer pavement.
He was eight the way stray dogs are old.
Thin. Hollow-eyed. His skin mapped in bruises — yellow, blue, purple. Some fading. Others fresh and swollen. A cut on his bottom lip had split again. He tasted copper when he swallowed.
He didn't cry anymore. Hadn't in months.
Not since he learned that crying only made them laugh.
No rage either. No spark left to burn.
Just the cold — deep and crawling, nestled into his bones like mold in the walls of the orphanage he'd escaped.
He had run.
Yes.
But not toward anything.
Away.
From the rot-stained orphanage in Queens where mildew bloomed between the walls, where bleach burned your nose and every pillow smelled like piss and cereal. Where eye contact meant punishment. Where silence meant survival.
He didn't run to be free.
He ran to die.
To stop existing.
Not a new beginning.
An end.
He remembered the idea taking root in his mind like rot in wet wood — quiet, inevitable.
A delivery guy on the phone outside the kitchen window, smoking, laughing:
"Vermont's beautiful. Quiet. Remote as hell."
That was it.
That was enough.
He stole what he could — wrinkled bills from a drawer, a torn coat, a cracked ID card from the trash.
He'd slipped through the rusted gate during a blackout. Followed the rail tracks for miles. Hid in alleyways. Boarded a northbound Greyhound during a smoke break when the driver was distracted.
He'd stayed hidden for two states.
Now, almost twelve hours later…
He sat alone at the very back.
And for the first time in his life—
No one knew where he was.
No one was looking.
And that… was peace.
The bus hissed.
Brakes stuttered.
The boy opened his eyes.
Outside — fog.
The heavy kind that curled around the forest and blurred the trees into gray streaks. Pine trunks reached skyward, too tall, their tops vanishing into low clouds.
A wooden sign passed the window:
STOWE, VERMONT
No announcements. No names. Just the subtle slowing of the bus and the shudder of tired brakes.
The boy stood.
The vinyl seat peeled off his damp jeans with a sticky sound.
His knees trembled. Not from fear — but from starvation and dehydration. The last thing he ate was a cereal bar from someone's lunch tray two days ago. The last thing he drank was rainwater from a rusted vending machine shell.
He walked down the aisle.
No one looked up.
No one cared.
The driver popped the door without a word.
Chad stepped down into the cold.
The bus door wheezed shut behind him.
Red taillights disappeared into the mist.
And then… silence.
Real silence.
The kind that exists only in the deep woods.
He turned.
And saw it.
Mount Mansfield.
Its peak was half-shrouded in mist, but still massive — towering above the trees in the distance. Stoic. Eternal. There was something about it — the way it just stood there, watching, uncaring — that made his chest hurt.
I want to see it before I go.
Not the world.
Not life.
Just that.
One last view.
One last climb.
Then he could stop.
He turned off the gravel path and began walking — up the road that curved along the forest's edge, away from town, toward the trailhead.
His sneakers squelched in the mud. His ribs ached with every breath. The cold mist stuck to his skin, his eyelashes. Branches tugged at his hoodie.
Still, he walked.
Driven by nothing but the idea of a final view.
A summit.
A place to fall asleep forever.
But the body has limits.
His knees buckled once.
He caught himself.
Kept walking.
Half a mile passed.
A road forked, sloped gently uphill — a private gravel drive. Unmarked.
He didn't know it led to the Redfield estate.
He just followed the incline.
Another hundred meters.
Then—
His legs gave out.
He collapsed onto the moss at the edge of the road. Hard. His face hit wet grass.
But he didn't panic.
Didn't cry out.
He simply laid there — arms sprawled, breathing ragged, face turned toward the trees.
He looked up.
The clouds drifted above him, gray and silent.
His heartbeat slowed.
His breath fogged the air.
And finally—
His eyes closed.
And the forest, old and watching, didn't speak.
But it saw.
It listened.
And it waited.
Now the boy lay at the edge of the road, crumpled like trash discarded by the wind.
The sky was a heavy gray-blue, nearly black at the edges, and the last light of day had surrendered to the mist rolling down from the treetops. Rain had faded to a lingering drizzle, just enough to cling to leaves and skin, to hang in the air like breath held too long.
His hoodie clung to him, soaked through and flecked with gravel. His jeans were torn at the knees, shoes held together by tape and thread. One arm was pinned awkwardly beneath him, as if he'd fallen too hard to stop himself. His lips were faintly blue. His breath came in weak, uneven wisps of fog.
He didn't cry.
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just breathed.
Barely.
And then—
Tires. Crunching on gravel. Slow.
Headlights cut through the fog.
A luxury SUV — silver, wide-framed, humming smooth and low. The engine braked gently.
Inside: warmth. Seat warmers. Shopping bags in the trunk. The back seats cluttered with a stuffed bunny, toy bags, new dresses, lunch wrappers, half-finished smoothies.
The family inside was tired — happy, but spent from a long day in Burlington. They'd laughed, they'd shopped, they'd splurged on little things. Mia was nodding off with her bunny in her lap. Luna was scrolling silently through her phone. Lili gripped the wheel with one hand, eyes heavy, focused on the road's winding curve back toward the Lake.
Then the headlights hit him.
Something on the road — no, beside it. Small. Still.
Her breath caught.
Her hands clenched.
She pulled over hard, the tires skidding slightly on the wet gravel shoulder.
"Girls—stay in the car."
Lili shoved the door open before they could ask anything. The mist hit her like a cold towel, but she didn't feel it.
She ran.
Heels clicking on the wet stone, her robe catching the edge of the door.
She reached him in seconds.
Kneeling.
Heart racing.
Hands hovering over his tiny frame.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
His skin was pale beneath the grime.
Fingers cold. Pulse barely there.
Eyes fluttering but not waking.
"Mommy?" came a small voice behind her.
Luna. Standing near the open door. Mia clung to her side, bunny dangling in her hand.
Lili didn't turn.
"Stay in the car, both of you," she said, her voice tight.
They didn't.
Luna crept closer, curious, frowning. Protective.
Mia stood frozen in place — wide-eyed, hugging her bunny, silent.
Lili looked down at him again. Her heart was hammering. Her brain already moving too fast.
No jacket. No bag. No shoes that fit. No one else around.
This wasn't a runaway from a nearby house.
This was something else.
She reached for him.
Brushed wet hair back from his forehead.
He flinched.
Just barely.
Then his eyes cracked open — a sliver, barely enough to see.
And he saw her.
Platinum-blonde hair, damp and glowing in the misty headlights. A soft face — flushed, breathless — framed by a white scarf and long curls. Her eyes were a kind of pink he'd never seen before. Not contacts. Not painted.
They were real.
And they were looking at him.
Like he mattered.
Like he wasn't garbage on the side of the road.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You're freezing…"
Her coat dropped from her shoulders and wrapped around him in a single motion. Her arms followed, tucking him close, like he was breakable. Like he belonged to her.
"I'm Lili," she whispered, voice trembling. "You're okay now. You're safe."
