In the following morning.
Light slowly slipped through the bedroom blinds while the ceiling fan turned lazily above Ryan's bed, emitting a constant infernal creaking sound. But not even that could pull the young man, sprawled across the bed, out of his deep sleep. Thick drool ran down his carefree face.
Ryan had complained about that fan to his father a hundred times, since it once made sleeping almost impossible. But after so much complaining, the sound no longer bothered him. The infernal roars had become part of the routine. He had adapted to that hell the same way he had adapted to many others over time.
As soon as the first ray of sunlight touched his eyes, like a seasoned soldier, Ryan opened them instantly and leapt out of bed in a swift, abrupt motion that resembled a beast more than a person. His heart pounded like that of an Olympic runner in the final fifty meters of the most important race of his life.
Ryan briefly looked around, slightly startled, then at the clock on the wall to check the time. Seeing that he hadn't overslept, he sighed and stretched calmly like a cat. He then left the bedroom with a lazy yawn and walked toward the kitchen, as was his routine. Passing by his father's bedroom door, which stood directly opposite his own…
The door was broken open. Splinters of wood were scattered across the floor, while the rusted metal doorknob had long since fallen among the other debris. Hundreds of loose sheets covered that stretch of hallway, spilling all the way into the deceased man's room.
Ryan glanced at it… briefly, before stepping over the papers on his way to breakfast. His expression unreadable. But certainly not surprised—at no point did he fear a nighttime intruder.
Their apartment was small; the only division between the kitchen and the living room was the counter where Ryan quickly sat down with cereal, milk, and a bowl, which he devoured eagerly…
Behind him stood a four-seat table. Three large black plastic boxes rested on it, open and even toppled over, spilling part of their contents in chaotic fashion. Sealed folders—dozens of them—were stuffed to their limits. Amid the accidental chaos there was also deliberate order. Someone had removed the papers inside and rearranged them with a purpose that was, for now, unknown.
Beside them, a thick photo album rested beneath the table. It displayed Ryan's father prominently and occasionally Eleanor, Ryan's sister and even Ryan himself—along with a hundred unfamiliar faces that appeared only once.
Scenes from distant, happy times mixed with the solitary adventures of a man who had seen, if not the whole world, a great part of it. His photos served as evidence of his passage through each of those places, as well as proof of the many relationships he had formed overseas.
Ryan chewed his cereal calmly, ignoring the chaos around him. When he finished, he tossed the dirty dishes into the sink and walked back to the photos.
His eyes scanned them carefully with a cold calculation that resembled that of an experienced detective, for a long time—until he suddenly scratched his head, growing increasingly stressed and frustrated.
He couldn't get it out of his mind.
"Why?! Why the hell did you do this to me?! I didn't want to break your door down! Damn it! You could've at least left a spare key, you dumbass, couldn't you? Damn old man! How am I supposed to fix the door now?! With magic?!"
He cursed, imagining what the others would think of it.
Ryan had taken less than 24 hours to destroy his own house after acquiring it—Eleanor would love to hear about that.
He vented his complaints about his father and finally sighed. He then took a small pocket notebook and a pen and wrote his final notes. At last, he grabbed an empty folder and placed inside it medical reports, the death certificate, professional cards, a passport, personal photos, income tax declarations from several years. He closed it and left it on the table before glancing once more at a clock.
"I still have time…"
He murmured and walked toward his father's bedroom. He looked around once again, wondering if he might still find something important. He didn't doubt there could be cash hidden in a wall safe or perhaps a gun inside a false bottom. However, any more thorough search would take a long time. Ryan even considered simply grabbing an axe and smashing everything until he found something—or even setting the place on fire—but the apartment was his now, and fixing that afterward would be hell. Quite literally.
He already blamed himself enough for the door—and he would hate having to explain things to the firefighters.
Even so, that was just an intrusive thought. The reason he had entered the room was another entirely. Soon he went to the wardrobe and opened it, revealing a row of blazers and suits. Without much ceremony, he grabbed a set and tossed it onto the bed before choosing a tie.
Ryan took a hot shower while humming cheerfully. Then he dressed carefully, making sure everything looked its best. Afterward, he fixed his hair vigorously and took a second bath—this time in perfume.
In the mirror, he finally looked himself up and down, adjusting the tie—satisfied.
Ryan was a teenager with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. His eyes were black, and overall his features were average. Combined with his not-so-colossal height and slim build, he was completely ordinary.
Even so, except for himself, no one would call him ordinary. His eyes were common in appearance, yet at the same time they displayed a unique intelligence and liveliness. Nothing escaped them, like a high-tech radar. His posture was confident, shoulders thrown back and a pearly smile on his lips.
But what truly made him stand out were the clothes.
His father always told him how good clothes made the man. Ryan had been reluctant to agree—but at this moment he couldn't deny it.
The entire outfit was black, except for the tie, which was a pale gold. It gave him a peculiar impression, though never a negative one. Something that always demanded a second look.
Ryan certainly knew how to look like a charming man. Another legacy from his father.
He picked up the folder again and hid it beneath his suit jacket.
Then, with firm and confident steps, he went to the front door, ignoring the chaos left behind, and unlocked it without checking the time. He didn't need to, once fully awake, his sharp mind could tell the exact hour with the precision of a robot.
Unhurried, he descended the staircase of the old building.
Soon enough, Ryan stepped outside just as a well-polished black car came up the street toward him. The moment Ryan reached the edge of the sidewalk, the car stopped in front of him as if timed down to the millisecond—more like machines than people.
Ryan felt relieved, realizing he would fit in easily with people like them.
Swiftly, he opened the door and settled into the passenger seat, and the car set off again in a motion so smooth it barely seemed to have stopped.