Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Seven: The Unwanted Legacy

Chapter 267

The Unwanted Legacy

At the secretary’s desk inside Trémaux Law Office that morning, Erin Harvey sat alongside her colleague, Rosemary. Erin wore a white blouse, a fitted leather skirt, black pantyhose, and black high heels. Rosemary wore a blue secretary’s dress paired with matching blue heels.

Erin reached into her bag and pulled out various pictures, her eyes lighting up.

Erin: “Rosemary, you have to see these! I finally went through the photos from Valle Esmeralda.”

She slid each photograph she picked up from the one-hour photo at AuraCare Pharmacy.

The first few shots were sweeping vistas of lush, rolling hills blanketed in a mist that seemed to glow.

Erin: “Look at the color of the grass here.”

She said, gesturing with a manicured finger.

Erin: “It actually looked like emeralds under the sun. These photos don’t even do it justice.”

Rosemary leaned in, feeling a pang of jealousy.

Erin showed a photo of three women laughing around a rustic wooden table, holding colorful cocktails.

Erin: “And these are the girls I told you about—Clara and Jada. We’ve been planning this trip for years. Clara almost got lost looking for a hidden waterfall, and Jada was the only one brave enough to try the local spicy cactus stew.”

Erin laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the quiet hum of the office.

Erin: “We spent hours just hiking through the trails. I think I have about five hundred more of just the sunsets.”

Rosemary forced a smile. And she didn’t invite me despite us working together; she thought bitterly.

Tristan came down the stairs dressed impeccably in a gray Italian-cut suit, black vest, crisp white shirt, black tie, and black wingtip Oxfords. Erin immediately stepped over to straighten his suit lapels. Watching her, Rosemary glared with bitter resentment, thinking, That is my daughter’s man you are touching.

Tristan: “Welcome back, Erin. How was your trip to Valle Esmeralda?”

Erin: “It was amazing, Tristan!”

Erin reached back toward the desk, scooping up the stack of glossy prints she had been showing Rosemary. She turned back to Tristan, her face radiant.

Erin: “You have to see these, Tristan! The landscapes were breathtaking.”

She fanned the photos out between them, her fingers brushing against his sleeve as she pointed to a shot of a crystalline lake mirroring the sunrise. Tristan leaned in slightly, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, observing the images with a composed, professional smile.

Tristan: “The clarity is impressive. It looks quite peaceful.”

Erin: “It was! And look at this one—this is Clara and Jada. We spent an entire afternoon trying to find this one specific cove. We ended up drenched, but it was the highlight of the week.”

She chuckled, shuffling to the next photograph, oblivious to the sharp, silent glare Rosemary directed at her from across the room. Tristan nodded politely as she continued to describe the vibrant markets and the local music they had discovered.

~

Upon entering the lounge and finding it empty, Tristan allowed a subtle smile to grace his features. He moved toward the leather sofa, settling into the upholstery with effortless grace. From his pocket, he produced a gleaming gold cigarette case and selected a single Sobranie. With a practiced motion, he flicked open his Zippo lighter, the small flame catching the tip as he began to smoke in the quiet solitude.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the rich flavor before releasing a languid plume of smoke that unspooled into the stillness of the room.

Rosemary marched into the room and plunked down next to Tristan. He flicked his gaze to her and knew something was wrong, and it was likely that Erin didn’t invite her on her trip.

Tristan: “What’s wrong, Rosemary?”

He locked his gaze on her and smiled a bit.

Rosemary: “The nerve of that woman, Tristan! Flashing her pictures! She didn’t invite me! We work together!”

She cried. Called it, Tristan thought.

Tristan exhaled a thin, curling ribbon of smoke, his gaze remaining steady on the smoldering ember.

Tristan: “Perhaps it was merely an oversight, Rosemary. Why let a few vacation photos disturb your composure?”

Rosemary turned to her.

Rosemary: “Because she didn’t invite me!”

Tristan: “Why would she invite you? Are you two friends outside of this place?”

Rosemary: “No, but we work together!”

Tristan forced a smile. Ah, best reason in the world, he thought.

Tristan inhaled the Sobranie, the smoke curling slowly as he exhaled, his expression unruffled by her agitation. He tapped a delicate ash into the tray.