She didn't ask his name again.
She didn't need to.
He couldn't answer anyway.
He was already falling under.
But even as the darkness came back, he felt the way she held him — tight. Like she wasn't letting go.
She carried him to the car like he weighed nothing.
Luna stepped back, opening the rear door.
Mia climbed in silently, still staring.
Lili laid the boy across the back seat, gently easing his head into her lap. She draped a blanket over him, one hand brushing through his tangled hair, the other holding his tiny hand — cold and limp.
"It's okay…" she whispered. "It's okay…"
The drive up the hill was silent.
No one spoke.
The heater hummed.
The fog thickened.
Chad slipped in and out of awareness — flashes of trees, rain on glass, warmth beneath a blanket that didn't smell like bleach.
In the rearview mirror, he saw her eyes.
Lili.
Framed by warm dashboard light.
Worried.
Beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that you didn't know you needed until it showed up and refused to let you die.
He wanted to say something.
He didn't know what.
But it stayed trapped behind his teeth.
And then—
The drive ended.
The road curved sharply.
Tall trees peeled away.
The lights caught the edge of stone columns, iron gates, a long winding path wrapped in fog.
The mansion appeared slowly, like it had been waiting for them — dark wood, high windows, old lanterns still glowing against the gray-blue sky.
Lili didn't hesitate.
She pulled through the gates.
Home.
It rose from the forest like something out of a forgotten storybook — tall windows glowing gold behind misted panes, stone walls half-covered in ivy and moss, a steep black roof glistening with rain runoff. Copper gutters hissed softly as water drained from above.
The porch lights flickered in the fog, warm and yellow, like old lanterns waiting to guide someone home.
To Chad's broken, fevered mind…
It didn't seem real.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It was impossible.
He didn't understand how something like this could exist outside of magazines and TV shows behind glass storefronts — a house like this, a life like this.
He barely felt Lili lift him again — didn't register the strength in her arms or the way she cradled his head as she carried him up the stone steps.
His senses were full.
Overwhelmed.
The door opened, and the house swallowed him whole.
Warm air hit him first. Then light — soft, flickering firelight. Not overhead fluorescents. Not buzzing bulbs. Real light, orange and dancing.
Then came the scent.
Cinnamon. Pinewood. Fresh linen.
And no bleach.
No mold. No rot. No piss-drenched blankets or sour mop buckets.
It smelled like...
Safety.
Like comfort in a way he didn't trust.
She brought him down a quiet hallway, the floors polished wood beneath thick rugs. His half-lidded eyes caught glimpses — high ceilings, paintings, dark wood furniture. A warm glow from sconces on the walls.
She opened a door.
A guest room.
But to him, it looked like a palace.
Thick carpet muffled her steps. Heavy curtains framed wide windows. The bed looked soft enough to drown in — blankets folded like clouds, sheets that whispered when touched.
She laid him down with the same care someone might lay a relic into velvet.
His hoodie was peeled off.
Shoes untied. Set aside.
Blankets were pulled up around him — tucked in gently.
He let out a sound — something between a sigh and a whimper — curling slightly, instinctively.
He didn't know how to relax.
But the bed insisted.
A hand brushed through his hair.
Fingertips light, careful.
"You're okay now," Lili whispered. "You're home."
The word hit harder than he expected.
Home.
It echoed in the hollow of his chest.
It didn't feel real. Couldn't be. That word didn't belong to him. Not in any language. Not in any memory.
His body said yes — sink, breathe, stay.
But his mind curled in tight.
Why are they being nice? What do they want?
His eyes stayed open for a few seconds longer.
Long enough for the door to creak again.
Two small forms hovered in the hallway — backlit by the soft hallway light.
The taller one stepped inside without hesitation.
Long honey-blonde hair, arms crossed, expression sharp and unreadable. She walked halfway into the room, glanced around, then studied him like she was still deciding what he was.
"Is he staying?" she asked, voice flat. Not cruel. Just blunt.
The smaller girl lingered in the doorway, bunny clutched to her chest. Eyes wide, voice quieter.
"He looks… sad."
Lili turned toward them, her voice warm but gentle. "He's just tired. Let him rest."
Chad didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just watched them — barely visible through lashes and blurred vision.
Two girls.
One brave. One quiet.
And Lili — the softest thing he'd ever seen, standing between them, still holding her hand out toward him.
They didn't belong to the world he came from.
None of this did.
And he didn't know what to do with that.
He stared for a while longer, trying to understand it.
Are they pretending? Are they going to change once the door closes?
Is this a trick?
What happens when I speak? When I ask for food? When I stay too long?
The thoughts spun quietly, buried beneath exhaustion.
But still — something inside him softened. Not trust. Not yet.
Just the ache of something new.
The possibility of kindness.
The idea that maybe… maybe they wouldn't send him back.
Maybe he could stay.
Just for a while.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
He let his eyes close.
And didn't immediately regret it.
The snow had come early that year.
Not a blizzard — just a soft beginning. Thin, drifting sheets of white floated across the still surface of the lake like breath across glass. It clung to branches, rooftops, porch steps, softening the edges of the world into something gentler. Quieter.
Inside the Redfield estate, the heat clicked on for the third time that hour.
And in a guest room near the back of the house, Chad Redfield — though he didn't go by that name yet — lay curled beneath two thick blankets, blinking at the frost traced on the corners of the window.
He still didn't trust the sheets. They were too clean. Too smooth. He kept expecting to wake up to the sound of keys in a metal door. Or bleach. Or fists.
But the only sound was the whisper of the radiator and the faint chirp of birds waking somewhere far outside.
He didn't know how long he'd been here.
A few weeks? Maybe more.
Everything blurred after the rescue.
Lili had spent the first few days at his side, barely sleeping, barely eating. When the fever hit — most likely from exposure and a body pushed past its limit — she never left the room.
She wiped his forehead with cool cloths. Changed his shirt when it soaked through. Brushed his hair when he whimpered in his sleep.
When the paramedics came, she stood between them and the bed.
"He's not going anywhere," she said. "He stays with me."
Her voice had steel in it then — a kind of power Chad didn't understand but recognized immediately.
They left.
When the police came with questions, Lili answered all of them. Firmly. Calmly.
No, she hadn't seen where he came from.Yes, he was alone when she found him.Yes, she would be filing for emergency custody.No, she wasn't interested in a temporary foster arrangement.
And when they tried to push back — bureaucracy, process, paperwork — she called her husband's lawyers.
Within a week, the orphanage in Queens was raided.
Records were recovered.
Photos leaked.
Staff were arrested.
The director cried on national television.
None of it mattered to Chad.
Because he was warm now.
Because the floor didn't creak with danger.
Because he wasn't afraid to close his eyes.
Not that he believed any of it would last.
The first time he saw Arthur Redfield, the man walked through the door like he was inspecting a machine.
Dark coat, long stride, expensive shoes that didn't track in a speck of snow. He looked at Chad once — no smile, no words — then turned to Lili.
"Seriously?" he said. "You brought this into our house without telling me?"
