Broken Hands

34. The form

The days dragged on, slower than Grayson ever thought possible. Without the usual chaos of a full house, the silence grew thick and suffocating. The halls felt eerily cold, and every creak of the floorboards sent a shiver crawling up his spine. The emptiness gnawed at him. He could still hear the echoes of Julian and Russell's laughter from when they packed their belongings into Damien's car. That had been the last shred of warmth this place held, and even that memory stung.

Grayson had shut his window tightly that day, determined not to watch them leave. He told himself it didn't matter; he'd lived alone for fifteen years before this—what was a little more solitude? But now, with every passing second of their absence, the denial he clung to frayed at the edges. He missed them. Desperately. The truth hit harder than he was willing to admit, clawing at him like an itch he couldn't reach. He missed them just as much as he missed the calming burn of a cigarette.

Lying on his bed, Grayson slipped his hand under his head and stared at the cracked ceiling. The quiet had been unbearable at first, but over time, he found a strange comfort in it. Without the noise of others, he could think clearly—something he hadn't been able to do in years. He didn't have to worry about sneaking out or crafting elaborate lies to cover his tracks. For the first time, there was a sense of peace, a mental freedom he didn't know he needed.

But peace wasn't always kind. It left him alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts often wandered to the past. He closed his eyes and saw Charlie again—his manipulative words, his hands, the sickening burden of control. That one night still played on a loop in his head: the sound of Charlie's body hitting the floor, the venom in his final words. It wasn't something Grayson could easily escape, not even here, where the walls felt like a fortress. Hera's warnings echoed in his mind, cryptic and unnerving. He was safe now, but how long could he stay hidden? How long before the world outside came for him?

The pull of curiosity was unbearable. Grayson sat up abruptly, his gaze fixed on the bottom drawer of his desk. He hesitated for a moment before getting up, his footsteps muffled on the carpet. Kneeling, he reached for the handle and slid the drawer open. There it was—Charlie's phone. It was old and battered, the screen scratched, but still intact. His fingers brushed over the cracked glass, a strange sense of dread pooling in his chest.

This device had been in Charlie's pocket countless times, and now it was in his hands. It could hold answers—truths Grayson wasn't sure he was ready to face. The thought of finding out about his real father made his stomach churn. What if the warnings were true? What if this was another one of Charlie's sick games? Hera's words rang louder in his ears: How could you ever know for sure?

Grayson let out a shaky breath and sank to the floor, the phone cradled in his hands like it might explode. His mind raced. One swipe, one search, and his life could be turned upside down forever. He stared at it, paralyzed, until the faint hum of tires rolling up the driveway jolted him out of his trance.

A car door slammed outside.

Heart pounding, Grayson shoved the phone back into the drawer and quickly tossed a few random objects on top of it—a book, a set of keys, anything to mask its presence. He shoved the drawer shut and took a deep breath, the thought of the phone's secrets pressing heavily against his thoughts.

"Grayson." Damien's sharp voice cut through the air again, and Grayson rolled his eyes, his annoyance palpable. Could the man not give him a moment of peace? The tension between them had been steadily building for weeks. Every interaction seemed to end the same way: harsh words, punishment, and Grayson left upset, wondering why Damien couldn't be more like Alex. Alex, with his calm demeanor and understanding, was everything Damien wasn't. If Grayson had to choose, he'd stick to Alex any day any time.

Reluctantly, Grayson got up, dragging his feet as he stepped into the hall. His hands found refuge in the pockets of his hoodie, and his mind wandered to one of their most explosive confrontations—the day Aiden had stupidly spilled the beans. He winced at the memory. Damien had been relentless, listing every one of his faults like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to unleash. Grayson hadn't even been able to form a coherent defense. The fear of what Damien might do had kept his throat dry and his words stuck and he had been right.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he caught Damien's piercing gaze. Grayson stopped and stood there, waiting for whatever commands were about to follow. Damien's authority always felt suffocating, as if the man enjoyed making Grayson feel small.

With a gesture, Damien motioned for him to come closer. Grayson moved reluctantly, dragging his feet like a prisoner heading to sentencing. He stopped in front of the coffee table, where Damien dropped a file and a pen with a dull thud.

"Fill it out and sign," Damien instructed curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Grayson's eyes flicked to the file, and his brows furrowed when he read the title. The Durham Institute. His stomach twisted. The neatly typed form stared back at him, mocking him with its fields: name, age, date of birth. It felt like a setup, another way for Damien to push him toward the edge.

He didn't move.

"Well?" Damien prompted, folding his arms. "Get the pen and fill it up. I have to turn it in."

Grayson's gaze snapped up to meet his uncle's. His voice was laced with frustration. "Another school? I've already been kicked out of five. What's the point?"

Damien's expression was neutral, his electric-blue eyes narrowing with a sharpness that made Grayson's stomach knot. "So what?"

Grayson clenched his fists in his pockets. "Can we stop doing this already? It's pointless," he snapped, his voice rising despite himself. The frustration bubbled up, spilling over before he could stop it.

Damien's voice dropped, cold and precise, slicing through Grayson's defiance. "Yeah, we could. And then I'll just drop you off at the military academy. Or one of those 'troubled teen' programs. You'd fit right in."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Grayson stiffened, his stance faltering. Damien wasn't bluffing, and they both knew it.

"It's up to you," Damien continued, standing to his full height. His presence loomed, radiating authority. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You've got fifteen minutes." He turned and headed upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood.

Grayson glared at the file, his chest heavy. He hated this—hated Damien for always cornering him, hated the thought of starting over again at another school, hated the endless cycle of failure. New beginnings weren't liberating; they were suffocating. They dug under his skin, tasted his patience until all that was left was a simmering rage.

With a loud sigh, he reached for the pen. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if filling out the form was some kind of surrender. He bent over the coffee table, scrawling his answers into the blank fields while mentally cursing Damien.

By the time he was done, his grip on the pen had tightened enough to make his knuckles ache. He dropped the pen on the table, the metallic clang echoing in the silent room. Another fresh start. Another disaster waiting to happen.

Grayson slumped into the couch, staring at the file like it was a ticking time bomb. This wasn't just a form—it was a reminder of how trapped he felt, a constant struggle to stay afloat in a world that seemed hell-bent on pulling him under.

A/N

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