The hospital kept us there another two hours. When they finally cut us loose, the sperm donor carried us out to a '78 Hillman Avenger—worn vinyl, old-gasoline stink, and an engine that started up like it was doing us a favor. That's when the trip actually began.
The town was rural, leaning poor. It wasn't the Middle Ages, thank God, but it wasn't the future either. Low houses. Half-broken streets. Crooked fences. The kind of place where everyone greets you like they know you… and at the same time nobody knows a damn thing.
The car rolled on without any drama. If I hadn't known we were heading "somewhere," I would've missed the turn completely. No epic entrance. Just a normal turn. A slightly narrower road. And that was it. The town fell behind us like it had never existed.
The forest showed up without asking permission.
First, scattered trees. Then packed shadows. The air got damp. Black soil. Rotting leaves. And I was getting sleepy. Not normal I'm tired sleepy. Baby-sleep—chemical, mandatory, like my own body was selling me out.
I tried to keep my eyes open. Falling asleep in new territory meant trusting the world. And the world was a repeat-offender bastard.
The house appeared between the trees like something that didn't want to be found.
From the outside it looked small, low, one floor. Dark stone. Uneven windows that reflected nothing useful. If you weren't looking for it, you'd drive right past and keep living your life.
I stared at it with my brain half shut down. And still, an idea lodged in me like a splinter: something about the silhouette didn't quite add up. I let it slide and blamed the sleep.
The engine died. The forest swallowed the sound.
The silence lasted one second. Just one. Then the silence started to pulse.
At first I thought it was my own chest. That weird pressure you get when you don't know the ground and your body wants you in bed—docile, switched off. But the pulse wasn't coming from me. It was coming from outside. Same beat. Mechanical. Every hit just as deep.
They carried me in. The door creaked. I slipped inside with half my mind asleep and the other half taking notes. Old damp. Clothes drying. A dirty warmth stuck to the walls.
The pulse kept going.
Closer.
Like the house had a heart hidden behind the plaster.
And then the silence stopped being forest-silence. It turned into something else. A thump under the floor. A vibration in my teeth. Music you didn't hear—you felt.
The light changed without warning. Not because someone hit a switch—because my eyes decided to see another room. Red. Neon leaking through a crack.
Cigarette smoke.
Leather.
Whisky.
I knew that pulse. I'd built empires on top of it.
And still, for a couple seconds, I swore I was still in the woods.
I was sitting down. I didn't remember sitting down. But there I was.
The leather sofa stuck to my back—warm, tacky. Whisky in my hand. The ice was already half melted. How long had I been there?
Tommy stood to my right. Still as always. Black notebook in one hand. Keys in the other. Not saying a word. He never said a word until I spoke first.
Marcus was across from me. Seated. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Watching me like he was waiting for something.
The club's bass hammered under us. Low. Constant. Like a second heart.
I put the notebook on the table.
Old. Worn. Corners bent. Coffee stains on the cover. Inside were the numbers from the first plan. Little doodles made with stolen ballpoints. Territories circled with crooked lines. Names crossed out. Dreams of two kids who had nothing.
Marcus looked at the notebook. His jaw tightened.
Tommy looked too. Reached out like he was going to touch it. Stopped halfway.
"Eighteen years we've been doing this," I said.
Marcus nodded slowly.
"And today it ends," I added.
The air shifted. Nothing dramatic. Just… dropped a degree.
Marcus leaned back. Crossed his arms.
"What'd she tell you today?"
"Who?"
"Joanne." He said her name like he was spitting. "Every time you come back from those meetings, you're different."
"This has nothing to do with her."
"Of course it does." Marcus nodded at the notebook. "We did that. We did. Not her. And now you walk in with this 'I'm retiring' crap."
"It's not crap. It's a fact."
Tommy moved. Barely. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Like he was settling in for something.
"Thirty percent gets cut today," I said. "The rest is yours. The clean funds, the contacts, the routes. All of it. I'm leaving it in good hands."
Marcus didn't answer right away. Just stared at me. Long. Like he was measuring something.
"And the trafficking?" he finally asked.
"It's done."
Silence.
The bass kept thumping. But now it sounded slower. Heavier.
"That's not your decision," Marcus said. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"It's my decision. And it's final."