It wasn't yelling. That would have been easier to understand.
It was disgust, dressed in control.
Lili stood her ground.
They argued — not in shouts, but sharp, precise tones that slid under doors like knives. Chad couldn't make out all of it, just phrases that stuck:
"...left to die…""...we can afford it, Arthur…""...he's not some stray dog…""...do what you want, Lili. Just don't let him interfere with my work."
And that was the agreement.
Arthur wouldn't stop her.
But he wanted nothing to do with Chad.
He didn't speak to him.
Didn't look at him.
Only passed him like furniture — a thing to be avoided.
And Chad learned quickly to stay quiet when Arthur was home. To not step too loudly. To not breathe wrong.
But Lili…
She smiled when she saw him.
Not fake, not forced. Real. Warm. Tired sometimes, but always there.
She gave him a room.
A toothbrush. A drawer.
She made cocoa in the mornings and wrapped scarves around his neck when he didn't know how.
The papers came a few weeks later.
Stamped.
Signed.
Filed.
His new name etched in clean ink:
Chad Redfield
It didn't feel real.
It felt like wearing someone else's skin.
But he didn't let go of it.
He clung to it like a raft in open water.
December passed like a slow dream.
Mia and Luna took to him at first — too young to understand, too excited by the novelty. They showed him books, dolls, plastic animals with names he didn't know. Luna always wanted to win. Mia always wanted to hold his hand.
He didn't know what to do with either.
He stared too long. Didn't speak much.
And eventually… they noticed.
Luna started pulling away.
Chad wasn't fun. He didn't laugh, didn't race, didn't play.
And she didn't want to be associated with the quiet boy who watched people too closely.
Mia still lingered.
But she followed Luna's lead when others were watching.
Pack behavior.
Chad understood it.
He just didn't know how to fix it.
School was worse.
The kids were well-dressed. Polished. Armed with tablets and designer pencil cases.
Chad had never touched a keyboard.
He didn't understand the rules.
Didn't raise his hand.
Didn't laugh at the jokes.
So they gave him a name:
Freak.
Luke led the charge. Tall. Loud. Confident. Smiling while cruel.
Jessica followed — meaner in quieter ways. With glances. With whispers.
They tripped him. Mocked him. Drew things on his notebooks.
He didn't cry.
Didn't fight.
Just sat there.
Still.
Watching.
And then — one day — two kids sat beside him.
Will and Greg Wilson.
Twins.
Nerds.
Too smart, too weird, too foreign to be accepted by the others.
But they liked him.
They liked monsters.
They liked games.
They showed him a game called Warcraft III on the school computer. Drew maps in their notebooks. Laughed at dumb units and spell names.
Greg was loud and happy. Will was sharp and quiet.
And for the first time in forever—
Chad smiled.
Time passed.
The snow of Chad's first Redfield winter gave way to spring, then summer. His body recovered faster than anyone expected. He started fifth grade in the fall of 2008 at Stowe Elementary. He was nine years old.
He didn't speak much. He didn't smile. He didn't understand how to laugh yet.
But that began to change.
Greg and Will
Greg and Will Wilson were in the same grade as Chad. Born the same year — March 22, 1999 — just like him. Classmates from day one.
They were strange, loud, and incredibly kind. They talked with thick accents and laughed about video games no one else in class understood. They liked monsters, comics, swords, and anything where strength came from nothing and power was earned.
They took to Chad early.
He didn't speak much at first, but they didn't need him to. They pulled him into games, sat with him at lunch, and shared stories about characters he had never heard of.
Their house became a second home.
Sometimes Chad visited after school. Sometimes on weekends. And every time he came by, Natalie Wilson — striking and calm, always dressed like she was coming from yoga or about to lead a boardroom meeting — would greet him with a smile that didn't ask questions.
The Wilsons were wealthy. Their mansion was the closest house to the Redfield estate. It overlooked a wide stretch of forest and had a game room bigger than Chad's whole floor.
He met Mr. Wilson only once during those early visits. The man was tall, stern, and polite without warmth. He reminded Chad of Arthur. Eyes that looked through you. But Greg and Will never seemed afraid of him. Just respectful.
Natalie and Lili started having tea together more often. Sometimes on the lakefront deck. Sometimes in the sunroom of the Trout Club. Always in soft clothes and softer voices.
By summer of 2009, Chad and the Wilson twins were inseparable.
They played Warcraft III, StarCraft, Pokemon, and RuneScape. They built imaginary kingdoms, debated which hero was strongest, and watched MMA fights on VHS when they could sneak the tapes.
They even started sparring.
Greg was wild, happy, untiring. Will was sharp, technical, quietly competitive. Chad stood between them. Watching. Learning. Mimicking their moves. His reflexes got faster. His body stronger.
School
But not everything got better.
Luna, who was now in sixth grade, saw her adopted brother differently.
She was focused. Popular. Joined track and cheerleading. Made honor roll. Hung out with Jessica Sky and a few other girls with shiny hair and shiny smiles. She wanted to be someone. To stand out. To make their parents proud.
And Chad…
He was weird.
He hung out with nerds. With the Wilsons.
He didn't talk to anyone but them. Drew monsters in his notebooks. Played card games during lunch. Once, Luna passed him in the hall and saw him drawing a giant demon-sword with blood dripping from the blade.
She didn't say anything.
She just started ignoring him.
Fully.
At school, he didn't exist.
When they passed each other near the lockers, she turned her head. When her friends asked if she knew him, she laughed and said, "Who?"
She needed space. A future. Something clean.
And Chad? Chad was still haunted.
Mia
Mia was younger — only in second grade in 2009. She didn't fully understand why her siblings drifted apart.
She still liked Chad.
She still knocked on his door after dinner and asked to watch him play.
Sometimes, he let her sit on his bed and hold his stuffed Charizard while he raided with Greg and Will. Sometimes he let her play with the controller while he got water.
Sometimes she would fall asleep next to him with a blanket around her shoulders while his headset glowed softly in the dark.
At school, she stayed with her own group. Art girls. Kind kids. Nothing dramatic. But she remembered what Luna said:
"Don't get too close. They'll laugh at you like they laugh at him."
So she kept her distance.
In public.
But at home?
Chad was still her brother.
Not the one who laughed much.
But the one who always remembered to offer her the good controller.
By early 2010, Chad turned 11.
He was starting sixth grade, the same grade as Greg, Will, Luke, and Jessica.
Luke Sky, tall and already jacked from early sports training, made his presence known.
Jessica, sharp and mean, stood beside him.
They called Chad and his friends losers, weirdos, and freaks.
But for the first time in his life, Chad didn't care.
Because he had friends.
Because he had games.
Because he had places to be.
And deep down, something was beginning to whisper:
They wouldn't laugh forever.
June 2013 – End of Middle School
Chad had just turned 14.
It was the start of summer in Stowe, Vermont, and he had finished eighth grade by the skin of his teeth. He didn't fail, but the grades weren't good. His attendance was erratic. He handed in assignments late or not at all. Teachers called him "detached, academically disinterested, socially isolated."
