He’s a Trap, and He’s Salvation

Chapter 1

The noon news cut to a live shot outside a villa, and the field reporter faced the camera.

“The mob’s old grudges have sparked another round of violence, and the blood is already on the city’s hands,” she said. “We’re following the latest developments in a major serial shooting case.”

She lifted her mic and kept going.

“Inside Villa 12 in the Oakridge District, a gunman opened fire overnight on 102 people. Fifty died at the scene, twenty-one were critically injured, and thirty-one suffered minor injuries.”

“The police say it may be tied to a gang feud,” she added. “A suspect has been arrested, and the case will go to trial soon.”

She turned slightly, ready for the next segment.

“I’m here with the head of Major Crimes, Captain Reyes. Captain Reyes, can you tell us”

Inside the County Detention Center, a beat-up black-and-white TV flickered and hissed.

A bunch of inmates shoveled down their food, listening like it was the best show on earth.

Most of them were violent offenders waiting for arraignment, locked up on the outskirts of town in a concrete fortress wrapped in razor wire.

Spike, the newest one dragged in, rubbed his nose like he was auditioning for an action movie and let out a crooked grin.

“That’s badass,” he said, completely forgetting his own little charge for getting busted with drugs in a group.

Ryan held up his spoon like a microphone and put on his best reporter voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, now I’m interviewing Ethan,” he said. “Ethan, when you mowed them down, what were you thinking, how did it feel”

Ethan Walker kept his eyes on the TV like none of it had anything to do with him.

Ryan prodded him a few more times, and Ethan didn’t even bother looking over at the guy who bragged about being “mentally unstable” and was in for rape.

Then Ryan quietly produced a cigarette, lit it, and passed it over.

Ethan took it, flashed a grin, and finally spoke after a lazy drag.

“How did it feel,” he said. “One word, great. Three words, felt so damn good.”

Ethan was built like a linebacker and usually kept to himself.

If it weren’t for the short scar on his face, he could almost pass for some ordinary office guy.

But the moment he talked, the scar and that bright flash of teeth, the bite in his tone, it all hit like a warning sign.

Spike and Ryan whistled and clapped, making a whole show of it.

The older inmates nearby, the ones long past their hormone-fueled bravado, edged away without a word.

Kids were fearless like that, they didn’t know what they were poking at.

Still, youth loved a legend.

Surrounded by younger inmates, Ethan heard the same awe and the same questions over and over.

“How’d you take down Boss Kane and his whole crew,” someone asked.

“Russo’s backing you, right,” another said.

“Ethan, how’d you pull it off, that was insane”

Ethan didn’t answer.

He crushed the cigarette under his shoe, pushed through the crowd, and headed back to his cell.

He lay down on the bunk like he had all the time in the world.

Outside, the sky was still a clean, bright blue.

A Boeing jet thundered past, slicing a hard line across the open air.

Ethan watched the fat metal bird shrink toward the horizon and thought, wild and mean, maybe it’ll crash halfway like those paper planes I used to fold as a kid.

Back then, in that old neighborhood getting torn down, he and the other kids played inside empty concrete shells.

At sunset, he’d stand up high under a raw ceiling, hurl a paper plane as hard as he could, and listen to his friends explode into cheers.

His youth had been just like that paper plane.

He’d wanted it to fly, to really fly, and it barely made it any distance before it started dropping.

He’d never planned on becoming a killer.

Somewhere along the way, the only things he still thought about were his worn-out mom, and one person.

Jules, that Bunny.

Bunny looked put together at first glance.

Thick black hair that fell soft, with the ends curling like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

A little dimple at the cheek.

A black vest up top, skinny red jeans down below, and the whole look sitting right in the middle of every trend and none of them.

Whenever they were out shopping and Jules spotted something stupid, he’d latch onto Ethan’s arm and whine like a kid in a candy aisle.

“Ethan, I want that,” Jules said. “Buy it for me.”

Ethan checked the price tag, two grand.

He wasn’t an ATM.