Marcus leaned forward again.
"You know what happens if we cut that? You know how many deals snap? How many enemies land on our heads?"
"I know."
"You don't." Marcus shook his head. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be saying this bullshit."
I looked at Tommy. Waiting for him to say something. Back me up. Do anything.
Tommy avoided my eyes.
"She's making you soft," Marcus said. "I told you before. You didn't listen."
"I'm not soft. I'm tired."
"Same thing."
I grabbed the notebook and held it up.
"We started this with a plan. With rules. And now we're moving girls like they're crates of beer. That wasn't the plan."
Marcus smiled. No humor in it.
"The plan was to survive. And we did. But you changed. And a leader who changes is a leader who puts us in danger."
"I'm not putting you in danger. I'm giving you everything we built."
"No." Marcus stood up. "You're leaving us holding a war, and you won't be here to cover it."
I stood up too.
Or tried to.
My legs didn't respond right away. The whisky weighed in my hand like it was full of lead. The watch on my wrist felt tight.
Marcus took a step forward.
"Is it final?"
"Yeah."
Tommy moved again. This time it wasn't subtle. He took a spot near the door. Blocking it without making it obvious.
Something didn't add up.
I looked at the notebook in my hand. The pages were blurry. Like I was seeing them through dirty water.
The bass didn't sound like bass anymore. It sounded like a heartbeat. Like something alive under the floor.
The red ceiling light flickered.
"Marcus…"
He raised a hand.
There was a gun.
I didn't remember seeing it before.
"Nothing personal, boss."
Tommy stayed standing. Motionless. Like he wasn't real. Like a badly painted mannequin.
I tried to move. Yell. Do something.
Nothing.
The shot sounded muffled. Distant. Like something cracking underwater.
And then I heard something else.
Crying.
High-pitched. Wrong.
Growing.
The red light blew out into a sickly yellow. The walls started to melt. The leather under my hands turned rough. Cheap fabric.
The smell of whisky vanished.
Damp. Old wood. Forest.
The crying wouldn't stop.
I opened my eyes—really opened them this time. No backrooms. No whisky. No Marcus pointing a gun that shouldn't exist.
Just darkness. Splintered wood above me. The stink of old damp and clothes drying near a fire.
And that fucking crying.
The twin—the wailer—was in the same crib as me. We had plenty of space, but the little bastard screamed like someone was ripping his soul out on an installment plan.
I tried to move. I wanted to tap him. Something minimal. A tactical shut up.
Nothing.
No arms. No legs. No damn anything. Just a wide-awake brain trapped in a warm, useless sack.
I took a deep breath. Focused every ounce of will into my right fist.
It moved. One centimeter.
Impressive. I was basically ready to start an empire again.
The crying got louder. Like he sensed I was awake and decided to compete for attention.
Footsteps. Soft. Coming closer.
A shadow leaned over the crib. The face of the woman who'd given birth to us slid into view—framed by messy black hair and tired green eyes. Her name was Elora, if I remember right.
Shit.
Yeah, she was pretty.
She picked up the crybaby first.
"There, there, Simón," she murmured, rocking him against her chest. "Mom's here."
So that's what it felt like. Having someone take care of you. Someone who came when you cried. Someone who didn't leave you alone in the dark.
I watched them with something twisting inside me. It wasn't envy. It was worse. Something without a name.
Elora looked down at me.
"Luca's awake too," she said, softer. "Are you hungry, love?"
I hadn't noticed until she said it, but yeah. I was hungry. Deep, empty hunger—something primitive in the brain that didn't understand dignity or pride.
I tried to talk. Babbling came out.
I tried to nod. My head moved half a centimeter.
I tried to lift my arms. Nothing.
This was humiliating.
But she understood. Of course she did. She finished calming Simón, set him back in the crib, and picked me up.
She held me carefully. Settled me against her chest. Sat in a wooden chair by the window.
And then I saw what was coming.
Oh, no.
She won't.
Will she?
She pulled herself open.
Oh, fuck. She will.
I watched in slow motion as my face got closer and closer. The breast was… well. Pink. Real. And part of me—the old part, the London part—was screaming that this was weird, that she was my mother, that there were lines you didn't cross even in a second life.
But hunger doesn't understand lines.