He wasn't a troublemaker. Just a shadow in the classroom.
Most teachers quietly moved him along. Labeled him "at-risk," filed reports, and prayed someone else would deal with it in high school.
At home, Chad had carved out a comfort zone.
Greg and Will Wilson had become his anchors. Now 14 like him, the three of them were nearly inseparable. They filmed cringey YouTube skits, gaming videos, and recorded prank calls in Greg's garage with Will editing late into the night. Their channel had a couple hundred subscribers and a modest following of other misfit kids who left encouraging comments.
There was laughter. Screen glare. Pizza. Secret challenges. A world where no one asked him to be perfect.
He had even started to feel stronger. Not physically, not yet. But emotionally. Like maybe this version of life—school during the day, games and skits with the Wilsons after—was sustainable.
Lili was still kind, always encouraging. Mia, now 9, still peeked into his room to watch or sit near him while he played. Luna, also 14, now a freshman entering high school, had largely stopped talking to him, but she didn't actively mock him anymore. That, Chad counted as a win.
He thought he was stable.
He thought the worst was behind him.
The Ultimatum
The Doctor came home late that June.
He was in one of his moods. Not loud. Just cold.
Lili was in the garden, watering the roses. The girls were out with Natalie Wilson and her boys, walking the lake trail. It was just Chad and Arthur in the house.
Arthur stood in the kitchen with the mail in his hand—Chad's final middle school report card on top.
He said nothing for a while.
Then he sat across from Chad at the kitchen table. No eye contact. No anger.
Just disappointment packaged like business.
"You're entering high school this fall."
Chad said nothing.
"That means this house is no longer a charity."
Arthur placed the report card flat on the table and tapped one long finger on a row of C's and D's.
"If your performance doesn't improve—significantly—within the next year, I won't be funding college. No scholarships. No letters of recommendation. No support."
He let the silence sit.
Then added:
"I had worse odds than you. No games. No weekends off. No pity. I worked. If I hadn't, I'd be on the street or dead. And I won't reward laziness just because your story is sad."
He stood. Adjusted his cufflinks. Straightened his jacket.
"You can either make something of yourself or end up delivering pizza for the rest of your life. That's your call."
He walked out.
Chad stayed seated.
Frozen.
He had thought he was improving.
With the Wilson twins, he finally had a life. They were filming Let's Plays, designing thumbnails, even dreaming about affiliate status on Twitch. They joked about getting matching branding tattoos one day. It was dumb. It was fun.
It was theirs.
At home, things felt stable. Lili smiled at him in the mornings. Mia still brought him tea when he stayed up late. Luna ignored him, sure, but that was an upgrade from open contempt.
But now?
Now the Doctor had drawn a line in the sand.
Not just academically.
But existentially.
Shape up or vanish.
Earn your place or lose it.
The noose had tightened. And this time, it wasn't just words.
It was a promise.
September 2013 – Freshman Year
Stowe Union High School was a fortress of status.
Glass walls. Polished floors. Bright banners hung with college logos. Students walked the halls in branded hoodies, $200 sneakers, and fresh haircuts. Everyone had a laptop, a phone, a backup charger. Most had parents who were doctors, lawyers, or business owners.
The school fed kids into Dartmouth and Yale like it was tradition.
Chad was already behind the moment he stepped through the doors.
He was 14. Tall for his age, but lanky. Quiet. His clothes were clean, thanks to Lili, but never trendy. He didn't speak up in class. Didn't join clubs. Didn't understand half the slang being tossed around.
Luke Sky, also 14, had already turned himself into a local legend. Tall, blonde, and jacked for a freshman, he lived in the gym. His father was the town manager. His mother? The high school principal. He walked the hallways like he owned them, and no one dared to say otherwise.
Jessica, 14 and sharp-tongued, was freshman council VP. She had perfect grades, better shoes, and a voice that could eviscerate anyone who looked at her the wrong way.
Luna, now 14 and a junior, had become a star. AP classes. Track captain. Prom committee. She didn't just blend in with the elite crowd — she thrived in it. She never acknowledged Chad at school. Not even in passing.
Mia, just turning 9, was in her own orbit. Still in middle school, still tucked behind her textbooks and violin lessons. But even she was starting to notice that things weren't right with her brother.
Trying to Catch Up
Chad tried.
He woke up early. He studied longer. Lili worked with him in the evenings, reviewing assignments, organizing folders, trying to help him believe in himself.
Greg and Will Wilson, also 14 and now fully in the same grade, pulled back on late-night gaming. They helped him with flashcards. Reviewed tests. Practiced speeches. Everyone pitched in.
And for a few weeks, it almost looked like it might work.
But it didn't.
The harder Chad pushed, the more his brain pushed back. Foggy thoughts. Racing heartbeats during tests. Blank stares at homework he thought he understood the night before.
No one hit him. No one screamed.
But the pressure was there. Everywhere.
And when the first progress report came in? It was bad.
The Doctor Pulls Back
Arthur Redfield reviewed the grades in silence.
Then, as always, he delivered the verdict with cold precision:
"No improvement by midterms, and the college fund is off the table."
"You'll be eighteen soon. You want to stay here? Prove you deserve it."
There were no follow-up questions.
No discussion.
Just the withdrawal.
He canceled the tutoring.
He disabled Chad's school account permissions to shared tech at home.
He no longer looked at Chad when he entered the room.
The message was clear:
You are not my son. You are a liability.
Collapse
By December 2013, Chad was exhausted.
He had tried. Over and over.
And failed.
His grades barely budged. He started missing homework. Then classes. Then entire days.
He stopped waking up early.
He started crashing at the Wilson house more and more. It was easier. Quieter. Safer.
Greg never asked what was wrong. Will didn't either. They just turned on the console, logged in, and handed him a controller.
Natalie watched from a distance. She said nothing. But she always made sure there was food. A place to sit. A blanket on the couch.
Lili tried to hold it all together. She still made cocoa. Still checked in. Still fought to keep him connected.
But Chad had already started to pull away.
The momentum was gone.
The fire never lit.
And slowly, he stopped trying to be the person the Doctor wanted.
He stopped asking for validation.
He stopped thinking about the future.
He just existed.
Survived.
And played.
Because in that space, with Will and Greg, even for a moment...
He wasn't a failure.
He was himself.
Time passed.
Quietly. Unforgivingly.
2014 became 2015. Then 2016.
Chad turned 15, then 16.
Sophomore. Then junior.
His body shifted first. Subtly at first, then quickly. He got taller. Shoulders broader. Voice deeper. His frame, once lanky and forgettable, started filling out in ways he didn't expect. Clothes fit tighter. His jawline sharpened. Hair thicker.
He was beginning to look like Arthur Redfield.
Not that anyone said it out loud.
Lili still smiled at him each morning. Still left notes in his lunchbox. Still packed extra fruit slices or a sweet. But she looked at him longer now. With a softness he didn't understand yet. With concern.
