Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 77

Wang's Pov.

Ezra leans on the rail, cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes fixed on the quiet city below. "You think they'll ever forgive us?" he asks, voice low and heavy.

I take a deep breath, the air sharp and cool. "Forgiveness isn't the problem," I say. "It's trust. Once it's gone, it never really comes back. It just learns how to hide better."

He exhales a cloud of smoke, watching it fade. "Dre's not the kind to stay mad. But I saw something in his face last night. Something broke."

I nod slowly, my chest tightening. "Same with Zhan. I looked at him and saw everything I should've protected, everything I ruined because I couldn't control my jealousy."

Ezra chuckles dryly, but there's no humor in it. "We really are a mess."

"Yeah," I admit. "But maybe that's what makes us human again. The mess."

The sun creeps higher, painting the sky in gold and soft pink. For a moment, it's quiet—no revenge, no ghosts, no screams. Just two men who've done terrible things trying to remember how to breathe.

Ezra finally says, "What now?"

I look at him, then out at the horizon. "Now we live with it," I whisper. "And hope they'll want to live with us too."

"You should talk to Dre," I say quietly. "I'll talk to Zhan when I'm done with what I need to take care of."

Ezra nods, his face tight with guilt. "I will. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to him," he sighs, crushing his cigarette against the rail before we head back inside.

The air inside feels heavy. Dre is asleep on the couch, his face soft but tired, while Zhan sits silently in the armchair, a drink dangling from his fingers, eyes fixed on nothing.

Ezra doesn't hesitate—he walks straight to Dre, gently scoops him up, and carries him to their room without a word.

I linger a moment longer, watching Zhan. "I need to sort some things back home," I say, my voice low. "But I promise, we'll talk when I get back. Please."

He doesn't look at me, just nods once. That small gesture hurts more than any argument could.

"Thank you," I murmur, standing.

When I walk into Ezra's room, he's already on the bed, Dre curled against his chest. For the first time in a long time, there's peace in their faces—and it makes me ache for what I've broken.

I carried my brother and Lusi into the car like they were dead weight and I had no right to feel anything for them. Part of me wanted to drop them on the curb and never look back; another part—smaller, meaner—tried to watch them wake and beg.

Zhan didn't say a word when I left. I sat in front, hands folded, eyes on the window. Cold and distant.

The private jet made it easy. No questions, no curious eyes, no customs to parse our excuses. Three hours in the air and another syringe—enough to keep them under for six more. I told myself it was mercy. The truth sounded fainter in my head every time I used it.

We got home at midnight. The city at that hour looked like someone had washed the sin off it; lights were softer, people smaller behind their curtains. I hauled them up the steps and into our room.

I set them down on the bed, looser than before but still heavy as guilt. Lusi's hair fell across her face in a way that made my hand pause for a second before I wiped it away. My brother—ash-gray in the jetlight—muttered something that might have been a prayer. I walked the perimeter of the room twice, checking the locks, checking the window latches like a man who's teaching himself to be careful after years of not being.