46. Chapter Forty-Six Nathan

Chapter Forty-Six: Nathan

M y parents’ house felt more like a tomb than a home.

We parked outside their suburban home, engine dying with a last shudder and leaving a jarring silence. The place looked just as I remembered…but wrong. Whereas my mother had kept this house brimming with life, the windows stared out like dead eyes, the door a silent mouth that had swallowed whole years of my life.

For a second, I just sat there, hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white.

"Ready?" Abby's voice was soft next to me.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

Last time I stepped into this house, I was supposed to save Ma. Instead, I watched my father put a bullet in her head.

I didn't save her. I couldn't. And now, every shadow in this place whispered her name.

"Hey," Abby reached over, her hand warm on mine. "It’s almost over."

I stared at the house, finding the resolve that was quickly slipping away as I gripped her hand.

“I know.”

We stepped out of the car, Abby's hand finding mine as we moved toward the house. The place stood quiet—too quiet. No guards rushed out to meet us, and there was no guard at the door. Just the silent fa?ade watching us approach.

"Too easy," I murmured, eyes catching a red blink above the doorframe. A camera. But something told me it was just for show. My father had his hands full; fending off an assassination attempt wasn’t on his agenda when his empire was burning.

"Someone's gotta be watching," Abby whispered, squeezing my hand.

"Maybe," I said, "But they didn't see this coming."

The moment we stepped through the door, two guards materialized—as far as I could tell, the only ones here. Two guys with guns snapped to attention, aiming straight at us. I shot my hands up without a word—no sudden moves—while Abby did the same beside me.

"Easy," I said, voice steady. "We're not here for trouble. Just want to talk to my old man."

The goons didn't speak, but their eyes were on us like hawks. They gestured for me to move, maybe to pat us down.

That's when Abby doubled over, a hand clutching her stomach as she made a truly disgusting noise.

"I—I feel sick," she gasped out, her face pale.

The guards looked at each other, unsure for a second, and I could see them trying to figure if this was some kind of trick.

"Sorry," Abby choked out, her hand on her belly. "It's just…with the baby and all."

The guards looked at each other, thrown off their game by her sudden sickness. I could see the surprise in their eyes; they hadn't counted on this.

"The boss said she’s slippery," one guard muttered to the other in whispered Mandarin. "Fucking bitch."

I was seconds away from snapping when Abby hunched over, gagging like she was going to lose it right then and there. Her eyes met mine, quick and sharp, then flicked to the stairs.

That split second was all I needed to hear it—a soft cry cutting through the thick tension in the air.

Lily .

"Hey, hey," I said, reaching out to rub her back. "You look really bad—do you need to go to the bathroom first?"

Abby's act didn’t break as she nodded, her face the picture of misery. She knew what was at stake; we both did. The guards eyed us, guns still trained, but the uncertainty was clear.

"She’s really sick," I pressed on, gesturing to Abby's stomach. "Wouldn't want that mess here, right?"

Their hesitation hung in the air . Abby, pale and convincing, gave them an apologetic look that might just save our asses. If they only knew the storm brewing inside us, the fury and the fear twisted up so tight.

But for now, all they saw was a man concerned for his pregnant partner, nothing more. They looked at each other, not sure what to do—

Then, both their phones buzzed at once.

"Another fire," the taller one muttered, pulling the phone from his pocket and scanning the message. A frown creased his brow.

"Damn it," the other spat out, shoving the device back into his pocket. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here dealing with a sick woman and her worried man. "We don't have time for this. You, come with me.”

He reached for Abby, who allowed him to take her by the arm. She let out a convincing gag; even I wasn’t sure if she was actually sick.

"Take care of her," I said, nodding toward Abby. The shorter guy gave a short nod and motioned Abby down the opposite hall.

As she walked away, her eyes held mine for just a moment—enough to say everything that needed saying without a single word. For a second, the world around us faded—the guns, the tension, the smell of fear that hung thick in the air, all of it gone.

It was just me and her, a silent conversation passing between us.

A quiet goodbye.

The taller guy nudged me forward. "Move," he barked, breaking the spell. I glanced back at Abby as she was led away by the other guard, her steps staggering as she maintained her act.

Even if I wasn’t able to get out of this…she would save Lily and escape.

And if all went according to plan, we would see each other again.

I had to believe that.

The guard's grip was firm on my shoulder as he ushered me through the familiar, yet foreign, halls of my childhood home. It felt like a lifetime since I'd last set foot in this place—though it couldn't have been more than a few months. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.

I glanced at the dining table as we passed. The remnants of my mother's last supper still sat there, the plates now hosting a swarm of flies that buzzed around the rotten scraps. A shiver ran down my back, but not from the sight alone—it was the memories that lurked beneath the surface, the ones I fought to keep at bay every waking moment. It was like the shiny veneer had finally vanished from this house.