Mia, now in middle school, still followed him like a shadow whenever he let her. Still asked to sit in his room and watch him game. Still smiled whenever he ruffled her hair.
Luna barely spoke to him. But when she did, it was often curt, charged, or dismissive. She was beautiful now, popular, known for her track records and polished look. The school hallway swallowed her into the upper social tiers.
And Chad?
He watched all of it.
Felt all of it.
Because his mind was changing, too.
By 16, Chad wasn't just growing.
He was waking up to things he didn't want to acknowledge.
His thoughts changed.
What he saw when he looked at Lili changed.
What he noticed when Luna came down the stairs in workout gear changed.
Mia too — not in the same way. But a possessiveness stirred. A sense of proximity. Attachment.
It confused him. It embarrassed him.
He tried to suppress it.
But the more the Doctor pushed, the more that twisting, protective instinct grew.
He was Chad Redfield on paper. Legally adopted. Medical forms. Report cards. State ID.
But the house never felt like his.
Because he never felt like theirs.
Arthur made sure of it.
Even as Chad brought home the occasional B, even as he helped clean gutters or fixed the back gate, there was never acknowledgment. Just that quiet, bone-deep coldness:
"You're not cut out for anything academic."
"Maybe we can find you a trade."
"There's dignity in delivery work, you know."
It was relentless.
Arthur never yelled.
He just dismissed.
Chad learned to nod. Smile. Absorb it like a punch to the ribs.
But inside?
Something darker took root.
Not rage.
Not yet.
Just resentment.
Cold.
Constant.
Growing.
He turned inward.
Not toward rebellion.
Toward calculation.
At 16, everything starts to feel more permanent. More fragile.
The idea of leaving the house one day became real.
Arthur mentioned it constantly now:
"You'll be eighteen soon. Time to plan your future."
But to Chad, there was no future outside this house.
Not because of the warmth.
Because of the people.
Because of Lili. Her softness. Her attention. The way she still knocked gently before entering his room. The way she always brought his favorite snacks.
Because of Mia. Her quiet loyalty. The way she waited at the window for him to come home.
Even Luna — cold as she was — was part of it. A challenge. A presence. A constant. Someone who belonged in the halls and shadows.
They were his world.
And the Doctor?
The Doctor was the one stone in the road.
The wall between Chad and everything he wanted. Between peace and stress. Between closeness and exile. Between comfort and control.
He began to watch the Doctor closer.
Not with fear.
With intent.
Because if something had to be removed…
Chad was starting to believe he could be the one to do it.
One day.
If the moment was right.
If he was pushed far enough.
If it meant staying home.
Chad began to study death.
Not as fantasy.
Not as a cry for help.
As logistics.
As strategy.
He wasn't reading crime thrillers or indulging in some angsty phase. He was analyzing.
What made a crash fatal?
What speed shattered the pelvis? What velocity turned a windshield into razors? How long could someone live with a punctured lung? What type of brain trauma caused instant death versus a slow bleed?
He watched real crash tests.
Not the staged ones on YouTube. The raw footage. Grainy, brutal, taken from surveillance cameras, dark web clips, or documentary archives not meant for teens.
He read forensic textbooks borrowed from a forgotten corner of the school library. Skimmed forums written by ex-paramedics, survivalists, and body disposal theorists.
He paused movies frame by frame to watch the moment of impact. Where the punch landed. Where the fall began. Where the breath left.
He played violent games with Will and Greg and filed away every efficient kill animation. What worked. What didn't. What was fast. What was messy. What was clean.
He took notes.
He kept them in a three-ring binder hidden inside an old shoe box.
Diagrams. Printouts. Schematics. Tire pressure charts. Guardrail failure studies. Brake line illustrations. Pedestrian trauma case files. Street cam maps of rural roads with poor lighting.
He wasn't just fantasizing.
He was preparing.
He also spent time in darker corners of the internet. Too much time.
Porn became part of his nightly routine.
Not just average videos. Not just curiosity.
It escalated. Like it always does.
He found sites that blurred the line between fantasy and coercion. Videos that blurred fiction and fear. Where dominance wasn't just implied, it was expected.
And he started thinking about power.
Not in the gym.
Not in school.
But in rooms. At night. In who controlled the outcome. In who belonged to who.
Lili was often on his mind when the screen glowed.
So was Luna.
The thoughts shamed him at first. Then confused him. Then stopped bothering him entirely.
He began to imagine scenarios.
In some of them, he was older. Smarter. A protector.
In some, Lili was his. Wife. Partner. Mother to his children.
In others, Luna softened. Realized he was the one who had always been there. Stronger now. Deserving. Alpha.
And Mia?
She remained innocent.
Untouched.
His to guard.
Always.
The family, in his mind, began to reshape itself.
Not legally.
Not morally.
But emotionally. Fantastically.
All it would take... was removing the obstacle.
Arthur.
The Doctor.
The weak link.
The one who controlled Lili.
The one who ignored Chad.
The one who could, at any moment, end the whole arrangement.
He started thinking about it more often.
Not dramatically. Not with rage.
But calmly.
Logically.
What if I just removed him?
No more tension.
No more pressure.
Just Chad.
And Lili.
And the girls.
A house that would finally be his.
The thought settled like a seed.
Not dangerous yet.
But planted.
And growing.
By junior year, the hormone storm had fully taken hold.
The shift wasn't sudden. It crept in.
Greg and Will started caring about their bodies more. Diets, routines, progress photos. They went from gaming and jokes to push-ups between rounds, YouTube fitness challenges, and learning how to train their muscles for real.
Chad followed.
But with him, the motivation wasn't just confidence.
It was fear.
Resentment.
Fantasy.
Because while Greg wanted to impress girls and Will wanted to compete, Chad wanted something else.
Control.
Security.
And, if he was honest, the power to hurt someone.
It was Will who brought it up first.
"You know Luke and his crew have been training for years, right? MMA gym off Route 108. They're basically unbeatable."
Greg grinned. "Then let's give them something to beat."
Chad hesitated.
He had seen Luke at school—already bulked, cut, confident. His presence swallowed every room. The way girls laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Jessica stood next to him like a queen by a throne.
But then again, Chad had nothing to lose.
So they showed up.
Three boys. Skinny. Undersized. Untrained.
The gym smelled like sweat and tape. Rubber mats soaked in effort. The air thick with heat and testosterone.
It was run by Viktor Mladenov, a retired Eastern Bloc heavyweight with a permanent limp and arms like steel rebar. He didn't care about backstories.
He took one look at them and shook his head.
"You're weak. But weakness is a choice. I can fix that—if you don't quit."
They didn't quit.
Not even after the beatings began.
Luke Sky was already a machine. Lean and powerful. Confident. Smirking. His footwork was polished, his form tight. When he sparred, it was with precision and a showman's grace.
Jessica was no different. Fast, aggressive, clinical. No wasted movement.
She choked out Greg their second week.
Pressed him into the mat and held the position a second too long.
Chad watched.