Tristan: “Working together implies professional proximity, Rosemary, not personal intimacy. Expecting an invitation merely because you share an office is a fascinating, if somewhat misguided, assumption.”

Rosemary: “And the way she touches your suit and you! Who does she think she is?!”

She cried. Tristan gaped at her and shifted his eyes.

Tristan: “...What’s wrong with that?”

Rosemary turned to him.

Rosemary: “You’re taken, Tristan! There are plenty of single men out there!”

She huffed. Tristan exhaled a long, thin stream of smoke, his eyes remaining cool and unbothered.

Tristan: “Erin’s behavior is of little consequence, and my relationship status is hardly a matter for office gossip. I suggest you focus your energy on your own affairs rather than managing mine.”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette, effectively dismissing the subject as he stared into the distance.

Tristan: “I understand your frustration, Rosemary, but your relationship with Erin is strictly professional. Vacations are generally reserved for close friends. After all, when you and Archie went away, neither Erin nor I received an invitation.”

He added.

Rosemary: “I didn’t think you wanted to come. You seem to be someone who stays in his room all the time and never socializes.”

Tristan gaped owlishly at her. I don’t know what to even say to that, he thought.

~

The golden, late-afternoon sunlight cut sharply through the slatted mini-blinds of the master bedroom, painting long amber stripes across the rumpled duvet and the carpet below.

Sprawled diagonally across the mattress, Fabien Bellegarde was dead to the world. He was buried up to his waist beneath a thin sheet, wearing loose green plaid pajama pants. His wavy, white hair was a glorious disaster—fluffed up on one side, smashed flat on the other, spilling out against the cotton pillowcase.

Across his sharp jawline and chin, a faint, prickly shadow of white stubble caught the slanted afternoon rays, giving his usually smooth, pretty features a scruffy, lived-in edge. A soft, rhythmic snore escaped his lips every few seconds, entirely unbothered by the fact that the digital clock on the nightstand flickered in bright red: 4:03 PM.

The bedroom door creaked open, just a sliver at first, before Celeste slipped through. She wore a white tiger-stripe bustier and a jean skirt, and she was barefoot.

Her lime-green ponytail, streaked with vivid ultraviolet, swung over her shoulder like a pendulum with every deliberate, feline step. Having spent the entire afternoon fixing her wooden ornaments, repainting her nails a deep plum, and waiting for him to wake up, her patience had officially expired. Seeing him knocked out cold after his grueling double shift slinging wings and beer drafts at Danny Donger’s was endearing for the first three hours; by hour four, it was an open invitation.

She crossed the carpet with silent precision, leaning against the foot of the bed with a mischievous smirk. Fabien hadn’t even stirred. He had shifted slightly, pushing the sheet down just far enough to leave both of his bare feet completely exposed over the mattress's edge.

Celeste’s eyes locked onto her target. She knew every single one of his quirks, habits, and physical tells, but above all else, she knew his greatest tactical vulnerability.

Creeping around to the side of the bed, she crouched down and hovered her hands just centimeters above the soles of his feet. Her long fingernails gleamed in the sunlight. With sudden, ruthless precision, she dragged the tips of her nails straight up the sensitive arch of his left foot, following instantly with a light, fluttering scritch across his toes.

Fabien’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. His entire body hitched like a live current had hit him.

Fabien: “—GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—NON, NON, NON!”

His legs kicked outward instinctively, his heels digging into the mattress as he tried to yank his feet away into the safety of the sheets. But Celeste was lightning fast; she clamped one hand around his ankle to anchor him, while her other hand went right back to work, mercilessly attacking the ticklish curve beneath his big toe.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!”

Fabien choked out, dissolving into helpless, wheezing laughter. He rolled onto his back, thrashing against the tangled green plaid fabric of his pants as the white locks whipped across his eyes. His green eyes fluttered open, wide and teary with laughter, blinking against the harsh bedroom light.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!”

Celeste: “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

She crowed, not easing up for a single second as she dug her fingers lightly into the sides of his heel.

Celeste: “It’s four in the afternoon! The sun is practically setting, lazy bones!”