He slapped Jules once, not hard enough to leave a mark, just hard enough to snap him back to reality.

Jules yelped, but he still planted his feet and wouldn’t let it go.

“Justin Timberlake wears this brand,” Jules said. “I want it too.”

Ethan frowned and looked at the poster, some jacked-up guy with a perfect chest.

“You trying to turn into him,” Ethan asked.

Jules gave a smug little hum like he thought he’d won.

Ethan pinched his chin, leaned close to his ear, and let his voice drop.

“I’m not sleeping with a guy that turns my stomach,” he said. “If you want to look like him, I’m done with you. You still want it”

Jules shivered at the heat of Ethan’s breath.

His face went dark red, like he’d been caught doing something pathetic.

He hesitated for a long time, then finally peeled himself away, swallowing hard.

Even as he left, he kept glancing back, his jaw working like he was still drooling over it.

And that was the guy who’d dragged Ethan under.

Turned him into somebody he’d never imagined he’d be.

Derek, who was gay too, couldn’t even watch it without getting mad.

He kept telling Ethan to go get his eyes checked at General Hospital and said it like a diagnosis.

“You’ve got gunk in your eyes,” Derek said. “He’s trouble, he’s drama. Anyone else in the world and you pick him, you’re gonna regret it.”

Derek was Ethan’s real friend.

They’d lent each other money, they’d been hauled into stations together, and if even Derek said it that way, Ethan’s mom had it worse.

She’d cried herself hoarse.

If Ethan’s gambling-addict dad hadn’t been an even bigger disaster in the family, she probably never would’ve swallowed her son’s situation at all.

At least it’s better than him wasting his life at the tables, she’d mutter, talking herself into calm.

So she stopped yelling, and the house went quiet.

Better my ass, Ethan thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head with a bitter laugh.

How had he even fallen for Jules in the first place.

It wasn’t because Jules spent his nights drifting through bars, hunting for rich guys to latch onto.

That neon street was packed with all kinds of spots, and some of them drew men looking for men.

A bunch of young guys, eager and cocky, squeezed into tight jeans, making a show of themselves on the dance floor, hips rolling, acting like bait.

If someone bit, they’d start naming their price.

Jules was the most ambitious and the least careful of the bunch.

He knew he was pretty, he knew he could sell the image, and he made a quick run of it.

A few suckers bought him Calvin Klein underwear, cologne, a white-gold chain.

One idiot in love even paid a full year of community college tuition, just so Jules could keep the “student” look that played best.

In his smug little moments, Jules perched on a barstool and noisily slurped his cocktail, showing off to the younger guys nearby.
“See that, a Tissot. Kevin bought it for me.”

Miles took one look and curled his lip.
“Looks fake. The real one doesn’t look like that.”

Jules’ eyes went wide.
“Your mom’s fake. He gave me the receipt with it.”

No one knew Miles’ real name. He liked to brag that he’d studied at some third-rate art school, the kind of guy who tried to look refined, and he’d even picked a pianist’s name for himself like it made him somebody.

He couldn’t stand Jules, and he shot right back.
“Receipts don’t mean anything if you can’t read them. How many words do you even recognize?”

Jules got nailed right where it hurt and went feral, and the two of them started trading insults about each other’s moms.
Miles still had that “I’m above this” vibe, so once he’d said his piece, he stood up, dusted himself off, and walked away.

That left Jules alone at the bar, stewing, drinking like he had something to prove.
He ordered a flaming shot and tossed it back in one gulp, like he wanted his stomach to smoke.

Ethan rolled the tab into Jules’ total. Jules slapped down a few bills, belched, and snorted.
“I’ve got money for days.”

Ethan counted it, then held his hand out without a flicker of sympathy.
“Still short a hundred.”

Jules spit toward the direction Miles had gone, fished out more cash, and pushed himself up, swaying as he stepped around the stool.
His legs were thin like a deer’s, his hips kicked up, and a strip of narrow waist showed above his jeans.