He was supposed to look away.
But he didn't.
And when it was his turn to spar with her, he couldn't stop noticing the way her breathing hitched, the way her chest brushed against him when she tried for a mount, the heat of her body.
She was cold, efficient—but to him, she was fuel.
And when she locked in a triangle choke around his neck, her thighs tightening, his face against her torso, he couldn't stop the way his mind wandered.
It didn't feel like defeat.
It felt like permission.
He lost the round.
But the images stayed with him.
Later, he sparred with Luke.
And everything changed.
The first few exchanges were technical.
Then Luke said something—a quiet insult, a smirk, maybe nothing at all.
And something broke in Chad.
He lunged.
Sloppy.
Wild.
He threw a punch that had too much behind it. A knee that missed but wasn't meant to land clean. A shove that sent them off the mat.
Viktor called them off.
Chad stood there, panting. Blood in his mouth. Fire in his chest.
He wanted to hurt Luke.
Break his nose. Crack a rib. Make him bleed.
Because Luke represented everything Chad couldn't have: natural talent, approval, admiration.
And more than that?
He stood between Chad and the girls.
He was in their orbit.
In Luna's.
In Jessica's.
Chad could see the way they smiled at Luke. The way they never looked at him.
It wasn't fair.
And fair didn't matter anymore.
After one session, Viktor pulled Chad aside.
His voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.
"You fight like you're running from something."
A beat.
"Let it chase you. Just don't let it catch you."
Chad didn't answer.
Because Viktor didn't need to know the truth.
He wasn't running.
He was sharpening.
Waiting.
Preparing.
By the second year of training, Chad had changed.
He was 17 now.
The boy who once froze at jabs now slipped them like shadows. His punches had weight. His frame had filled out. His arms were solid. His core tight. He'd been sparring with Greg and Will weekly, logging hours under Viktor's ruthless supervision.
And he could hold his own.
Not just against other students. Against Luke.
Their sparring matches had become personal. Bruises lasted longer. Exchanges got sharper. Luke still had the edge in technique and footwork—a product of years of consistent coaching—but Chad had something else now:
Obsession.
Rage dressed as discipline.
Every time Luke smirked, every time he hit the mat, something in Chad curled tighter. He wasn't trying to prove something anymore.
He was trying to reclaim something.
His space.
His pride.
His right to exist.
And Luke? Luke noticed. So did Jessica.
For the first time, they stopped laughing.
Outside, the Vermont woods were blanketed in a fresh coat of snow. It was February, and Stowe was deep in winter.
Luna, now 17, was applying to colleges. Track captain. AP student. Volunteering. Still ignoring Chad at school. Still smiling brightly for their father at home.
Mia was 13. Quiet but creative. Still slipped into Chad's room when she thought no one noticed. Still watched him play games or stared when he trained alone in the garage.
Greg and Will, both 17, had shifted focus from gaming to training. Will was now lean and quick, a natural counter-fighter. Greg had bulked up and cracked jokes between rounds. They all pushed each other. They all sweat together.
But Chad? He trained alone, too. Late at night. Quiet circuits. Perfect form. Pain was a language, and he had learned to speak it fluently.
One morning in late February, the cold hadn't left the windows yet. Lili had just poured coffee. The girls were upstairs getting ready for school.
Arthur Redfield sat at the table with his usual cold efficiency. Newspaper folded beside his tablet. Dress shirt starched. Eyes on his emails.
Chad sat across from him.
Silent. Eating toast slowly. Muscle in his jaw twitching.
The Doctor didn't look up.
"Once you graduate," he said, voice flat, "you're out of the house."
The room went still.
Lili froze, mug halfway to her lips.
"What?" she asked. Not sharp. Not angry. Just shocked.
"Without even helping him get started?"
Arthur didn't pause.
"I've enrolled him in driving lessons. He'll get a license. He'll find work. Courier. Labor. Something manageable."
He folded his tablet. Adjusted his collar.
"He'll manage."
Lili said nothing for a long moment. Then:
"He's your son."
Arthur looked at her.
"No. He isn't."
And left the room.
Chad didn't say a word.
He stared at the table. At his hands.
But inside?
Something snapped.
Not dramatically.
Not violently.
Just a quiet confirmation of what he'd always known:
He was temporary.
He was disposable.
And the only thing standing between him and permanence was Arthur Redfield.
Until now, the idea had been foggy. A thought that came and went in the corners of long walks or late-night frustration. A vague idea.
But now?
Now it started to take shape.
No more theories.
No more dark fantasies whispered behind closed eyelids.
Now it was math.
Physics.
Tactics.
A car.
A snowy road.
An early morning drive.
A deer.
Or something like it.
No cameras out on that stretch. No nearby homes. Just woods. And instinct.
If he planned it right, it would look like a freak accident.
And when the fire crews showed up? They'd see a grieving boy, lucky to be alive.
And behind him?
Nothing left of Arthur.
It was a cold evening in mid-May, the kind of late spring night where the air held the last bite of winter, and the sky stayed light just long enough to trick you into forgetting how dark the woods really got.
Chad stood in the kitchen, steady.
Graduation was three weeks away.
The Doctor was home for once. Still dressed from some late-day meeting, nursing his second coffee like it was a ritual. Lili was upstairs with Mia, helping her finish a school project. Luna had disappeared to her room hours earlier, music playing behind a closed door.
Chad stepped forward.
"Can we drive tonight? I want to practice night turns. For the test."
Arthur looked up from his laptop. Expression blank.
He took a sip.
Paused.
"Fine," he said.
And that was it.
Chad smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
The narrow mountain road just outside Stowe curved like a question waiting to be answered.
The BMW X3—a 2016 model, matte silver, well-kept—hummed smoothly along the blacktop. The headlights split the dark in bright arcs, lighting up trees like skeletal frames lining a procession route.
Inside, the dashboard glowed in soft blue.
Chad gripped the steering wheel, hands tight at ten and two.
His heart beat steady.
Breath slow. Calculated.
This wasn't fantasy anymore. It was numbers. Angles. A route he'd driven a dozen times under the guise of "practice."
He knew the curve. He knew the shoulder width, the lack of guardrails, the drop just past the treeline.
If he braked late. If he turned too hard.
It would look like an accident.
Arthur never wore his seatbelt on these drives.
"Trust your reactions," he always said. "If you don't trust your reflexes, you shouldn't be behind the wheel."
Now, he sat in the passenger seat—legs crossed, sipping from a tall steel travel mug. The sleeves of his dark blazer were rolled just enough to show a gold cufflink and a glinting watch.
For a few minutes, there was silence.
Then a sigh.
A long, contented breath.
"Three weeks," he said, almost cheerful. "That's it. Then you're done here."
Chad said nothing.
Arthur kept going.
"I'll admit, I didn't think you'd make it this far. Honestly figured you'd either drop out or get arrested. But look at you—a diploma. Almost."
He chuckled.
"Barely."
Chad's knuckles tightened.