Fabien: “CELESHEHEHEHEHEHEHESTE! PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

He gasped between breathless bursts of giggles, squirming so hard that his pillow tumbled off the side of the bed. He reached down with his arms, desperately trying to swat her hands away, but he was laughing too hard to muster any real defense.

Fabien: “COHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOME OHOHOHOHOHON!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

She stopped tickling his feet with a triumphant grin. Fabien immediately retracted his legs like a startled turtle, pulling his knees all the way to his chest and tucking the hems of his pajama pants securely over his feet. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving under his bare torso, his face flushed pink and his white stubble catching the light as he caught his breath. He reached up, rubbing the sleep and laughter from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

Fabien groaned theatrically, dragging his hands down his face before finally tossing the duvet aside. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, carefully keeping his bare feet well clear of Celeste's reach as he stood up. The worn green plaid flannel of his pajama pants settled low on his hips, brushing the floor as he stretched his arms toward the ceiling, his joints popping with a chorus of satisfying, sleepy cracks.

Fabien: “I’m moving, I’m moving.”

He mumbled, sending Celeste a playfully suspicious glance over his shoulder as he backed away toward the en-suite bathroom.

Fabien: “Keep those deadly claws at a safe distance from my feet.”

Stepping inside, he nudged the door mostly shut with his heel and clicked on the vanity light. The bright bulb overhead made him squint into the mirror. The reflection looking back was thoroughly disheveled: white waves sticking up in untamed tufts, sleepy green eyes rimmed with pink, and a pale jawline dusted with that stubborn, white scruff.

He leaned both palms on the edge of the cool porcelain sink, turned on the tap, and grabbed his toothbrush. Squeezing a generous strip of striped mint paste onto the bristles, he began scrubbing away the lingering taste of late-night fried chicken and sleep. He rinsed with a cupped handful of water from the faucet, wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm, and ran his thumb thoughtfully against the light stubble across his chin, deciding the razor could wait until after the hot water woke him up properly.

Turning around, Fabien reached into the bathtub and cranked the handles, waiting for a thick, soothing curtain of steam to roll over the top of the shower curtain. He shimmied out of his loose green pajama pants and briefs, tossed them onto the wicker laundry hamper in the corner, and stepped under the rushing spray.

The heat hit him like a wave, melting away the lingering aches in his shoulders and calves from carrying loaded trays across Danny Donger’s. Tilting his head back into the water, he ran both hands through his silver hair, finally feeling human again as the steam filled the room with the fresh scent of cedar and mint soap.

The rush of hot water slowed to a trickle as Fabien shut off the handles, leaving the bathroom enveloped in a dense, aromatic fog of steam, mint soap, and warm cedar. He drew back the vinyl curtain, the cool air of the room instantly brushing against his skin, and grabbed a thick, forest-green bath towel from the rack. He wrapped it securely around his waist and used a smaller hand towel to vigorously dry the excess moisture from his white locks before stepping onto the plush bathmat.

With a broad swipe of his forearm, he cleared a wide circle on the fogged-up vanity mirror. His reflection emerged sharp and refreshed, the grogginess from his marathon sleep washed away, though the pale shadow of white stubble along his jawline stood out even more distinctly against his warm, flushed skin.

He reached into the wooden medicine cabinet and retrieved a metal can of foamy menthol shaving cream and a clean twin-blade disposable razor. Shaking the can with a rhythmic clatter, he dispensed a generous puff of cool, white lather into his palm. He worked it evenly across his throat, the sharp contour of his jaw, his chin, and over his upper lip, coating the stubble in a crisp, frosty layer.

Fabien turned on the hot water tap, letting the stream run until it was scalding, and ran the razor beneath the flow to warm the steel. Leaning in close toward the glass, he tilted his chin upward. Starting at the base of his neck, he pulled the blade upward in steady, practiced strokes, the steel gliding cleanly through the lather and clearing away the prickly white hair in neat, smooth tracks. He paused every couple of passes to tap and rinse the razor under the running water, watching the white flecks vanish down the drain.

He worked his way up along the angles of his jawline, carefully navigating the hollows of his cheeks and taut skin around his mouth. With a light touch, he swept the razor beneath his nose, leveling his gaze in the mirror to make sure the edges were clean and symmetrical.

