Chapter 5 - Into the Abyss
The rain started just as I crossed the threshold into the lower districts. The sleek lines of my car felt entirely out of place parked between rusted shipping containers and crumbling brick tenements. Water streamed down the windshield in heavy, blurred sheets, distorting the dim orange glow of the streetlights.
I didn't care about the car anymore. I grabbed my jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and stepped out into the cold, relentless downpour.
Finding Liam wasn't going to be easy in a labyrinth of alleyways and abandoned warehouses. I walked for over an hour, my leather shoes soaked through, the biting wind cutting straight through my clothes. The neighborhood was desolate at this hour, save for the occasional stray dog or distant shouting echoing from a dilapidated apartment block.
I retraced my steps from the night of the gala, heading deeper into the industrial sector where the old man with the pipe had spoken to me.
The smoke shop was dark and shuttered, its wooden sign swinging loosely in the wind. I pounded on the door anyway.
Bang, bang, bang.
After a tense minute, the heavy bolt slid open with a loud screech. The old man peered out, his eyes squinting through the gloom, holding a rusted flashlight. When the beam hit my face, he sighed heavily.
"I told you to keep walking, kid," the old man muttered, starting to close the door.
"Wait!" I caught the edge of the door with my hand, stopping it. "I know the truth. About who I am. About who he is. Please... I need to find him."
The old man stopped. He looked at my drenched clothes, shivering frame, and desperate expression. Slowly, he opened the door wider.
"Get inside before you freeze to death," he grunted, stepping aside.
I slipped past him into the cramped, dim shop. It smelled of tobacco, old paper, and damp wool. The old man walked behind a cluttered counter, picked up a stained ceramic mug, and poured a splash of cheap whiskey into it, handing it to me. I took it gratefully, letting the burn warm my chest.
"You found out about Victor’s little bookkeeping error, didn't you?" the old man asked, leaning against a stack of dusty crates.
"I found the birth records," I said, catching my breath. "Twin brothers. He gave Liam away."
"Gave away is a polite way to put it," the old man said, spitting into a metal bucket by his feet. "Victor Sterling didn't want charity cases bearing his name. He paid a corrupt social worker to lose the paperwork and dropped the second boy off at a state-run shelter that was about to be demolished. By some miracle, the boy survived. Grew up hard. Grew up angry. But mostly, grew up invisible."
"Where is he now?" I demanded. "Victor knows I found out. If my father finds him before I do—"
"Your father’s men have already been sniffing around this sector," the old man interrupted, his tone turning grave. "Two black sedans passed through here an hour ago. If Liam hasn't moved, he’s hunkered down in the old textile mill by the river. End of this street, past the rail yards."
I didn't wait for him to finish. I slammed my ceramic mug down on the counter, muttered a hurried "Thank you," and bolted out the door into the pouring rain.
The run to the textile mill felt like a nightmare sprint. My lungs burned with every breath, the cold air biting into my chest. The structure loomed ahead like a skeletal beast against the dark, stormy sky—broken windows, rusted corrugated metal siding, and a collapsed roof section that let the rain pour straight into the gutted interior.
I pushed open a rusted side door that hung off its hinges.
"Liam!" I shouted, my voice echoing through the massive, empty hall.
No answer. Only the rhythmic patter of rain leaking through the roof and pooling on the concrete floor.
I swept my flashlight beam across the expanse of the room. Old machinery frames stood like giant iron skeletons. Piles of rotting cardboard boxes and discarded pallets formed makeshift shelters in the corners.
Then, I saw a faint flicker of light coming from an office enclosure near the back of the mill.
I crept forward, my boots squelching softly against the wet floor. As I drew closer, I heard voices. One was low and commanding; the other was rough, defensive.
"...you don't belong here, boy," a cold voice said. It wasn't Victor, but it belonged to one of his fixers—a sharp-suited enforcer I had occasionally seen at our family estate.
I peered around the shattered glass partition of the office.
Liam was cornered against a concrete pillar. He looked battered, his cheek bruised and bleeding, his worn jacket torn at the shoulder. Standing in front of him were two men in dark suits, blocking any chance of escape.
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"Get away from him!" I yelled, bursting through the glass partition.
Both enforcers spun around in surprise. Liam looked up, his identical eyes widening in absolute shock as he stared at me standing under the flickering fluorescent light of the old office.
