The evening sun was beginning to dip below the rooftops as Adélard and Leon made their way back home, the air thick with the smell of coal smoke and damp stone. The streets, which had been bustling with life earlier in the day, were now quieter, the vendors packing up their stalls and the children who had filled the square disappearing into the winding alleys of the city.
Leon was still buzzing with excitement from the match, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he jabbered on about the game. "Did you see that goal? I thought for sure Miller was going to block it, but then I curved it right past him!"
Adélard smiled, listening as his brother relived every moment of the game. There was a warmth in Leon's voice that was infectious, pulling him out of the fog that had been clouding his mind. For a moment, the weight of their situation felt lighter. He let himself enjoy it, even if only for a little while.
"You were great out there," Adélard said, ruffling Leon's hair. "Maybe you're right—maybe you can make those tryouts."
Leon's face lit up at the praise, but then he hesitated, his steps slowing. "You really think so? I mean, I don't know if I could handle playing in a real club even if it's a small one. It's… it's a lot, right?"
Adélard's smile faltered slightly, the reality of their circumstances crashing back down. Could he really let Leon go through with it? He knew the dangers that came with attention, with standing out. Rourke's reach was everywhere, and if Leon became someone worth noticing…
Adélard shook the thought from his head. For now, he'd let his brother dream. There was no harm in that. Not yet.
"You could handle it," Adélard said quietly. "You've got more fight in you than you know."
Leon beamed, his confidence bolstered by the words. The two brothers walked on in comfortable silence for a while, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. As they neared their building, though, Adélard's steps slowed, his instincts prickling with unease.
Something wasn't right.
The street was too quiet, the shadows too long. He could feel it—a tension in the air, something dark and coiled, waiting. His eyes darted around, scanning the alleyways, the doorways, the rooftops. Nothing moved, but the feeling wouldn't go away.
"Adélard?" Leon's voice was small, uncertain. He had felt it too. "What's wrong?"
Adélard forced himself to smile, though his heart had begun to pound in his chest. "Nothing. Just… stay close, all right?"
They reached their building, and Adélard's hand tightened on Leon's shoulder as they approached the door. The lock was broken—splintered wood and twisted metal where the latch had been forced open.
His stomach dropped. He pushed Leon behind him, his heart hammering now.
"Stay here," Adélard whispered, his voice sharp and low. He could feel Leon tense behind him, but the boy didn't argue, his eyes wide with fear.
Adélard stepped inside, his senses on high alert. The apartment was dark, the air thick and oppressive. He moved quietly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in through the cracks in the shutters.
Everything looked untouched—no signs of struggle, nothing out of place. But the feeling of wrongness persisted, a knot of dread tightening in his gut.
He moved toward the small kitchen, his steps silent on the worn floorboards. Just as he rounded the corner, something caught his eye. A shadow—a figure standing by the window, bathed in the fading light of dusk.
Adélard's breath caught in his throat. He froze, every muscle in his body tensing. The figure turned slowly, stepping into the light, and Adélard's blood ran cold.
It was Rourke.
His sharp eyes gleamed in the darkness, his mouth twisted into a smug smile. He was dressed in his usual black coat, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world.
"Good evening, Adélard," Rourke said smoothly, his voice like silk. "You've been keeping busy, I see."
Adélard's pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to stand his ground. "What are you doing here?"
Rourke's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I thought we'd have a little chat. It seems you've been getting… distracted."
Adélard swallowed hard, his throat dry. He glanced back toward the door, where Leon was still waiting outside, unaware of the danger lurking just a few feet away. His mind raced. If Rourke knew about Leon—if he had come here because of him…
"You don't need to worry," Rourke said, his voice low, as if reading Adélard's thoughts. "Your brother's safe. For now."
Adélard clenched his fists at his sides, every fiber of his being screaming to lash out, to protect Leon. But he knew better than to make a move. Not yet. Rourke held all the cards, and one wrong step could cost him everything.
"What do you want?" Adélard demanded, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.
Rourke stepped closer, his presence suffocating, like a predator toying with its prey. "I want you to remember our arrangement, Adélard. You work for me, and in return, I keep your mother safe. But if you start getting ideas… well, I'd hate for anything to happen to her."
Adélard's heart lurched, the weight of his situation crashing down on him all over again. He was trapped, and Rourke knew it.
"I haven't forgotten," Adélard said through gritted teeth. "I'm doing everything you asked."
"Good," Rourke said softly, his gaze hardening. "Then make sure it stays that way. No more distractions."
He turned toward the door, pausing for a moment. "Oh, and one more thing," Rourke added, his voice casual. "You might want to keep a closer eye on your little brother. There are some… unsavory types in this city who take an interest in young talent."
Adélard's blood ran cold. The implication was clear, a threat wrapped in a warning.
Without another word, Rourke slipped out into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he had come. Adélard stood frozen in the dark, his mind racing, the weight of Rourke's words pressing down on him like a vice.
Leon was still waiting outside, oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. But Adélard knew now more than ever that they were not safe. Not until he found a way to break free from Rourke's grip.
And as he stood there, his fists clenched and his heart pounding, one thought burned in his mind: he had to act.
Before it was too late.
But the question remained—how?