Once the last trace of foam and scruff was gone, Fabien cupped the cool tap water in both hands and splashed his face generously, washing away the stray residue of menthol and closing up his pores. He patted his face dry with a clean corner of the hand towel, running his fingertips along the smooth, freshly bare skin of his cheeks and jaw. Pleased with the result, he uncapped a glass bottle of aftershave, splashed a few drops into his palms, and patted it briskly onto his neck and chin, letting out a sharp, invigorating hiss as the brisk splash of alcohol and sandalwood woke him up completely.

He combed his damp bangs back out of his eyes. Before leaving the bathroom, Fabien reached back into the medicine cabinet and pulled out a heavy, amber-tinted glass bottle of vintage Gucci cologne. He popped off the gold cap with a satisfying click and turned the nozzle toward himself.

With practiced flair, he gave two crisp spritzes right at the base of his neck, where the freshly shaved skin was still warm from the hot water. The rich, sophisticated cloud of citrus, warm spices, and leather bloomed instantly in the steamy air, completely replacing the lingering scents of shaving foam and soap. He dabbed his wrists lightly against his pulse points, took a deep, approving breath in the mirror, and set the bottle back on the glass shelf with a smirk.

The bathroom door had barely swung outward, letting loose a warm plume of scented steam into the hallway, when Celeste sprang from the shadows like a panther.

Before Fabien could even register the sudden flash of vivid neon green hair, her hands darted forward with ruthless precision. Catching the tucked corner of the forest-green bath towel slung around his waist, she ripped it away with a theatrical flourish, leaving him utterly defenseless.

Fabien: “Hey—whoa!”

He gasped, stumbling forward into the bedroom on reflex.

Before he could regain his footing or make a desperate grab for the lost fabric, Celeste planted both hands firmly against his damp, bare chest and shoved him backward. The sudden burst of momentum sent him sprawling straight onto the mattress, bouncing into the tangled center of the sheets in a tangle of limbs and flying white locks.

Fabien: “Celeste, wait—”

He started, scrambling to prop himself up on his elbows.

She didn’t give him a single second to mount a defense. Diving onto the edge of the mattress, Celeste straddled his knees to pin his legs down against the duvet. A wicked, triumphant grin stretched across her dark lips; her violet eyes sparkled with unbridled mischief.

With pinpoint accuracy, she dug her fingertips into the sensitive, tender skin of his inner thighs and traveled. She traveled up his cock, rapidly fluttering and scribbling her nails in relentless, dancing circles around the tip. A sharp, breathless squeak tore out of Fabien’s throat, immediately followed by an explosion of uncontrollable, full-bodied laughter.

Fabien: “AAHHHHHHHHHH!!! NON, NON, NON—NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!”

His entire body arched off the bed as if hit by a lightning bolt. His cock flared with sheer agony. He tried frantically to clamp his knees together to guard the area, but her weight effectively wedged him in place, leaving the tender contours completely vulnerable to her merciless onslaught.

Celeste grinned over the rising sound of his wheezing gasps, intentionally driving her fingertips around cock and over his testicles, varying the rhythm between light, feathery scratches and deep, vibrating tickles.

Fabien tossed his head back against the pillows, his face flushing a bright, furious crimson as his jaw clenched in desperate, futile resistance. He thrashed his torso from side to side, fists clenching the bedsheets in a white-knuckle grip as pure, helpless mirth consumed him. Every frantic wiggle only seemed to give her better leverage.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

He choked out through streaming tears of laughter, his voice cracking wildly between desperate gasps for air.

Celeste laughed, leaning down closer, the lime-green strands of her bangs brushing against his heaving, bare chest as she delivered one final, merciless flurry against his twitching cock with a film of precum.

Fabien: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

He shrieked, squirming so violently the entire bed frame rattled beneath them.

Satisfied with his total and utter surrender, Celeste finally pulled her hands back, leaning her weight on his shins and catching her breath with a victorious smirk. Fabien immediately collapsed flat against the mattress like a punctured balloon, his chest heaving under deep, ragged breaths of warm air. He flung one forearm dramatically over his eyes, entirely spent and trembling with the ghost of phantom tickles, while a defeated, helpless grin spread across his face.

Celeste: “Go get your clothes on, Sleeping Beauty.”

She winked and left the bedroom.