To Ethan, it wasn’t sexy at all.
If anything, it made Jules look small and kind of pitiful.

Ethan took a drag of his cigarette and asked, “Where’s your mom.”

Jules was half-drunk and half-alert. He glanced back and glared.
“Your mom’s the one who’s trash.”

Ethan shook his head and repeated it slowly, loud enough that Jules couldn’t pretend not to hear.
“I asked where she is. Why isn’t she looking after you.”

Jules stared, slow to process, then flicked his hand like he didn’t care.
“She’s in Bayport, working. Busy. Career woman.”

Ethan gave a short, cold laugh.
“Got it. Your mom’s basically dead.”

Jules’ veins stood out at his temples. He breathed unevenly, shaking with anger, then lifted his chin.
“I don’t need her to feed me. I’ve got plenty of money. I even give her money.”

Ethan didn’t react. He just kept counting.

Jules stood there like he’d turned invisible.
For a second it was like his mouth got stuffed shut, and his shoulders sagged.

After a long pause, he turned and wandered toward the door, muttering under his breath.
“I don’t need her. I give her money…”

Outside, the street looked like a black beast with its mouth wide open.
Jules kept chanting it to himself, “I give her money,” then stumbled on his skinny legs and fell right into it.

Ethan watched his back with the corner of his eye and thought, this idiot is going to get himself killed.

And sure enough, Jules’ little hustle didn’t last.

He spread his bait everywhere, kept too many “connections,” and the second he got money, he bounced.
The guys who paid didn’t even get a taste of what they thought they’d bought, so it didn’t take long for word to travel.

One guy told another, then ten more, and soon Jules was “bad goods.”
Nobody wanted him.

That day, Jules got into a full-on fight with one of his patrons right at the entrance.

The guy was huge, easily six-three, in a gray suit, built like a boulder.
He grabbed Jules, hauled him up, and cursed in his face. “You little thief. Give me back my phone and my camera.”

Jules craned his neck and thrashed, then realized the man’s grip was iron.
“You gave it to me,” he snapped, then threw a kick like he was trying to make it count.

The big man spat, blocked it like it was nothing, and drove an uppercut into him.
Jules went flying and hit the ground face-first.

The man didn’t stop. He planted himself right there like it was a ring and started kicking and punching until it looked ugly.
Inside the bar, Miles and the others watched like it was live entertainment, tossing out sharp little verdicts like “karma” and “divine punishment.”

When the big guy finally felt satisfied, he dug into Jules’ pocket, yanked out the phone, and snorted.
“It’s not that I’m cheap. My client list is on that phone. You really think I’d just hand it to you.”

He leaned in, eyes hard.
“You want money. Fine. I’ll give you money.”

He pulled out a thick wad of bills and smacked Jules across the head with it.

Jules went down again, ears ringing so badly he couldn’t even get his hands under him.
The bills fluttered through the air and scattered across the ground, like funeral paper raining down.

The onlookers got their fill of “justice” and drifted off, satisfied.

Jules lay curled up like a kicked dog.
When he finally caught his breath, he forced himself upright, dropped to his knees, and started picking up the bills one by one.

His hands shook as he wiped off dirt and grime, careful like each note mattered more than his pride.
On that street where BMWs flashed past and headlights smeared into streaks, he looked tiny, like an ant nobody bothered to notice.

Ethan stood behind the floor-to-ceiling glass with a cigarette in his mouth, watching him gather the money.
The damp night fog and the weed smell inside the place blurred the edges of everything, and for a second Ethan thought he was looking at someone else.

Back then, his gambler dad had lost everything, and collectors came pounding on the door.
They kicked it open, only to find the place almost empty.

His mom broke down crying, pulled out cigarettes and liquor, and begged.
“I divorced that bastard,” she said. “He left without a dime.”

They didn’t believe her. They dragged out every box from under the bed and tore through it all, and there was nothing.
Furious, they grabbed a trunk and threw it out the window, cursing as it fell.

