𝒜𝐹𝒯𝐸𝑅 𝒴𝒪𝒰

Chapter 4

"How long is that supposed to last?" The blond guy leaned over the younger boy, cautiously tracing the crushed hand of an old man.

"As you can see, I'm not a doctor. How would I know that?" The boy hissed, heating up the blade. "I need to lacerate it."

"Watch out" One simple command—the blond made him turn. "He would make it?"

"Calm down. He's not dying. "—The boy merely assured.

He sighed, exiting the room. He knew the boy would handle their father—he wasn't a doctor but there was no doubt in his skills. It wasn't just a book gained knowledge or as they'd say; A degree.
The world they were in–cracking, destroying, and wounds—was normal, tending to them was not. The boy had a good grip on it, but the problem was most of the time this he lacked empathy. He wouldn't be influenced by emotions while handling injuries. Sometimes that ended up in a bitter but helpless condition.

This level of rationality sometimes even disturbed the blond one too.

Now he'd cut off the old man's arm, and yet there were no other alternatives.

The blond paced in the empty area, distressed, and the gloomy atmosphere deteriorated the mood even more—they were the middle of woods, untraceable, hiding in a small broken cabin. The shreds of wall were decaying; some planks outside were shattered carelessly –if any of them tripped, would end up in a septic cut.

Ironically, last night he'd been to Beacon Hills, mainly because the Netherlands' Crown Prince was attending. It was a private party– exuberantly decorated, with dozens of guests in the garden, typical liquors, rich people, and their omitted consciences.

He got to return somewhere around 3 in the morning, and it had been rubbing on his face all the way back. Then it wasn't even an hour apart, his father got beaten with a rusted metal by his boss—they couldn't take him to the hospital either. The news came after a week, and for a week this man was locked into an empty house, almost dead, left for someone to walk in.

...

Around midnight, the boy put down his books; he was a terse mystery–nothing could discourage him from shoving his head into books. No matter, if it was in a congested ill-lit area, only a dim yellowish light flaring over the front time and casting more shadows instead. While the old man was was sleeping under the medicine effects, he cleared the desk, walking out. The blond guy was reclining on the worn out couch in the front room, smoking. Boy stepped outside, gesturing something to the blond and lit a cigarette himself.

"What's the next plan?"

The blond strolled toward the tree, without answering his brother's question. It was freezing. Exacerbating the night's quiet terrorizingly.

"Will meet the Mayor."

Boy laughed. "He's taking us like dogs."

Blond chortled. "And he's the one stuffing like a dog."

"How long we'd feed them money? Their last robbery was a disaster. I bet the FBI has already figured out the pattern." boy said. "If you say, then I or Alastair can—"

"No. You both can't have criminal records.
For now, let them be—"

"Scapegoats?"

"Can say." Blond said, sighing.

=<

"What happened?" Boy finally asked, after noticing his brother for so long.

"Nothing." Blond shook head. Then he thought about something. "You know?"

"Hm?"

"Are the Dutch people still a bit—?"

"A bit what?"