Fabien took a few extra minutes to make sure Celeste had completely cleared the room before daring to uncover his guarded feet. He pulled out some Kleenex to wipe the precum off his cock and went to the bathroom to flush it down the toilet.

He crossed the bedroom to the closet. He reached for a black Rush graphic tee, pulled it over his head, and let the soft, worn cotton settle against his chest. Next came an oversized red plaid flannel shirt, left completely unbuttoned to catch the summer breeze and frame the album art underneath.

He stepped into light-wash, straight-leg jeans, fastening the brass button at the waist and letting the cuffs fall loose and relaxed around his ankles. Finally, after running a comb once more through his damp, wavy silver-white locks, he slipped his bare feet into his flip-flops.

Fabien stepped out of the bedroom, the soft, worn cotton of his black Rush graphic tee feeling cool against his skin as he moved into the living room. Celeste was already there, curled onto the sofa like a dormant cat, the neon lime of her ponytail catching the light.

Fabien crossed to the console and clicked on the television, the screen flickering to life with a soft hum. He aimed to catch the local weather, but instead, the image snapped to a stark, crimson graphic:

BREAKING NEWS - PINK TOP CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT ALERT

A reporter appeared, her face tight with practiced gravity, the studio lights reflecting in her eyes.

News Anchor: “Authorities have confirmed a homicide investigation is underway following the grim discovery earlier this morning in the Orchid Street district.”

She announced, her voice precise and unyielding.

News Anchor: “The victim has been identified as Layla McKenzie, a thirty-five-year-old lead pharmacy technician at AuraCare Pharmacy. Officials are currently on the scene, describing the incident as a brutal, targeted attack.”

Fabien’s hand froze mid-air, the remote dangling loosely from his fingers. He felt the phantom chill of the news slide over his skin.

Celeste’s head snapped up, her violet eyes locking onto the screen with sudden, predatory focus. She watched the footage of yellow caution tape fluttering between the manicured palms of Orchid Street, the flashing blue and red patrol lights bleeding into the pastel stucco of the houses.

When Fabien saw a picture of her on TV, he raised his eyebrows.

Fabien: “I waited on her and her friends. They came in, and one of them was flirting with me heavily.”

He muttered, his voice barely audible over the anchor’s droning report.

Fabien: “And she lived right down the road.”

He let the thought hang, his brow furrowing as he studied the scene on the news. Celeste didn’t look away. A thoughtful, sharp expression replaced her usual smirk.

Celeste: “She was usually the one who waited on me when I picked up my birth control pills. She was always nice to me.”

She stated.

Celeste: “I wonder if she was a victim of circumstance. She lives in a nice neighborhood and kept her nose clean.”

She tilted her head, her lime-green ponytail swinging with the motion.

Celeste: “So I gotta wonder if it was the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Fabien didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the screen as the camera panned over the suburban quiet that had been shattered. The air in the room, previously humming with the lingering static of their afternoon, now felt heavy, compressed by the stark intrusion of violence.

He sat by Celeste and changed the channel. The two saw a big, fat black reporter wearing a suit on the screen.

Reporter: “And here is the Pink Top City’s mayor’s daughter, Scarlett Stone, getting tickled with goose feathers on her feet and armpits!”

The camera cut to a studio set where Scarlett Stone, Mayor Sully Stone’s daughter, was seated on a velvet lounge. A masked assistant held two large, fluffy goose feathers. As the assistant dragged the feathers across the sensitive soles of Scarlett’s bare feet, she instantly burst into high-pitched, breathless giggles, her legs kicking wildly. The feathers were then drawn up to her armpits, causing her to shriek with laughter as she writhed on the cushions, completely unable to compose herself while the audience laughed in the background.

Celeste turned to Fabien. Fabien’s green eyes shifted, and he saw her grinning widely like the Cheshire Cat.

Fabien: “Celeste, NO!”

He laughed anxiously and shut off the TV. He wrapped his arms around her.

Fabien: “...How about I make you some shrimp fettuccine alfredo?”

He kissed her head.

Celeste: “Oooooh, can you put chicken in, too? Why the special dinner, Fab?”

Fabien: “I feel like it.”

He rocked her back and forth.

