Back then, Marcus didn’t think much about consequences.
Until the night everything changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion. No confrontation. Just a phone call he almost didn’t answer.
His younger sister, Elena Hale, had been in a car accident. A drunk driver. Wrong place, wrong time. By the time Marcus reached the hospital, there was nothing left to say.
Except there was someone left behind.
Her son.
A five-year-old boy named Noah Reyes.
Noah didn’t cry at the funeral. That’s what Marcus remembered most. Not the flowers, not the quiet murmurs from people who didn’t know what to say—just the boy standing still beside the casket, holding a worn-out teddy bear so tightly it looked like it might come apart in his hands.
The bear had one eye missing. The fur was matted in places, thin in others, and the stitching along its side had already begun to give way.
But Noah held onto it like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
Marcus didn’t know what to say to him then.
