Two legacies warred inside Gideon:
Richard II:A legacy built on broken backs will break under its own weight.
Richard III:Mercy is weakness. Control the board or be a pawn.
“Back off,” he said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re not redeveloping. You’re displacing.”
Colton leaned in, voice dropping.
“You think you’re any different from the rest of us? Evelyn doesn’t.”
Press where it matters. See what cracks.
Gideon’s jaw flexed. But he held the line.
A new sound. Low. Steady. A cane against the concrete.
An elderly woman stepped forward. Her frame slight. Her spine unbowed.
Her hand trembled, not with fear. With years; with survival.
Her voice was quiet. But it carried.
“Your grandfather told us this place was ours. Not just buildings, but a future.”
The words settled in his chest. Not like sentiment. Like anchors.
Richard II again:Power protects. Or it destroys. You decide which.
The mother beside her tightened her grip on her son’s hand.
“Maybe you’re different,” she whispered to Gideon. “Maybe you haven’t forgotten.”
The older woman rested her hand gently on the mother’s shoulder. Generations of grit in a single touch.
Then her eyes found Gideon’s. Steady. Unblinking.
“We’ve seen Blackwells come and go,” she said. “But you—you’ve got your grandfather’s eyes.”
Colton scoffed, stepping away from the car.
“Aunt Evelyn won’t let you wear that mask forever,” he muttered. “We all play our parts. Time you figured out yours.”
His engine kicked on with a low snarl. Tires spat gravel as he sped off, leaving only the reek of exhaust behind him.
But it wasn’t the sound of Colton’s car that stayed with Gideon.
It was the shuffle of sneakers on pavement.
The tap of a cane.
The whisper of hope from a woman who should’ve had none left to give.
This was never just about them, but about the promise Richard II made—the one Gideon would keep.
He stood in the cold, breath ghosting and fists still, silently making a vow.
They would not lose their homes. Not to Evelyn. Not to Colton.