Downstairs, it shattered into pieces. Junk went everywhere, and his schoolbooks spilled out too.
His mom ran down trembling, knelt in the mud, and picked up the books one by one, smoothing the pages flat with her hands.

Jules stayed bent over for a long time before he finally got every bill.
He stuffed the money into the lining of his jacket, pushed off the ground, and slipped back inside.

He found the most hidden corner he could and curled up there.

A huge bruise had swollen on his forehead. His lips were split and dark with dried blood, and his clothes were stained in patches.
Three raised finger marks stood out on his face where the bills had been slapped across him, almost ridiculous.

He didn’t say a word.
He just hid in the corner, listening to the loud dance music and staring blankly at the bodies twisting on the floor.

All of a sudden, Ethan thought Jules looked… kind of cute.

Before, Jules had been like a proud little rooster, always shaking his fancy feathers.
Now his hair looked soft, even his lashes were lowered, and he reminded Ethan of a puppy he’d had as a kid, obedient in a dumb, sweet way.

That strange feeling made Ethan pour a glass of cherry liqueur and set it in front of him.
“Don’t cry, Bunny,” he said quietly.

Jules looked up in panic and flinched, then took the glass with a hesitant, trembling hand and sipped.
His eyes were hollow, then they suddenly filled, and big tears dropped straight into the drink.

A quiver got stuck in his throat. His shoulders jerked every so often under the bar’s hazy lights.
In a rough, broken voice, he said, “Ethan.”

That night, they ended up in bed together.

Chapter 2

Jules regretted it afterward. He mumbled, "Ethan, you're so mean. You’re nothing like the nice guy I thought you were."

He was clearly beating himself up for giving in.

Ethan Walker crushed his cigarette out and ruffled the boy’s hair. He tossed an apron at him and told him to get dinner started.

Jules sighed, looking defeated as he went to turn on the stove.

Ethan knew he wasn't exactly the gentle type. He couldn't even remember a time when he had been.

The first time they slept together, Ethan stripped Jules in a few quick tugs. He looked so thin and pale, like a little bird compared to Ethan.

Ethan grabbed those slender ankles, forced his legs apart, and prepared to dive in.

Jules’s face twisted in pain. "What are you doing? You’re a creep!" he yelled.

"You've been done plenty of times before, so stop whining," Ethan said, his patience wearing thin.

Jules was practically hanging off Ethan's waist like an acrobat. He tried to squeeze his legs shut, looking humiliated.

"You don't know what you're talking about! I don't just sleep with anyone. I only do it if someone's going to take care of me!"

Ethan poked at his heat with a rough finger. "You're already swollen, and you're telling me you don't do this?"

Jules flinched. "I didn't want to! He forced me!" He grit his teeth in anger. "And he never even got me the phone he promised..."

Ethan gripped his hip bone. "So you just took it yourself, right?"

Jules shut his mouth tight like a clam, refusing to say another word.

Ethan threw him back onto the bed, pinning him against the hard mattress. Jules looked terrified. "Don't... don't do this! Are you going to take care of me or not?"

Ethan let out a dry, raspy breath, cutting off the memory.

He sat up in his cell, feeling restless. He lit a cigarette and tried to focus on a newspaper, but he couldn't settle the fire in his blood.

Finally, he lay back on the cot and unzipped his pants. He started touching himself, whispering under his breath, "Jules, you little bunny... you little devil."

Jules was a different person in bed. As annoying as he was during the day, he was irresistible once the clothes came off.

He was pale and delicate, whimpering like a small, wounded animal. He swayed with Ethan’s rhythm, clumsily trying to wrap his arms around Ethan's neck.

"Ethan, will you take care of me? You won't throw me away, will you?" he had sobbed.

Everything about Jules was soft. He wasn't fragile like a woman, but he was supple, and his bones felt light.

Ethan loved biting his neck, pinning him down and looking him right in the eye.

When they were in the heat of it, Jules’s eyes were clear. They reminded Ethan of the water in a deep well back home, so bright and so sad, shimmering with a desperate kind of hope.