Fabien gave her one last squeeze before untangling himself and heading toward the kitchen. He hummed a low, bluesy tune under his breath, the rhythm matching the steady click of his flip-flops against the tile floor. The late afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the granite countertops as he gathered his ingredients.

He started by clearing the counter and reaching for a sharp chef’s knife. Before touching the meat, he pulled a vibrant red bell pepper and a handful of firm, fresh mushrooms from the refrigerator. With rhythmic, percussive taps against the wooden board, he de-seeded the pepper and sliced it into thin, uniform strips. He then moved to the mushrooms, deftly reducing them to thick, savory slices that piled up in a colorful heap on the corner of the board.

Only then did he lay out the fresh chicken breasts, his silver-white hair falling forward as he focused. He seasoned the poultry liberally with cracked black pepper, sea salt, paprika, cayenne, and a pinch of dried oregano, the savory aroma already filling the small space. He heated a splash of olive oil in a heavy skillet, and soon the kitchen was alive with the inviting sizzle of searing poultry.

While the chicken browned to a perfect golden hue, Fabien set a large pot of salted water to boil. Once the surface broke into a rolling churn, he dropped in a nest of fettuccine, watching the ribbons of pasta soften and submerge. He moved with a relaxed, domestic grace, his black Rush tee stretching across his chest as he reached for a separate saucepan to begin the heart of the meal.

He dropped a generous knob of butter into the pan, followed by three cloves of minced garlic, onions, and about half a cup of Chardonnay. The scent was immediate and intoxicating—warm, sharp, and buttery. He whisked in heavy cream, letting it simmer until it began to thicken, before folding in a mountain of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. The sauce transformed into a rich, velvety white velvet, clinging to the back of his wooden spoon in a way that made him smirk with satisfaction.

After draining the pasta and tossing it directly into the cream sauce, he added the golden chicken strips and a final garnish of fresh parsley. The result was a steaming, decadent masterpiece. He plated two generous portions, the aroma of garlic and cheese billowing up in fragrant plumes of steam.

Carrying the two steaming plates out to the dining room table, Fabien set them down carefully alongside a pair of wine glasses. He poured a glass of wine for himself and filled Celeste’s with sparkling cider before presenting her plate with a playful, dramatic bow.

Fabien: “Dinner is served, mademoiselle. Chicken fettuccine alfredo, Bellegarde style.”

He settled onto the seat across from her, the domestic quiet of the evening feeling far more comfortable than the chaotic world outside. Celeste took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut in delight.

Fabien twirled a generous nest of pasta around his fork, the rich, garlicky cream sauce clinging perfectly to the fettuccine. He took a bite, savoring the savory blend of Parmesan and seasoned chicken with a contented hum. Between mouthfuls, he lifted his glass, taking slow, deliberate sips of the crisp Chardonnay. The cool wine cut through the meal’s decadence, and he leaned back slightly in his chair, watching Celeste with a relaxed gaze as he fully embraced the quiet, intimate comfort of the moment.

Leaning forward, Fabien reached across the table, his hand finding hers, a gentle touch that bridged the small space between them. Celeste turned her hand over and their fingers intertwined.

Celeste: “Everything okay, Fab?”

She asked softly, her tender violet eyes locking on his green eyes. Fabien smiled and sipped his wine.

Fabien: “Yeah.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

~

That night, after showering and dressing for sleep, they settled into bed together. Fabien wore green plaid pajama bottoms, while Celeste wore a black tank top and panties. Celeste’s hand trailed on his bare chest as she slept, her head rested on it.

Fabien lay awake in the heavy velvet darkness of the room, the only sound the soft, rhythmic puff of Celeste’s breath against his skin. While her touch was warm and grounding, his mind kept drifting back to the cold, clinical glare of the television screen and the name Layla McKenzie.

The suburban peace of their neighborhood, once a sturdy shield, now felt like a fragile glass partition. He stared up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. A chilling sense of vulnerability gnawed at him; the realization that the distance between their comfortable, domestic sanctuary and the senseless brutality of the world was much thinner than he had ever dared to imagine. He looked at Celeste and dreaded to think: what if it happened to her?

He knew Celeste was stronger than most humans; she could easily lift a giant robot pig, but he couldn’t shake that thought away.

