Cassian
Thefinalrepisa controlled explosion of force, a deep groan torn from my throat as I drive the bar up, my muscles screaming in protest. The familiar burn is a welcome, grounding pain. I rack the weight. The clang of heavy iron against the frame is a sound of finality. It echoes in the cavernous space, a full stop to the ritual, the only prayer I know. I swing my legs over the side of the bench, my body humming with exertion, sweat plastering my shirt to my skin. The physical exhaustion is abalm, a temporary anesthetic for the part of my mind that never, ever rests.
I grab a towel, wiping the sweat from my face, and my eyes land on her.
Aria.
She’s on the sofa, the phone lying forgotten beside her, its screen dark, and she’s staring at me. I’m used to her watching me, of course. I’ve grown accustomed to her gaze, a sharp, physical thing that I can always feel, a mixture of pure fear and a simmering hatred that I know I deserve. But this is different.
Her face is utterly devoid of color, it’s a pale, translucent mask of shock. Her eyes are wide, but they are not focused on me, not really. They are lookingthroughme, as if I am a pane of glass and she is staring at something terrible and broken on the other side. The fear is there, yes, but it’s a new vintage. It’s not the sharp terror of a cornered animal fighting for its life. It’s a hollow, soul-deep horror. The look of someone who has just seen a ghost.
My first thought is a spike of ice in my gut.The phone.Did I miscalculate? Did she find something? I mentally scan the possibilities. A news article? An obituary? No. Impossible. I’ve run the searches myself a hundred times. The digital world is an ocean of noise. For her to find the one specific drop of water that connects her to me would require a name. Leonidas Kostas. A name she doesn't have. A name she couldn't possibly have.
I watch her, my own breathing evening out from the workout. She doesn’t move, she barely seems to be breathing. Her body is frozen, a statue carved from ice. This is a break. Not a break for freedom, but a break in her mind. The trauma, the isolation, the grief I know she carries for her sister… it’s finally cracking her foundation. A part of me, a cold, clinical part I inherited from my father, notes this as an inevitable development. Another part, apart that feels like my mother feels a dull, sickening ache. I have done this to her.
I walk toward the kitchen, my movements measured, deliberate. I am a shark, and she is a swimmer who has just realized the water is cold. Any sudden movement will only amplify the terror. I open the fridge, the cool air washing over my heated skin, and pull out a bottle of water. I lean against the counter, twisting the cap off, and watch her over the top of the bottle.
She still hasn’t moved. Her eyes are locked on the space where I stand. I can see the frantic pulse beating in the delicate skin of her throat. She looks so fragile, a porcelain doll held together by sheer force of will. A doll I have deliberately, systematically taken apart.It’s for her own good.I repeat the words to myself, the mantra that has become my religion. The world outside, the world my father moves through, the world that chewed up my brother and spit him out… it would destroy her. This loft is a cage, yes, but it is also a sanctuary. She is safe here, whether she knows it or not.
I failed to protect Leo. I will not fail to protect her.
Her stillness, the way she’s staring into nothing… it reminds me of him. Not of Leo himself—he was never still, always a blur of motion and easy laughter—but of the silence he left behind. The deafening, crushing silence in the space where he used to be.
The memory rises unbidden, a ghost slipping through the bars of the cage I keep it in. It’s so clear, so vivid, it feels like the present. The loft melts away, replaced by the smell of ozone, high-octane fuel, and the clean, cool air of my garage.
My garage is my sanctuary, the only place in Slate Harbor that is truly mine. It is a cathedral of steel and concrete, and in the center, under the bright, white glare of the overhead LEDs is the altar: my midnight-blue Nissan GT-R. It is a declaration of independence I have built with my own hands, with moneyfrom my own construction company. It is everything my father hates: earned, not inherited; fast, loud, and unapologetically mine.
I am running final diagnostics, the laptop on the rolling cart showing perfect telemetry. Tonight is supposed to be the last race. Not just of the season, but for good.
“Figured I’d find you in here, worshiping your god.”
Leo’s voice startles me. He is leaning against the doorframe, a cocky grin on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes haven’t been the same since Mom’s funeral.
“It’s called maintenance,” I say, closing the laptop. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”
“Right.” He walks further into the garage, circling the GT-R. “She looks mean tonight. Ready to make some noise.” He looks at me. “Heard you’re pulling out.”
The question is casual, but it is loaded. He’s been hearing whispers from the racing scene, the one I’ve tried so hard to keep him away from.
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Is it true?” he presses. “You’re not running against Silvio tonight? After all the shit he’s been talking?”
“I’m done, Leo. The race tonight, it’s not happening.”
His face falls, his disappointment so naked it’s like a punch. “What? Why? You’ll destroy him. You know you will.”
“It’s not a game anymore,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. I start wiping down my tools, arranging them on the magnetic board, needing to do something with my hands.
“It was never a game! It was a message!” he shoots back, his voice cracking with emotion he tries to hide. “It was the one thing you did that showed him he doesn’t own us. That a Kostas can build something for himself. Now you’re just quitting?”
I turn to face him, the wrench heavy in my hand. “Mom is dead, Leo.”
The words hang in the air between us, cold and brutal. We never speak of it. We know what happened. We know the truth behind the "fall down the stairs," we just never say it out loud.
“I know she’s dead,” he whispers, his own anger faltering.
“No, you don’t,” I say, stepping closer. “You don’t get it. I’m all you have left. You are all I have left. Do you think I can go out there and drive 150 miles per hour on a public road anymore? Do you think I can risk leaving you alone with him? With the man who killed our mother and bought a new wife three months later?”