"Don't look at me like that," Arthur added, voice shifting. "You think I haven't seen the way you drift through life? The half-effort, the weird attitude? I've been waiting for Lili to wake up to what a dead-end you've become."
He sipped again.
"But she won't. She's too soft. That's why I'll handle it. One license, a little cash, and you're on your own."
Still, Chad didn't speak.
He focused on the road. On the oncoming curve. The speedometer ticking slightly higher.
Arthur leaned his head out toward the window, breathing in the cold air.
"You know what the real tragedy is? You could have had a place here. You had a shot. But you blew it."
He turned, his voice softening into something colder.
"You think I don't know what you've been doing at night? The websites? The searches?"
Chad's chest tightened.
"I see the browser logs. The hidden folders. You like pain, don't you? Crying girls. Fear play. You think I don't recognize that sickness?"
A chuckle.
"And the way you look at them. My daughters. Especially Luna. And Lili… god, the way you watch her. Like a starving dog staring through a butcher's window."
Chad's eyes stayed on the road.
"Here's the truth. You don't get to want them. You don't get to have them. They're mine. All of them."
Chad blinked. The headlights caught a patch of mist and cut through it like smoke.
"That's right," Arthur said, voice trembling with a strange, giddy energy. "Luna's nearly perfect now. She's becoming something special. I've waited. Carefully. She'll come around."
He leaned in slightly.
"And Lili? She already shares my bed. Always has."
The words hit like a steel pipe to the chest.
Chad's breath caught.
The engine whined as the curve approached.
Arthur laughed.
"You thought you could ever replace me? You? A half-formed reject from a gutter orphanage? You were never anything more than charity."
The final words didn't matter.
Because Chad had already made the decision.
Silently.
Deliberately.
He let the speed climb.
Let the tires bite just a little too hard into the next turn.
He stopped being afraid.
And became something else.
Resolute.
Something in Chad didn't just snap.
It detonated.
Seventeen years of silence. Of held breath. Of feeling like a mistake. Of being tolerated, but never wanted. Of watching the only warmth in his life be disrespected and claimed by a man who treated love like ownership.
Arthur had taken everything. Their home. Their safety. Her.
And then he said the words.
Words Chad couldn't unhear.
Words that didn't just cut.
They rewired him.
His hands were no longer his own. His breath was a snarl. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to burst out.
No more planning.
No more theories.
No more math.
Just fire.
Just noise.
He slammed his foot on the gas.
The BMW's engine roared, a sudden beast unleashed.
The tires shrieked across the cold asphalt.
Arthur jerked upright in his seat, coffee flying out of his mug.
"What the hell are you—?!"
"I HATE YOU!" Chad shouted, voice cracking, almost childlike in its rawness. "I HATE YOU, I ALWAYS HAVE!"
The car shot forward. Trees whipped past in a blur of black and white.
"YOU THINK YOU CAN SAY THAT TO ME?! YOU THINK I'LL JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT?!"
Arthur scrambled, his hand grabbing at the dashboard.
"SLOW DOWN, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"
But Chad wasn't listening.
"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME?! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU TONIGHT!"
The speedometer soared past 80.
Arthur lunged for the wheel.
Chad elbowed him in the ribs, hard.
The Doctor gasped, wind knocked from him.
The car veered, the tires screaming. It corrected, just barely.
Arthur choked out the words:
"You're insane—you're a monster—"
And then
—a shadow.
Tall. Immense. Unmistakable.
The headlights illuminated it in full.
A moose.
Massive. Black. Standing like a myth pulled from the treeline.
Over six feet at the shoulder, body like a wrecking ball, antlers spanning nearly six feet wide.
There was no time.
No chance to swerve.
But Chad didn't try.
He didn't hit the brakes.
He hit the gas.
Let it end.
Arthur screamed something — high-pitched, incoherent, terrified. He threw up his arms.
The moose didn't move.
It didn't flinch.
It just stood there.
Like it knew what was coming.
And welcomed it.
The sound was apocalyptic.
The BMW's front end crumpled like tinfoil.
The hood folded. The grille split. The engine block collapsed.
The windshield exploded inward in a shatterstorm of glass. Razor fragments sliced through the cabin.
The moose's torso punched through the passenger side like a wrecking ram, hooves crushing metal, antlers shattering the Doctor's skull on contact.
They didn't pierce him.
They erased him.
One second Arthur was screaming.
The next, he was gone.
Bone. Flesh. Teeth. Gone.
A burst of red. A smear of meat. A spray of everything that once composed a man across leather seats and rear glass.
The car lifted.
Spun.
Launched off the shoulder, carried by momentum and mass.
Chad felt everything and nothing.
The tree came next.
The driver's side slammed hard against a trunk. The frame buckled. Chad's body jolted left. His head struck the window pillar.
Crack.
Glass or bone. He couldn't tell.
His shoulder folded back unnaturally. The airbag didn't deploy.
A jolt of heat.
Then black.
Then nothing.
The night was quiet again.
No sirens. No headlights.
Just wind, soft and cold, whispering through the trees.
Steam curled up from the twisted metal of the BMW like breath from a dying beast. The engine hissed. One of the back doors creaked with every subtle sway. From somewhere in the dark—maybe thirty yards down the road—came a low, wet groan.
The moose.
Still alive.
Somehow.
Chad sat slumped in the driver's seat.
His head lolled slightly.
He blinked.
He was aware. Hyper-aware.
His hearing had a tinny edge, like listening through a metal pipe. The world felt muffled, distant, but present. Heavy.
What struck him first wasn't pain.
It was the absence of it.
He should have been broken. Shattered. Ruptured.
Instead, he was breathing.
His pulse was slow. Measured. His hands, though cut and trembling, still worked.
There was blood everywhere. Sticky across his arms, soaked into his hoodie, spattered across the dash.
But most of it wasn't his.
He blinked again. Slower this time.
The windshield was gone.
Cold air knifed through the broken frame.
And then he looked right.
At the passenger seat.
At the thing that used to be Arthur Redfield.
At what remained.
And for a long time, he couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
Just stared.
The skull was gone.
Not cracked—gone. Split open like a watermelon hit with a hammer. One eye socket torn, the other dangling by a strip of tendon. Teeth shattered. Jaw slack. Blood had soaked into the seat and floor mat, pooling in the seams, soaking into the insulation.
The antler—what was left of it—pierced clean through the chest. The moose had obliterated half the door and taken the Doctor with it.
There was no recognition in the thing beside him.
No humanity.
Just meat.
And that's when it hit.
Not guilt.
Not horror.
Relief.
Clean.
Cold.
Final.
He was gone.
Not threatened. Not brooding in the hallway. Not writing emails about college or shaking his head at report cards.
Gone.
Really, truly, gone.
Chad didn't smile.
But his body went still.
A kind of peace settled over him—unfamiliar, but welcome.
He didn't feel proud.
Didn't feel victorious.
But something in his chest unclenched.
Like he'd been holding his breath for years.
And now?
Now he could breathe.
He whispered, not even realizing it:
"I did it."