Sweat beaded on Ethan’s forehead as he moved his hand faster. He couldn't stop thinking about Jules’s thighs, the curve of his body, his gasping mouth, and those sparkling eyes.

Jules made the most ridiculous sounds in bed, just short little moans, but for some reason, Ethan found it incredibly hot.

He thought about those sounds and the clumsy way Jules didn't know where to put his legs. His breath hitched, and he finally finished.

Ethan wiped his hand with some tissue and tossed it into the bin. He leaned against the small, barred window, trying to catch his breath.

He knew that ever since that wild night, he’d left something important behind with Jules. Something he’d never been able to get back.

A sliver of moonlight filtered through the bars, hitting his skin. Ethan ran a hand through his hair and went back to his usual cold self.

He lay down on the cot and quietly drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 3

The gates of the County Detention Center opened and a white van rolled out.
Reporters surged forward and were stopped by armed officers.

A QuickPost reporter slipped under an officer’s arm, shoved his lens toward the window, and hammered the shutter.
Flash after flash went off, harsh and blinding.

Caleb Price threw up a hand to block the glare and barked, “Interviews require permission. Suspects have rights too.”

The male reporter grinned like a monkey, blew him a kiss, and calmly slid back outside the scrum.

Ethan sat by the window, expression flat.
He asked Caleb, “Got a cigarette.”

Caleb put on that righteous act, like a celebrity pretending to be furious while secretly loving every second.
He leaned toward the window and said, “Wait until the hospital. We can’t open the window right now.”

Ethan sank back and clicked his tongue, saying nothing.

A photo of Ethan’s profile got snapped anyway, then cropped and splashed across the most prominent spot in that day’s QuickPost.
The headline read, “A righteous rebel, a hot-blooded rogue, why slaughter the mansion and take nothing.”

The paper sold out fast, nationwide.

A burned-out IT guy read it and felt his blood stir.
“This is the real Tony Montana,” he muttered, suddenly remembering the days when he didn’t even know how to use a smartphone and still thought he was the toughest kid in the alley.

A cab driver read it too and told his passenger, voice full of gossip.
“You know Boss Kane, Kane from the Regency Casino. Dead today. His own guy did him in. Wild stuff.”

The passengers were two teenage girls. One snatched the paper, and her eyes lit up.
“The guy who did it is kinda cute.”

The other one crunched on a greasy fried dough fritter and mumbled, “You’re never getting married. You think any guy is cute.”
Her friend smacked her arm and they cracked up together.

Overnight, Ethan’s blurry side profile ended up everywhere, passed from hand to hand.
A black bar covered his eyes, clean and sleek, like a pair of sunglasses hiding something icy underneath.

People admired it.
People feared it.

For a moment, his buzz even drowned out Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Ethan had no idea any of it was happening.

Caleb stayed close, shielding him as best he could while the police escorted him to Ravenport General Hospital.
He went through strict exams in neurology and surgery.

After the machines ran their scans, a psychiatrist sat down with him and started a careful interview.
The doctor placed a photo in front of him and asked, “Do you remember who this is. How do you feel when you see him.”

Ethan glanced at it and couldn’t help laughing.
“That’s my deadbeat dad. Of course I remember.”

Once his dad stepped into a casino, it was like he stopped being a real person.
Before that, he’d actually been a good-looking guy.

He used pomade to spike his hair into a slick quiff, stood tall, had thick brows, and when he smiled his eyes curved like he was always joking.
A gold chain hung around his neck, and he loved going to dance halls with loud music and flashing lights.

That was how he met Ethan’s mom, a waitress at one of those places.
She wore high-slit dresses and called out into the cold night, “Boss, come on in,” and “Welcome.”

Once his dad made a little money, he dressed like he was somebody important, like a businessman fresh off a plane.
He’d order pricey brandy just to show off, then flirt with the girls in that sleazy, practiced way, trying to sound classy and failing anyway.

When he was at his peak, he’d go back to his hometown for the holidays and rent a car just to look like a big shot.
If he didn’t roll in with something, it didn’t count.