And breast milk smelled good.
Screw it.
I gave in.
And when I finally got there—when instinct beat shame—I have to admit it: it was delicious.
Do I feel bad? No.Am I embarrassed? Maybe.Would I do it again? Absolutely.
I regret nothing.
Days passed. I don't know how many. I lost track because my body only did two things: sleep and shit.
But every so often—without fail—Simón cried. And that saved me, because when he cried, Elora came. And when she came, she fed me too.
Me? I had to cry as well. Only when it was necessary. When I felt my sphincter let go and drop a "gift." If I left it there, it burned me raw. Hurt like hell. I didn't have a choice.
During that time I learned something important: I lived in a "together" family.
Gregory—my sperm donor—was never around. He didn't answer Simón's calls or mine. I saw him three times, on different days. Either he was insanely busy or he straight up didn't live in the house.
The first time I saw him up close, his eyes surprised me. Dark brown. Deep. Too deep for someone who did… whatever the hell he did.
That night I heard the click. Low. Metal on metal, patient. Then old wood creaking under a weight that didn't hesitate.
Footsteps coming up.
Footsteps coming up.
It felt stupid to fixate on that. But that was the problem: in that house, the only thing that "came up" was the staircase that went down. The one they didn't let us near.
Gregory appeared in the doorway. Walked into the room. Stood in front of our crib for minutes. Just watching.
In the moonlight filtering through the window, I caught a small scar on his neck. Almost hidden by his shirt collar. His hands smelled like cigarette smoke and something metallic I couldn't place.
By four months, I finally had full control of my body.
I could decide when to go. I could say full words. I could move freely in the crib.
And I could crawl.
Finally. For fuck's sake.
Weirdly enough, Simón followed soon after. A few days later, the kid was sitting up on his own. Crawling. Copying every move I made.
That was… off.
If I pointed at something, he pointed too. If I tried to reach for an object, he did the same.
I started communicating with him through movement and looks. It was strange. It felt like he understood me. And, weirdly, I understood him. Or thought I did.
For example: I'd point at the toy and make a weird noise. After a while, he'd clumsily pass me that same toy.
This could be useful.
I looked at Simón and nodded. Testing him.
I started crying. Simón followed right after.
Elora came not long later to see what was wrong. I pointed clumsily at the floor so she'd take me out of the crib.
Truth is, I could've done it myself. I was just lazy. It's not like it was far or I was scared to try. I'm not afraid of anything. Pfft.
Simón copied me, pointing at the floor too. Mimicking.
Elora got it fast. She took us out and set us on a big rug that looked like animal hide. She tossed a few baby toys down with us.
And from there, I started exploring the house when she wasn't watching.
The layout was simple.
Our room was at the back. Like they'd parked us there so we wouldn't get in the way. You walked out and there were two doors—one on each side.
First door on the right was the bathroom. I figured it out because Elora took us there every time it was bathroom time.
On the left was my parents' room.
Two more months flew by.
By the sixth, Elora let us roam more. I took advantage. Confirmed the rest of the map.
The hallway opened into a common area—living room, dining room, kitchen all together. Poverty, well-managed: one room for everything. The front door was there too.
I saw it.
I memorized it.
There was an outside. An exit point.
And then I saw the stairs.
Far left, right before the kitchen. They weren't pretty. Didn't match anything. Looked bolted on, like someone had said I need to go down and didn't give a damn about the rest.
Different wood. Weird angle. That improvised-addition feel.
But solid.
Too solid for something that careless.
They had a baby-proof lock. A metal gate with a latch.
I couldn't see what was below.
But something pulled.
Not curiosity. Something else. Like when you know someone's watching you even if you can't see them. Or when you step onto territory that isn't yours and your body screams it before your brain processes a damn thing.
That.
I crawled closer. Grabbed the bars.
Simón followed—like always—but when he reached the gate, he stopped dead.
Just sat there. Staring. Still.
Then he backed up.
No crying. No fuss. He just left.
Like something told him: no, you little shit, not here.
I didn't back up.
I kept staring into the darkness swallowing the steps. The air coming up smelled wrong. Damp, yeah. But also something else. Old. Metallic. Like rusted coins.
The pull stayed. Constant. Patient.
Like a bastard who already knew I'd be back.