His voice cracked. Not from emotion.
From shock. From the strain.
From being seventeen and finally doing the one thing he believed could save him.
The man who made him feel disposable...
Was.
And for the first time in his life?
Chad Redfield was alone.
And that didn't scare him.
It felt like the beginning.
Not like he planned.
Not with poison.
Not with brake fluid or a clean swerve off the edge of the guardrail.
But it had worked.
The moose had done the heavy lifting—pure chance, divine cruelty, fate, whatever you wanted to call it.
But the crash?
The crash had been his.
His idea.
His timing.
His hands on the wheel.
He looked down at them now.
Streaked with blood. Still trembling. But not from panic.
From adrenaline.
From certainty.
I killed him.
There was no one around. No headlights. No dashboard cams. No security footage.
No one had seen what happened.
No one would ever know.
He could say the moose came out of nowhere. That he panicked. That he swerved and lost control.
He could say they weren't even talking. That the car was quiet. That Arthur was relaxed. That there was no screaming. No struggle.
Just a cold night.
Just a kid who got lucky and survived.
It would be believable.
A tragedy. A freak wildlife collision.
Something people whispered about at fundraisers or church for a month or two. Then winter would come, and they'd forget.
I'll cry.
I'll choke on my words. Let my hands shake.
Let Lili hold me.
His stomach twisted.
Not from guilt.
From the sheer, electrifying potential of it.
He was free.
Not symbolically.
Really free.
The man who controlled the house, the money, the future?
Gone.
And he was still here.
Still alive.
His heart thudded again, a little slower now. He could feel the pain creeping into his shoulder, his ribs. But beneath it all was something deeper.
I made it.
His mind reeled, spinning in every direction at once.
Blood on the windshield. The sound of bone breaking. The words Arthur spat in those final minutes. The wheel jerking. The headlights blinding the moose. The moment he didn't brake.
And then—
Something else.
A flicker behind his eyes.
A sound.
A presence.
Not external.
Internal.
And then, unmistakably:
[SYSTEM UNLOCKED]
Chad blinked.
The message didn't just appear — it imprinted. Like light seared onto retinas after staring at a screen too long. But this wasn't light. It was internal. Burned into the back of his eyes, into his thoughts.
It wasn't in front of him.
It was inside him.
Not VR. Not AR. Not a headset, a screen, a game.
A presence. Smooth. Silent. Weightless. But real.
His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't a dream.
No HUD had ever felt like this — not even in the best-cut modded Skyrim builds or the most immersive VR he'd seen in YouTube reviews.
This wasn't visual.
This was neurological.
And it was responding.
Not to a controller. Not to inputs.
But to him.
To what he had done.
To what he had become.
His hands trembled, not from pain, but from the weight of what was happening. The moment, the realization.
He exhaled — a long, shaky breath that steamed in the cold wreckage around him.
System.
The thought didn't need to be spoken.
It didn't even echo.
It triggered.
Like a mental keystroke pressed into a muscle he didn't know he had.
SYSTEM INTERFACE – INITIATED
A translucent interface unfolded in his mind with crisp, angular motion.
Not cartoony. Not over-designed.
Minimalist. Ruthless. Perfect.
Sleek obsidian panels edged in pale blue light. Clean lines. Smooth transitions. No startup animation. No sound cues. No fanfare.
Just function.
[MAIN MENU]• [STATS]• [INVENTORY]• [SKILLS]• [CLASS TREE]• [SHOP]• [SOUL BALANCE: 1] (a flickering skull icon glowed faintly red)
He stared.
Not with understanding.
But with a mixture of awe and confusion so profound it made his stomach lurch.
Then — a secondary window opened, floating just above the main interface.
[CHOOSE STARTING CLASS]
And just like that, he was staring at something that felt like it had been pulled straight from 2004.
A list of glowing tiles. Classic. Unapologetic.
Just names.
No stats. No builds. No loadouts.
Just:
• Warrior• Paladin• Hunter• Mage• Priest• Rogue• Warlock• Druid• Shaman
Chad blinked again, heart pounding.
Is this…?
No. This can't be…
Am I dying? Hallucinating? Tripping on shock?
But he couldn't stop looking. Couldn't look away.
His fingers twitched — except they didn't move.
There was no mouse. No controller.
But he knew what to do.
His gamer brain kicked in. Years of keybinds, drop-down menus, and half-formed min-max strategies.
Click.Hover.Confirm.
He didn't even realize he'd selected Rogue until it was too late.
[CLASS CHOSEN: ROGUE][LEVEL 1 ROGUE UNLOCKED]
His chest tightened as the message blinked.
The interface shifted — recalibrated.
Numbers flashed across the top of his vision like status bars in a custom HUD.
HP: 100 / 100ENERGY: 100 / 100MANA: 100 / 100
Another tab opened.
[SKILLS ACQUIRED – ROGUE LEVEL 1]
• [Stealth] (Passive) – Silence steps. Reduce visibility.• [Backstab] (Active – 40 Energy) – Bonus damage from behind.• [Evasion] (Active – 60 Energy) – Temporary dodge boost.
Chad just stared.
Not in disbelief — not anymore.
In processing.
This wasn't soft.
This wasn't safe.
This was a system designed for one thing: efficiency.
Real progression. Real stats. Real consequences.
Like a game where death was permanent and failure wasn't just lost XP — it was blood on the pavement.
He was still slumped in the wreck. The moose groaned somewhere nearby. Arthur was gone — nothing but cooling blood and shattered bone.
And something inside Chad shifted again.
He blinked. Focused.
Shop.
The system responded.
Instant.
[SHOP – ASCENSION INTERFACE]
It was massive.
Tiers. Icons. Categories.
Entire worlds worth of items and options, most of them locked, greyed out, blurred into nonsense.
Weapons
Armor
Summons
Vehicles
Mutations
Bloodlines
Contracts
Knowledge
Artifacts
Biological Mods
Magic
He scrolled.
Until he saw it.
[Bloodlines]
A darker menu. Heavier. Weightier.
Most were locked.
• [Dragonspawn] – LOCKED• [Demonic Lineage] – LOCKED• [Oldblood Serpent] – LOCKED• [Voidmarked] – ???
One section glowed faint green.
[Starter Lineages – Tier 0]
Inside:
• [Orc]• [Troll]• [Undead]• [Night Elf]• [Human Noble]• [Blood Elf]• [Forsaken]• [Gnome]• [Goblin]• [Greenskin] — FREE
Only one was available.
He hovered.
A small triangle pulsed red beside it.
WARNING: May cause behavioral drift. Emotional instability. Primitive instincts may intensify.
Chad looked down at his blood-covered arms.
Then at what was left of Arthur.
Then at the forest.
Then at the moose still struggling to breathe.
He smiled.
A crooked, empty smile.
"Buy it."
The system accepted.
[Bloodline: GREENSKIN – ACQUIRED]
And in that moment?
He stopped being just a survivor.
He started to become something else.Something not born.Something chosen.Something earned in blood.