Adélard had always been the one to shoulder the weight. Long before Rourke's name ever meant anything to them, before the dark alley dealings and the dangerous deliveries, there was a time when he was simply a boy growing up too fast. Forced into the role of caretaker and protector for his younger brother, Adélard's life had been a relentless struggle.
Their mother had worked herself to the bone, taking on double shifts at the textile factory. She'd leave before dawn, and sometimes, wouldn't return until the stars were already out, her hands red and raw from endless hours of labor. When she did come back, she was a ghost of herself—too tired to smile, too worn to do more than collapse into bed. Those were the nights when Adélard would tuck Leon in, reading the boy stories until his eyes grew heavy.
But it wasn't always peaceful. The house had seen its share of arguments—bitter, hushed fights in the kitchen when Adélard thought Leon couldn't hear. Fights about money, about the future, about the life they were trapped in.
"I'm doing my best," his mother had whispered fiercely one night, her voice trembling as she leaned against the cracked kitchen wall. The light overhead flickered, casting their shadows long and distorted across the tiny space. "You think I don't know how hard this is for you? For him?"
Adélard, only thirteen then, had stood in the doorway, fists clenched. "I'm not saying you're not trying, Mum. But—Leon's still little. He needs more. He—he needs you."
"And what would you have me do?" she'd snapped, a rare flash of anger in her eyes. "Quit? Stay home? Then what, Adélard? Who's going to feed us? You?"
"Yes," he'd shot back. "I will."
That had stunned her into silence. For a long moment, they just stared at each other—Adélard, tall for his age, all raw edges and sharp determination; his mother, slumped and broken, every line on her face etched deep with exhaustion.
"You're just a child," she'd murmured finally, her voice breaking. "You shouldn't have to—"
"Then don't make me," he'd said softly, the anger fading as quickly as it had flared. "Don't make me choose between being a brother and being… this."
After that, there had been no more arguments. She'd given in, letting Adélard take on more and more. Cooking, cleaning, scraping together what little money he could from odd jobs around the neighborhood. The little he earned never lasted long, but it was enough to keep them afloat when the factory wages fell short.
And then there was football.
Even in those bleak days, football had been his refuge—the one place where he could breathe, where he could be something more than just a boy trying to hold his family together. On the field, he wasn't responsible for anyone but himself. He wasn't the caretaker or the makeshift parent; he was Adélard, the boy who could make magic with a ball at his feet.
People had noticed. Neighbors, strangers, even coaches from other districts would stop to watch him play. His movements were quick, elegant, a blur of speed and precision that left defenders stumbling and spectators breathless. Every time he scored, every time he dribbled past three players in a row, it felt like victory—like he was winning, if only for those fleeting moments.
"You've got something special, kid," one of the older boys had told him once, clapping him on the shoulder after a game. "You could go far."
But every time someone asked him to join a team, to train seriously, Adélard had turned them down. How could he explain that he couldn't afford to spend time chasing dreams? That every hour he spent on the pitch was an hour away from Leon, an hour not earning or working or watching out for his family?
So he'd stayed a neighborhood legend, the boy who dazzled everyone but never stayed long enough for anyone to really know him. The boy who showed up to games, played like the world was on fire, and then vanished as soon as the whistle blew.
Only his mother had ever seen the toll it took on him—the way he'd come home limping some nights, bruised and battered from matches that had gotten too rough. How his knuckles would be red from fights he'd picked defending Leon's honor, protecting him from the other kids who mocked their clothes, their empty lunch bags.
"You don't have to do this, Adélard," she'd whispered one night, when he'd returned home with a split lip and a faraway look in his eyes. "I can't bear it if you—"
"I'm fine," he'd cut her off, turning away. "It's just—just football. Just—life."
But it wasn't fine. Not really. Because even as he grew stronger, faster, more skilled on the pitch, the rest of his life kept crumbling. The bills piled up, their mother's health deteriorated, and there were days when all the victories in the world wouldn't have been enough to erase the hollow ache in his chest.
The last game he'd played—the one that had made the whole neighborhood buzz with excitement—had been a turning point. It had been a muddy, gray afternoon, the field soaked from rain, but he'd played like he was flying. The final goal, a stunning shot that had curved impossibly past three defenders, had drawn gasps from the crowd.
And yet, as the cheers rang out, as the boys clapped him on the back and shouted his name, he'd felt… empty.
Because there was no one waiting for him on the sidelines. No proud father to ruffle his hair, no mother to smile and tell him he'd done well. Just Leon, small and wide-eyed, clutching a ragged blanket and looking lost.
"You're amazing, Adélard," Leon had whispered, his voice filled with awe.
But Adélard had just knelt down, pulling him into a tight hug. "It's just a game, Leon. It doesn't matter."
Leon had frowned, confused. "But… you love it. Don't you?"
And he did. He'd loved it more than anything. But loving it wasn't enough. Loving it wouldn't put food on the table, wouldn't pay the bills, wouldn't keep them together.
So he'd quit. Just like that. One day, he stopped showing up to the fields. Stopped taking on challenges from other boys, stopped kicking the ball around in the street. When the neighborhood asked why, he'd shrugged and said he was too busy. That life had other plans.
But Leon never stopped believing. Even now, Adélard knew his little brother still saw him as that same invincible boy from the field—the one who could do anything. Be anything.
It was a memory that both inspired and haunted him. Because now, as he faced this new, twisted reality, he wasn't so sure anymore.