When Ethan was little, he rode along in that blur of fake glamour for a few years.
What he remembered most was his mom’s loud, giddy laughter, like she was laughing herself out of her own life.

Then his dad got hooked on pai gow, and whatever luck the family had left ran out.

He didn’t just lose everything.
He got caught and punished.

His dad was “lucky” in a sick way. They took a pinky from each hand and left him eight fingers, enough to keep playing.
His mom screamed through her tears, “Why don’t you just die.”

After that, she packed up and took Ethan back to a small town out in the sticks.

The night they left the city, the apartment upstairs was still lit bright.
Gamblers were still shouting over cards, bets snapping back and forth, and his dad’s raspy, honking voice was easy to pick out.

Ethan took one thing with him, a model airplane.

It was small and neat, carved from wood, but he never figured out how to make it fly.
It sat on his bedside table for years.

Life in the countryside was dull.
The only fun was racing a motorcycle down mountain roads.

He didn’t care about school.
He cared about running wild in empty concrete shells.

Sometimes they played cops and robbers.
More often, they played gangs, pretending they were ruthless criminals and beating each other senseless.

When they got older, the games got bigger.
They brought them into school and used fists on real people.

When he skipped class, he’d carry a stick, sometimes a switchblade, and he’d go after kids who weren’t part of his crew.
He’d beat them until noses ran and mouths filled with blood.

One time, he was mid-kick, watching blood spray like a fountain, when his mom appeared out of nowhere.
She let out a scream that shook the air, grabbed him, and sobbed into his shoulder.

“You little curse,” she cried. “You could learn anything and you choose this. I raised you for nothing.”

She dragged him away before he could start something worse, and forced him back into school.

His mom had never been decisive.
She had no real skills beyond carrying plates and blending into the background.

She didn’t have a plan for his future, not a real one.
She clung to one idea, that he had to “make something of himself,” that he had to “go to college,” and whenever he didn’t listen, she’d repeat the same lines over and over.

“I carried you for ten months,” she’d say. “Do you know how much I suffered.”
“Just like your father, no conscience at all.”

To make sure he didn’t end up like his dad, Ethan had to stay in school.
Too bad he still wasn’t built for books.

He was strong, quick on his feet, and sharp when it mattered.
His mom ran out of options, begged everyone she could, and finally got him enlisted.

People said the military was brutal.
Ethan thought it was manageable.

Life on base was repetitive to the point of numb, but Ethan fit right in.
He learned practical skills, cleaning, cooking, emergency response, assisting with arrests, the kind of work that kept things running.

He climbed steadily, trained through military school, earned commendations, and moved up.
He could crank out two hundred one-arm push-ups, shot straight, handled firearms and blades with ease.

The company commander liked him and tossed him the messy problems.
Ethan knew the commander liked Derek more.

Derek had that pretty-boy look, lean, polished, money behind him.
School hadn’t worked out, so he came to the army for a résumé, something to smooth his way back into a cushy job.

Derek spent a lot of time around the commander in ways nobody bothered to name out loud.
The barracks walls weren’t exactly soundproof.

Still, Derek knew how to work a room.
Once, he even put on a fake troubled look and asked Ethan, “Do you think me and the commander could ever be real.”

Ethan didn’t have the patience for it.
“You trying to marry him,” he asked.

Derek’s smile stiffened. He laughed twice and said Ethan was way too literal.
Ethan didn’t feel like watching him act dramatic, so he walked off to do laundry.

Derek did have a conscience, in his own way.
After he got out and started doing well, he didn’t forget old friends.

He showed up one day with a cigarette pinched between his fingers, looking pleased with himself.
“Come work with me,” he said. “You won’t lose money with me.”

By then Ethan had already discharged.
He was debating whether to take some respectable job, then pictured himself trapped on a low salary for years.

Working for strangers felt like a dead end.
Working with a friend made more sense.