Ichiro teleported inside the bedroom dressed in a white lab coat over a crisp crimson shirt and tie, paired with black trousers and polished cap-toe Oxfords. Fabien gaped at him.

Ichiro: “Good evening, Mr. Troll! How are you holding up after our latest encounter?”

He grinned.

Fabien: “Better than most? Better than Blair? Are you here to tell me you’re going to turn Blair into those monsters?”

He snorted.

Fabien: “Well, he’s pissing his racecar bed now, so go do it now.”

Ichiro grinned.

Ichiro: “I’ve abandoned those plans, Fabien! No, I have something better to break you!”

He chuckled.

Fabien: “Lay it on me.”

He said wryly.

Ichiro: “You were born in Maison Médicale de L’Étoile, a private facility located in Argentville!”

He chuckled. Fabien gaped at him.

Fabien: “I’m already broken. You told me what hospital I was born in.”

He rolled his eyes.

Ichiro: “And you were diagnosed with ADHD!”

He smiled tightly. Fabien’s smile faded.

Fabien: “Are you stalking me?”

Ichiro: “Your mother didn’t carry you, Fabien! She and your father hired a surrogate!”

He laughed.

Ichiro: “Your mother didn’t want to get fat! And your father didn’t want her to get fat! Face it, FABIEN: your parents never wanted you!”

Fabien glared at him and sat up.

Fabien: “What do you mean, surrogate?”

He asked him.

Ichiro: “My God, you’re dumb!”

Fabien: “I know what it means, but how do you know I was carried by someone else?!”

He barked.

Ichiro: “It doesn’t matter how I know, but I do.”

Fabien wanted to shout that he was lying, but deep within, he felt it was the truth. His mother was always obsessed with her appearance and his father obsessed with perfection. He knew his parents never wanted him, but he felt that being planned and still wanted stung more.

Fabien stared at Ichiro, the weight of the revelation settling in his chest like a leaden stone. He found himself wondering about the faceless woman who had carried him, the clinical, transactional nature of his own creation. It provided a sudden, bitter clarity to the vast emotional distance he had always felt from his parents; even his birth had been curated to maintain their aesthetic perfection. The realization left him feeling less like a son and more like a decorative accessory they had simply ordered to fit their lifestyle.

Fabien rose from bed, careful not to wake Celeste.

Fabien: “You think you can fucking break me, Ichiro? Like you did to Jiro?”

He growled.

Fabien: “I am NOT Jiro.”

He marched menacingly toward him. Ichiro glowered at him. Fabien put his hands up, casting a green shield over himself. He slammed his palms outward, the green barrier slamming Ichiro directly into the glass trophy case.

The impact was deafening; the glass shrieked as it spiderwebbed, Ichiro’s body embedding into the shelves. Before he could recover, the top-heavy structure groaned, the base skidding across the carpeted floor until the entire unit pitched forward. With a thunderous crash of splintering wood and shattering glass, the heavy case toppled over, pinning Ichiro beneath the ruins of Fabien’s collection.

Ichiro lay pinned beneath the heavy, splintered remains of the case, his movements restricted by the crushing weight of the wood and the jagged debris. Dark crimson blood began to seep from multiple deep lacerations across his cheeks and forehead, staining the collar of his white lab coat as it pooled on the carpet.

Shards of broken glass were embedded thickly into the fabric of his coat and sleeves, glinting in the dim light with every sharp, ragged gasp of pain that escaped his lips. He struggled weakly against the wreckage, his breath coming in shallow, pained hitches as he remained trapped under the ruins of the collection.

Ichiro: “You French FUCK!”

He rasped.

Fabien: “Should’ve stuck to trying to turn Blair into a monster.”

He said coolly as he walked menacingly toward him.

Ichiro’s jaw tightened. This worked too well, he thought. He pressed the button in his ear and teleported away. Fabien stared at the wreckage.

Fabien: “Why run away?! Didn’t you want to break me!?”

He spread his arms out as a mirthless laugh escaped his mouth. Fabien’s shoulder slumped, and he sank to the floor as he gazed at his trophy case of the trophies he won for his Equestria shows.

