Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Hallway
The routine began without his permission.
Every night,
at exactly eight o'clock,
the light knock would come.
"It's Elara,"
she would say,
sometimes her voice was bright,
sometimes it was so thin it barely carried through the wood.
"I brought some tea tonight,"
or,
"The porridge has cinnamon this time."
Tristan never answered,
but he always waited by the door,
listening to the rustle of her coat,
the way she hummed to herself as she set the bowl down.
He began to learn the rhythm of her life.
She left at six in the morning,
her footsteps hurried and light.
She returned late,
sometimes with a cough of her own,
sometimes with the sound of someone crying softly behind her door.
He realized she wasn't just poor,
she was drowning.
One evening,
Knox arrived,
slipping into the apartment like a shadow.
"Webb is consolidating power,"
Knox reported,
his face grim in the low light.
"He's moved into your estate. Celeste is... she's running the foundations now."
Tristan’s jaw tightened,
the muscles corded like steel.
"Let them,"
he whispered,
his voice raspy from disuse.
"The higher they build,
the further they have to fall."
Knox looked at the empty white bowl on the table.
"Who's feeding you,
Boss?"
Tristan glanced at the bowl,
his expression unreadable.
"A girl. She thinks I'm a victim of the city."
Knox frowned,
his hand moving toward his holster.
"Is she a threat? I can handle it."
"No,"
Tristan said sharply,
surprising even himself.
"She's nothing. Just a neighbor with too much pity."
Knox nodded,
though he looked unconvinced.
"I've set up the offshore accounts. When you're ready to rise,
the money will be there. But for now,
stay dead."
After Knox left,
Tristan looked at the bowl again.
He felt a sudden,
sharp pang of guilt,
an emotion he hadn't felt in years.
He was using this girl’s charity,
taking food from someone who likely skipped meals to provide it.
He was a predator,
even when he was pretending to be prey.
That night,
when Elara knocked,
he did something he hadn't planned to do.
"Wait,"
he said,
his voice cracking.
The footsteps in the hallway stopped instantly.
The silence stretched,
thick and heavy.
"You spoke,"
she whispered,
her voice filled with a strange,
fragile wonder.
"Thank you,"
he said,
each word feeling like a stone in his mouth.
"The... the porridge. It's good."
He could almost hear her smile through the door.
"You're welcome,"
she said softly.
"I'm glad you liked it. I'll see you tomorrow."
Tristan leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door.
He was a man who had commanded armies of thugs,
who had stared down senators and let them tremble.
But tonight,
the sound of a girl's footsteps walking away made him feel smaller than he ever had.
He was Tristan Wolfe,
and he was starting to hate the lie he was living.
He looked at his legs,
strong and capable,
hidden beneath the blanket of his wheelchair.
He could stand up right now.
He could walk out of this building and reclaim his throne.
But then he would have to leave the porridge behind.
May you like
And for reasons he couldn't explain,
he wasn't ready to let go of the only honest thing he had left.