Derek, aside from his taste in men, didn’t seem to have any major character flaws.
Ethan didn’t think long before he nodded.

He joined the club Derek’s uncle financed, with Derek’s name on the paperwork.
They stocked imported liquor, turned the laser lights on until the place looked like a rainbow exploded, and sold everything at a premium to people who liked wasting money.

Derek wasn’t stupid.
The place looked expensive, the music never stopped, and trouble wandered in like it owned the floor.

There were people getting high, people selling themselves, petty thieves drifting through, hands always searching for a rich guy’s wallet.
Derek had to keep the police on friendly terms, and he needed someone sharp-eyed at the door.

Keep the water too clean and nothing lives.
Let it get too dirty and everything dies.

Ethan was the perfect middle line.
He wouldn’t bend for threats, but he understood how the world worked.

He wasn’t an outsider, and he didn’t get rattled easily.
He’d seen enough to stay calm when things got ugly.

Once he planted himself in the room, the security guys had the nerve to toss out anyone who crossed the line.
The party drugs got less common, the worst fights cooled down, and everyone felt safer.

Ethan never complained about night shifts either.
The only time he spoke up was around year-end bonus season.

He’d pinch the envelope, feel the thickness, and say, “For fuck’s sake. You said a hundred grand. Why is it short. You still my friend or what.”

Straightforward. No games.
Derek would grin, open the drawer, and slap another stack on top without arguing.

Ethan would weigh it in his hand, satisfied, then blow out a stream of smoke.
“Derek, you’re reliable. Not like those small-time bosses who always drag their feet.”

They worked well together.
Ethan liked his life.

A few years passed.
He bought a small place, then sent the extra money to his mom.

She got so happy she went a little wild again, chatting with neighbors, makeup on her cheeks, laughing until she couldn’t stop.
Ethan thought he’d keep going like that, not clean, not dirty, just paid well, managing a club at night.

What he forgot was his dad was still alive.
Still stuck to the family like gum on a shoe.

Ethan had almost forgotten his mom had taken his dad back.

When Ethan was in high school, the old man finally got punished hard enough that he couldn’t gamble the same way anymore.
He came home missing parts of his hands, crablike and useless, and Ethan walked in to find a stranger sitting at the table.

Before Ethan could even react, his mom started wailing.
“That’s your dad. You don’t remember. He’s changed, don’t hate him anymore.”

Ethan frowned, thinking, I don’t even remember him well enough to hate him.
I’m not the one living with him, as long as you’re fine.

His mom had carried the household for more than a decade.
Now she saw a “reformed” husband and grabbed at it like a second spring.

After that, Ethan barely spoke to the man.
All he remembered was a shrunken figure at the table, eager to please, bending over backward to flatter Ethan’s mom.

He looked pathetic, the kind of person you could kick twice and still get nothing out of.
But a gambler was a gambler.

Even if he turned into a coward, the itch never left.

Seven or eight years later, just when Ethan’s life finally felt comfortable, his dad went right back to it.
He started gambling again, lost, then borrowed a massive amount from an illegal lender.

The interest was vicious, eight percent a month.
He hid it for two years before he dared to say a word.

By then, the people he owed were ready to come strip the house and do worse.
His mom went gray with fear, rubbing the corner of her clothes until the fabric twisted.

“Help him,” she said, panicked. “He’s your dad.”

When Ethan didn’t move, tears slid down her face in two dirty tracks.
“I know it’s his fault,” she begged. “But they said killing him won’t be enough. They’ll come for me too. Please. Just for my sake.”

Ethan’s face went cold.
His eyes cut like knives, and his dad shrank into himself under the stare.

Ethan walked into the kitchen and came back with a knife.
Then he did something he couldn’t take back.

His mom stayed at a distance, crying with her hair a mess, frozen in place.
She didn’t stop him. She didn’t dare.

In the end, Ethan still pressed his fingerprint onto the IOU and signed his name.

The moment he did, he understood it.
In a casino, that kind of debt was pocket change.

In real life, it was enough to ruin a man.

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