This was what had been rotten underneath the whole time.

"Keep moving," the guard grunted, jolting me back into the present.

As we continued, I noted the chaos that had overtaken the house. Furniture was upended, glass from shattered frames crunched underfoot, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. Pictures were torn from the wall, family photos destroyed.

But what caught my eye was the splash of blood staining the beige carpet—a stark reminder of the violence that had preceded my mother’s death. I heard Ma’s voice in my ears, begging me to save her children.

She’d fought him. Tried to get away.

The mess wasn’t like my father, even if the violence was. No matter how twisted things got, Kenny Zhou always maintained a veneer of control. But now, with splintered wood and debris littering the floor, it was clear that the man who prided himself on his meticulous nature was losing his grip.

The thought should've brought me some satisfaction, but all I felt was an increasing sense of dread for what lay ahead.

"Where is he?" I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

"Quiet," was the only reply I received as we approached the staircase leading down to where real horrors waited. My heart pounded harder with each step, the stale air growing thicker, the past and present intertwining like shadows in the dim light.

The library was quiet as the guard nudged me through it. The room once held a sense of order, a stark difference from the chaos that had overtaken the rest of the house. But now, the smell hit me—a mix of must and decay…and copper, meat. I knew what lay beyond the heavy door at the end of the book-lined corridor.

"Down," the guard commanded, his voice low. We descended the narrow staircase, the steps creaking under our weight.

We were going to the kill room.

When we reached the foot of the stairs, I stopped dead in my tracks. The stench of old blood and fear soaked the air. The floor was stained dark, with rusty smudges on the walls where life had been dragged out of too many souls. Torture tools, once meticulously cleaned and put away, were now left dirty and scattered.

"Move," the guard growled.

I stepped over a small puddle that looked ominously like dried blood. In the middle of the room, under the dim light, sat Knuckles. He was tied to a chair, looking worse for wear. His eyes met mine for a fleeting second before dropping back down—defeated, waiting for whatever came next.

And for a moment, it wasn't him in that chair—it was her. Ma, helpless, her eyes defiant even in her final moments. My chest tightened, air clawing its way in and out of my lungs too fast. I fought the rise of panic, forcing myself to stay present, stay focused.

In…out…breathe…

As I steadied myself, I focused on what I was hearing—the clink of metal off to the side. I looked in that direction and found my father with his back to us, digging through his collection of pain like a kid picking out candy. His hands were busy, selecting the right tool for whatever sick game he had planned next.

"Ba," I managed to say, but it was like my mouth was full of cotton. He didn't turn around, just kept on tinkering with his instruments of torture. The sight of him, so casual in this chamber of horrors…it twisted something deep inside me.

This was the man who'd raised me. The man who’d used these very tools on me to break me, then to make me strong—or at least, his idea of strong.

Knuckles groaned, and I couldn’t resist looking back at him, no matter how much it made my skin crawl. He had a blood-soaked bandage on his stomach—Lily’s work to save him, or maybe my father’s, to make the torment last longer. Both eyes were swollen, only one open enough to look at me.

He was missing a pinky on his left hand.

The wound looked fresh.

"Keeps trying to pass out on me," Ba said without turning, a laugh in his voice that made my skin crawl.

My eyes found my father again—and for a split second, my mother was there again, the chilling ghost from my time in solitary. Her face twisted in a silent scream at Kenny's ear—my gui po from the darkest days locked away.

She vanished before I could even take a full breath, but her message was clear.

Kill him.

End this.

"Father," I said, dropping my head in a small nod as Ba barely glanced over his shoulder at me. His hand was still on one of the tools, fingers gripped around it like he might need it again in a hurry. “I came to apologize—”

"Cut the crap, Nathan," Ba snapped, not even turning fully to face me. "You know we're way past all that."

I didn't argue. It wasn't the time for words; it was a time for action. And deep down, I knew no matter what I said, it wouldn't change the man he'd become or the things he'd done.

"I didn’t invite you here to say sorry," Ba continued, tossing the tool back onto the table with a clatter. "You're here to show me you’ve got what it takes. Show me you're one of us."

His eyes finally met mine, and they were like two cold stones—no warmth, no fatherly love. Just emptiness. The kind of emptiness that could order a son to torture and kill another man just to prove a point.

"I don’t think he’s had enough," Ba said, jerking his chin towards the battered figure in the chair. "I want you to help out. See if you can make him scream."

My stomach twisted, but I kept my face blank. If I was going to get through this, I had to play it cool. I couldn't let Ba see the storm inside me, couldn't let him see how close I was to breaking.

So I nodded once, steeling myself for what was coming next.

"Sure," I said, keeping my voice level. "Whatever you need."