~

Fabien stood up, his joints protesting with a stiffness that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the cold reality settled in his gut. He didn’t look at the space where Ichiro had been; instead, he walked with a hollow, mechanical gait to the utility closet in the hallway. He returned moments later, a straw broom and a plastic dustpan gripped in his hands.

The silence of their house was punctuated only by the rhythmic, brittle rasp of straw against carpet as he began to sweep. He moved with a precision that bordered on the clinical, corralling the glittering shards of the trophy case into a jagged pile. Each sweep was deliberate, his eyes tracking every sliver of glass until the carpet was clear. He knelt, his movements stiff, and brushed the debris into the dustpan before dumping it into a heavy-duty garbage bag with a harsh, metallic rattle.

Next came the wood. He gathered the splintered mahogany frame of the display case, the finish scuffed and ruined. He didn’t hesitate, dropping the broken planks into the bin one by one, the heavy thuds echoing in the quiet room. He reached for the trophies—the golden horses and silver-plated cups that marked years of equestrian shows and his parents' fleeting, conditional pride. He didn’t look at the inscriptions. He didn’t remember the dates. He simply tossed them into the trash, the weight of his past accomplishments buried under the wreckage of his present.

Finally, he fetched a plastic bucket filled with soapy water and a stiff-bristled scrub brush. He knelt on the floor where Ichiro had bled, the scent of industrial cleaner mixing with the lingering, sophisticated notes of his Gucci cologne. Fabien began to scrub, his arm moving in sharp, vigorous arcs. He focused entirely on the crimson stains, watching the soap turn pink and then fade. His expression remained hardened, a mask of cold resolve as he worked until the physical evidence of the confrontation was erased, leaving nothing behind but a damp, clean patch of carpet and an empty corner in the room.

~

Fabien went outside to the backyard carrying a pile of family photos.

He knelt by the iron rim of the pit, the grass damp against his pajamas. With a flick of his thumb, he popped open the silver Zippo, the metallic click ringing out in the midnight air. He didn’t hesitate; he fanned the photos out into the pit—glossy images of his father’s stoic face, his mother’s perfectly coiffed hair, and the hollow, staged family portraits that had decorated their halls for decades.

Fabien pulled a canister of lighter fluid from his pocket, squeezed a heavy stream over the stack, and watched the chemical soak into the paper. He struck the flint. A small, orange flame danced on the wick before he knelt, putting the flame to one of the photographs. The fire caught instantly, a hungry blue-and-orange bloom that curled the edges of the first photo—a picture of him at age seven, standing stiffly between his parents.

He stood and watched, his face illuminated by the flickering heat. The images blackened and bubbled, his parents’ smiles dissolving into gray ash and drifting up toward the stars. For the first time in his life, the weight of their expectations felt as light as the smoke vanishing into the night sky.

~

Fabien stepped back inside, the door clicking softly behind him as the chill of the midnight air clung to his skin. The house felt unnervingly still, the scent of the bonfire following him like a ghost. He moved to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water run hot until the room filled with a thick, comforting fog. Stepping under the spray, he scrubbed his skin with a sense of ritual, watching the gray residue of ash and the sharp tang of smoke vanish down the drain. He felt lighter, as if he were washing away more than just the debris of the photos.

After drying off, he pulled on a fresh pair of red plaid pajama pants, the soft fabric a contrast to the cold finality of the backyard. He walked back into the master bedroom, moving with quiet, deliberate steps so as not to disturb the silence. Celeste was still deep in sleep, her breathing a steady, rhythmic anchor in the darkened room. Fabien sat on the edge of the mattress, his hands resting on his knees as he watched the soft rise and fall of her shoulders. For the first time since Ichiro’s intrusion, the frantic noise in his head had faded into a profound, hollow quiet.

The silence of the bedroom, usually a sanctuary, suddenly felt heavy and suffocating. As Fabien stared at the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Celeste’s breathing, the dam he had held up all night finally broke. The fight, the burning of the photographs, and the clinical cruelty of Ichiro’s revelation about his own birth—it all came crashing down at once.

He didn’t make a sound. He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders began to heave, shaking violently with the force of his grief, but he clamped his jaw shut, terrified that even a ragged breath would wake her. Hot, silent tears leaked through his fingers, staining the skin of his palms as he sat there, utterly shattered in the dark, weeping for the version of himself that had died that night.