Three hours slipped by in a haze of what could only be described as structured goofing off. After Ramirez's initial praise, Theo had taken charge of the "tour," leading Kota around the sprawling Chester Mall site with the enthusiasm of someone showing off their personal playground. They started at the foundation's edge, where massive concrete pours had hardened into the bean-shaped base, workers in hard hats swarming like ants over the rebar grids. Theo pointed out every detail: the eco-friendly drainage systems designed to handle Houston's flash floods, the steel columns rising like skeletal fingers toward the sky, the temporary scaffolding that creaked under the weight of metal panels being hoisted into place. "See that?" Theo said, gesturing to a crane swinging a bundle of beams. "That's high-tensile steel—imported from Germany. Dad insisted on it for seismic resistance, even though we're not in earthquake country. Overkill, but that's him."
Kota nodded along, snapping occasional photos on Theo's phone to supplement the videos—close-ups of welding sparks flying in blue-white arcs, piles of lumber waiting for framing, even a selfie with a random worker who grinned and flashed a thumbs-up. But mostly, they wandered aimlessly, ducking into air-conditioned trailers for "meetings" that turned into Theo rambling about investment returns while Kota lounged on folding chairs, sipping bottled water from the site's cooler. They played a few rounds of rock-paper-scissors to decide who "inspected" the next zone, laughing when Theo lost and had to climb a small ladder to peer at a half-installed wall panel. "This is what real work looks like," Theo joked, mimicking Ramirez's booming voice. Kota chuckled, the earlier tension from their car session fading into easy camaraderie. The sweat had dried on his skin, leaving behind a gritty residue that made him feel legitimately worked over.
They avoided actual labor Theo's privilege shielded them from any real assignments—but the site's energy kept them engaged. Workers nodded respectfully as they passed, assuming the young Hawthorne heir and his "colleague" were there on official business. One crew member even shared his lunch, a foil-wrapped burrito that Kota devoured while Theo picked at a protein bar from his glove compartment. Time blurred: an hour watching excavators dig utility trenches, another debating the merits of solar panels versus wind turbines for the mall's green initiatives, the last spent sitting on a stack of pallets, tossing pebbles at a distant barrel and betting imaginary dollars on who got closest. It was lighthearted, freeing—a far cry from the high-stakes deception that had brought them here. Kota found himself relaxing fully, the site's chaos a perfect backdrop for their idle chatter. Theo opened up about his family's pressures, the endless board meetings and expectations to take over one day; Kota shared snippets of his own life, the strict rules at home, the constant push to "stay strong" in a world Khalil saw as weak.
As the sun climbed higher, casting shorter shadows across the dirt, Ramirez approached again. The foreman wiped his brow with a bandana, clipboard tucked under one arm, his flannel shirt dark with sweat stains. "Alright, boys—shift's wrapping up for the day crew. You two put in a solid one; site's looking good thanks to efforts like yours. Head out before the night shift rolls in."
Kota and Theo exchanged glances, both sighing in unison part relief, part reluctance to end the unexpectedly fun afternoon. "Thanks, Mr. Ramirez," Theo said, shaking the man's hand. "Appreciate the hospitality."
Ramirez clapped Kota on the shoulder. "Keep it up, kid. You've got the build for this line of work."
They headed back to the McLaren, the engine purring to life as Theo pulled out through the gate. The drive home was quieter than the morning's frantic rush, traffic thickening with the evening commute. Theo kept the conversation light, cracking jokes about starting a construction side hustle together. "We could call it Hawthorne and... whatever your last name is. Build malls by day, goof off by... well, all day." Kota laughed, the knot in his stomach loosening further. As they approached his neighborhood, Theo slowed a block away, just like before. "Text me later? Let me know if the videos fly with your dad."
"Yeah. Thanks again, Theo. For everything." Kota hopped out, watching the white sports car accelerate away, taillights fading into the dusk.
