Chapter 1: Evan
"Congratulations, Mr. Ashwyck. The board meeting was unanimous," David Whitmore's voice echoed through my phone, distant and triumphant. I pulled the device away from my ear and gazed at the screen. Of course, my assistant was still on the job at this hour, even from home.
"Unanimous," I repeated, the word leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"Mr. Richardson said he's never seen anything like it. You got every single vote."
With a flick of my head, I let cigarette smoke pour from my lungs into the night. It lingered for a moment, then vanished against the inky sky, sixty-two floors above the rest of the world. Another drag. Another release. The ritual was all I had left.
"Evan? You still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"The press release goes out tomorrow morning. They want you in at six for interviews. CNN, Bloomberg, the works. Are you ready for this?"
Ready? The city spread out beneath me like a vast, intricate network. All those lives condensed into tiny points, each one driven by their own motivations, dreams, burdens.
Me? Today was supposed to be a celebration. The kind of day people dream about.
"The youngest executive in the history of the most prestigious financial company in New York City."
That's what they called me today. That's what the headlines would read tomorrow.
"Evan?"
"Send them the statement we prepared. I'll be in at six."
"This is it, man. Everything you've worked for. You should be celebrating."
The coffee in my cup had gone cold an hour ago, but I kept holding it anyway. I'd forgotten about the cigarette between my fingers. Ash fell onto my shoe.
"Yeah," I said, ending the call. "All those years of work."
But all I felt was nothing.
No celebration. No joy. Just this hollow in my chest. This emptiness.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and took another drag, letting smoke fill my lungs. The nicotine did nothing to quiet the noise in my head. Christ, there was always noise up there. Thoughts that wouldn't stop churning, questions I couldn't answer, memories I couldn't bury deep enough.
My hand trembled around the cold coffee cup. I set it down on the railing and watched my fingers shake against the concrete.
Twelve years climbing this corporate ladder. Twelve years of sixteen-hour days and three hours' sleep. Twenty-three years of seeing her face every time I closed my eyes.
Stress. Had to be stress.
That's what normal people would think. Normal people who didn't claw their way out of the slums with nothing but a scholarship and pure stubbornness. Normal people who got eight hours of sleep and didn't spend over a decade grinding from mailroom to executive suite.
I did it all because of a promise. The memory always hit me the same way.
Twelve years old, my head in Mom's lap on that threadbare couch while her fingers ran through my hair. Gentle touches from hands worn rough by years of cleaning other people's houses. She looked tired that night, more tired than usual.
"Promise me, Evan." Mom was thin, with green eyes like mine and ginger hair that caught what little sunlight made it through our grimy window. She was young, too young to be carrying the weight she did. A young mother who'd somehow ended up in the worst part of the city, and I never knew how we got there or why we stayed.
I always imagined she should have been a teacher. The way she was nice with everyone, how she'd help the neighborhood kids with their homework when their parents were working late. She had that patience, that kindness teachers have. Instead, she cleaned other people's houses, came home exhausted, and still found time to check my schoolwork.
"Promise me you'll get out of here. Promise that you'll make something of yourself."
Tears burned my eyes as I gripped her hand like it was the only thing keeping me tied to the world. That was the last time I let myself cry.
"I promise, Mom."
Two weeks later, there she was on the kitchen floor, blood pooling beneath her head, her face peaceful despite everything. My knees hit the linoleum hard enough to feel it in my bones. My hands trembled as I reached for her, then stopped.
Touching her would make it real, and I wasn't ready for real.
The apartment had been torn apart. Overturned furniture, scattered glass, blood on the walls like some sick artwork. The overhead bulb flickered, throwing shadows that danced across her still form.
I sat there for three hours. Three hours before my twelve-year-old brain could process what to do next. Three hours of watching the blood creep across the floor, darkening as it dried at the edges. Three hours of telling myself she'd wake up if I just waited long enough.
When I finally stood, my legs had gone numb. I walked to Mrs. Chen's apartment next door and knocked. She saw my face and gasped.
"Call someone." The words fell from my mouth, empty as I felt. "Mom won't wake up."
The rest blurred together. Police. Questions. Social workers with soft words and softer lies about how everything would be okay. They kept asking if I had family, anyone they could call. I just stared at the wall behind them, counting the cracks in the paint.
Something inside me broke that day.
I sat in that police station with tears and blood on my face, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and realized I was completely alone. No family. No safety net. Only me and the promise I'd made to a woman who would never see me keep it.
The grief came in waves, but underneath it, rage took root. I wiped the tears and blood from my face and kept my promise to never cry again.
The cigarette had burned down to the filter. I dropped it and crushed it under my heel, then picked up my coffee from the railing. Another sip. The bitterness matched my mood.
"I made it, Mom," I said to the wind. "This view, this success… it was all supposed to be for you."
She wasn't here to see it. She would never see it. Sometimes I let myself think about a world where she was still alive. Where she could see this office, this view, this life I'd built. Where she'd never have to clean another person's house or worry about rent. Where she could finally be happy.
But hope was for the weak. Magic didn't exist. There was no power that could bring her back, no way to give her the world she deserved.
And somehow, that made all of this feel like the most expensive participation trophy in the world.
Bittersweet.
The cold metal railing steadied me as I leaned against it, but that feeling was back, the one that had been nagging at me all week. The sensation of being watched from the shadows, just out of sight.
The city sounds began to fade. First the sirens, then the traffic, until even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The temperature dropped, and my breath suddenly became visible in the summer night.
Down below, the streetlights faded in and out, like I was seeing them through a haze. The concrete beneath my feet shook. My coffee cup clattered against the railing. The cigarette smoke from earlier lingered in the air, motionless, still.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and shook my head.
Shit, maybe I was just tired. Or maybe I was finally losing my mind.
My skin prickled. That feeling from earlier grew stronger, like static before a thunderstorm. The balcony felt cramped, the darkness more intense, and then I heard the sound of heels clicking against concrete.
Click, click. Click, click.
Who would still be here this late? The building should've been empty except for security.
I spun around, but the darkness made it hard to see.
"Evan…"
My name came from the shadows, but I couldn't quite place the voice.
I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. "Who's there?"
A hand reached out from the darkness. Long, slender fingers stretched toward me. In the dim light, I caught a glimpse of blonde hair, but her face stayed hidden.
A spark of electricity formed between her fingers, crackling with bright white energy that made her entire form glow. I raised my arm to block the sudden brightness that flooded the balcony, but still couldn't make out her features clearly.
"Let me borrow your strength."
My throat closed up. This couldn't be real. People didn't glow with electricity, didn't have sparks dancing between their fingers.
BOOM!
The energy struck my chest and threw me backward over the railing. My coffee cup shattered against the concrete as I went over the edge.
Night air caught me as I fell.
Above me, a face smiled down through the darkness.
A strange sensation swept over me.
There was no shove. No hands pressing against me. But something had hit me, and now I was falling to my death.
Everything flipped. My stomach shot up into my throat as sixty-two stories of empty space opened up beneath me. The wind became a wall, ripping the breath from my lungs and roaring in my ears with a scream that drowned out the city's noise.
My suit jacket snapped against my back, the fabric whipping like a flag in a tornado. Below, streetlights spun into streaks of fire, a stomach-churning river rushing up to meet me. Each second stretched and stretched, packed with the violence of falling.
So this is how it ends? The thought pierced the chaos. I closed my eyes, shutting out the spinning world, and a strange calm settled over me.
The last trace of smoke left my lungs as I descended through the night. After twenty-three years of struggling to keep that promise, of building something meaningful from scratch, this was where it all came to an end.
In the end, it meant nothing.