Broken Hands

95. Screwing up all over again

People dreamed about their futures, sculpting a life they could call their own, a sanctuary of happiness they built brick by brick in their minds. For some, it was a career they loved, a family, or an adventure waiting to happen. To Grayson, dreams were a foreign concept, as if his mind had been designed without the capacity to form them.

He had tried before. He really had. But the best he could imagine for himself was a bike—a fleeting, shallow thought. Not a future, just something that passed through him like a breeze he couldn't hold on to.

He didn't have the ability to dream anymore. It wasn't that he didn't want to; it was that the ability seemed lost to him. Like a storage device that had run out of space, there was simply no room left for aspirations or fantasies.

Sometimes, though, he remembered his younger self—a kid staring through the window of a dark, suffocating apartment, watching a music class through the glass. He had wanted to join so badly back then. That was a dream once. But now? Now, it was long gone. Even when he had the opportunity to join a music class, he declined it without a second thought.

Do dreams have a lifespan? Do they eventually wither and die if left unfulfilled?

Yes.

Grayson slammed his fork down on the tray, the sound sharp and jarring against the quiet hum of the cafeteria. The food tasted bland in his mouth, but it wasn't the meal that soured his mood. His conversation with Damien the night before played on a loop in his mind. Damien knew now—knew about the existence of the device. And that fact weighed heavy on Grayson.

Damien would want the device turned in. It was only a matter of time before he goes looking for it himself, and if Damien found it on his own, Grayson knew how it would look. Like Grayson had been hiding secrets for Charlie. That would end in disaster.

He sighed and nodded to himself.

He had to hand it in, but it couldn't look like it came from him. Damien couldn't know that yet, maybe some time in the future, and hopefully this keeps Damien occupied enough to get off his back. He needed more time—time to dig deeper, to connect the dots. To uncover the truth.

Grayson pulled his notebook closer. It was worn, its edges frayed from countless flips. He had jotted down his findings from Charlie's files—at least the ones he could stomach reading. The videos? He hadn't dared to open those yet. But he had combed through a file labeled Eliminate, and that was enough to keep him up at night.

In that file, he found names—a total of 25 names. Some of those names had "Charles" in them. Grayson was certain his father must be among those men. Charlie had always wanted him dead. His father had to be among those men. Grayson made it a priority to ask Hera about those names in the future.

He needed to start his search—not because he wanted to find his father and visit him or anything. He wanted to know so he could avoid him until he died. And maybe he was curious to know the man who had destroyed so many lives in one day.

Grayson's eyes fell to the sheet in his notebook. His handwriting was hasty but legible:

Alberto Augustine "The Scorpion"

Charles De Marco "The Serpent"

Giovanni De Luca "The Shadow"

Charles Ricci "The Panther"

Lorenzo Mancini "Iron Axe"

Riccardo Bellini "The Reaper"

Charles Moretti "The Phantom"

Enrico Salvatore "Viper"

Vincenzo Moretti "The Wolf"

Matteo Russo "Black Horn"