He jogged the last block home, the winter evening cooling the air to a crisp chill. Streetlights flickered on overhead, casting long shadows across the chain-link fences and parked pickups. His apartment building loomed ahead, the familiar brick facade a mix of comfort and apprehension. The clock on his phone—still Khalil's old iPhone 19—read 9:00 p.m. sharp as he climbed the stairs, legs heavy from the day's exertions, both real and improvised. The sweat had long since dried, leaving his clothes stiff and grimy, a perfect alibi.
Kota unlocked the door quietly, stepping into the warm glow of the living room. Khalil was waiting, as expected—seated on the worn couch, a mug of coffee in hand, the television muted on an old football rerun. His eyes lit up the moment Kota entered, scanning him from head to toe: the dust-streaked jeans, the sweat-matted hair, the faint exhaustion in his posture. "There he is, the working man! Late shift, huh? How'd it go, son?"
Before Kota could answer, Khalil stood and gestured impatiently. "Videos. Show me the videos. I wanna see that form—make sure you're not hurting yourself out there."
Kota pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it over without hesitation. "Here, Dad. Theo—uh, a guy from the site—filmed some clips. Check 'em out."
Khalil took the device, thick fingers navigating the screen with surprising dexterity. He opened the gallery, thumbing through the videos one by one. The first clip played: Kota heaving the beam, sweat glistening on his brow, muscles straining under the weight. Khalil's face split into a wide grin. "Look at that! Back straight, legs doing the work—perfect form. You're a natural, boy." The next video showed him walking with the load, dirt kicking up around his boots, a determined set to his jaw. Khalil laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. "Ha! That's my son—hauling like a pro. And sweaty as hell—means you put in the hours. Proud of you."
By the third clip—a wider shot of Kota setting the beam down, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand—Khalil was beaming ear to ear. He paused the video, eyes shining with unfiltered joy. "This... this is it, Kota. You're stepping up. Real work, real grit. None of that soft bullshit the world's pushing." He set the phone down and lunged forward, wrapping Kota in a massive bear hug. His arms squeezed like vices, nearly lifting Kota off the ground, the force compressing his ribs to the point of discomfort. Kota gasped, patting his dad's back awkwardly. "Dad—can't—breathe—"
Khalil released him but kept hands on his shoulders, holding him at arm's length. "Sorry, son—got carried away. But damn, I'm proud. So damn proud. You're a man now, you hear me? Taking initiative, building with your hands—that's what separates the strong from the weak. In this world full of... well, you know... you're standing tall. Real men have opportunities, and you're grabbing 'em. Keep the phone—it's yours now. Use it for work, for chances that come your way. No more restrictions; you've earned it."
Kota's chest swelled with genuine happiness, a warm glow spreading through him. The lie had worked—flawlessly. No more suspicion, no more tiptoeing around questions. Khalil saw what he wanted: a hardworking son, tough and capable. The phone in his hand felt like freedom—a direct line to Theo, to the outside world, without the constant oversight. "Thanks, Dad. Really. Means a lot."
Khalil clapped him on the back one last time—hard enough to jolt him forward—then settled back on the couch. "Go clean up. Dinner's in the fridge if you're hungry. Tomorrow, tell me more about the site."
Kota nodded, heading to the bathroom with a lightness in his step. He stripped off the grimy clothes, letting them pile on the tile floor, and stepped under the shower's hot spray. The water cascaded over him, washing away the sweat, dust, and remnants of the day's chaos. Steam filled the small space, soothing his sore muscles—the ache from lifting beams mixed with the deeper fatigue from his sessions with Theo. He scrubbed thoroughly, lathering soap over his dark skin, rinsing away the evidence until he felt renewed. The bite mark on his neck had faded to a faint shadow, barely noticeable now.
Toweling off, Kota slipped into clean boxers and a fresh tee, the apartment quiet except for the low murmur of the TV. He padded to his room, the posters of old football stars watching silently as he collapsed onto the bed. The springs creaked under his weight, the pillow cool against his cheek. Exhaustion pulled at him immediately—the long day, the deceptions, the unexpected fun—all catching up in a heavy wave. His eyes drifted shut, mind quiet for the first time in hours, and he sank into sleep.