A jagged yawn escaped Brakus the moment his eyes cracked open, but the morning air felt like lead. He tried to stretch, only for a white-hot spike of agony to bolt through his ribs.
"Agh—okay, that definitely still hurts," he wheezed, clutching his side. He was a mosaic of deep bruises and hidden fractures, the souvenir of a night he wasn't supposed to survive. He glanced at the bottom bunk, find it empty. Brock's already down. The sizzle of bacon and the rich aroma of frying eggs drifted upstairs, making his stomach let out a traitorous rumble. He swung his legs over the frame and dropped to the floor; his landing was wobbly, his knees buckling for a terrifying second before he caught his balance against the bedpost.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, bracing himself against the doorframe. "Ugh, this pain is going to be the death of me."
He began a slow, rhythmic limp down the hallway. He paused as he passed his mother's room. The door was shut tight—it always was. To anyone else, that heavy oak barrier seemed cold or uninviting, but to the Bronze brothers, it was just Mom. Behind that door was a woman who had spent years drowning in grief after the war took her husband, only to claw her way back for her sons.
"I hope she doesn't know I snuck out," Brakus whispered to the empty hall, a chill running down his spine. "I'm way too young to be buried in the backyard." He could already see her face exploding with that specific blend of motherly fury and heartbreaking disappointment.
"Brakus! Breakfast is on the table!"
Her voice sliced through his thoughts like a blade. He winced, forcing himself toward the staircase. Every step down was a fresh hell, a shattering vibration that traveled from his heels straight to his wounded chest.
"Acute fractures, my ass," he snickered, remembering the old veteran's blunt diagnosis. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eye. Halfway down, he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror.
His face was miraculously unscathed—the only part of him that didn't look like it had been through a trash compactor. "At least I'm still pretty. Maybe I can actually pull this off."
Entering the kitchen was like stepping into a different world. The scent of fresh juice and buttered toast hit him with a wave of nostalgia. He remembered the breakfasts before the war—before the crying fits and the locked doors.
Sylvis looked up from the stove with a radiant smile, while Brock was already at the table, hovering over his plate like a starving gremlin.
"Morning!" Brakus chirped, puting every ounce of his willpower into a straight, effortless walk. His muscles screamed in protest, but he kept his expression "cool." Worrying her was a debt he couldn't afford to pay.
As he sat down to a mountain of bacon and four slices of golden toast, his mind drifted back to the old man's shop. Those shadows... The memory of those ink-black figures sent a jolt of genuine dread through him. I need to go back today. I need to know if that old man knew my father.
"Are you okay, honey?"
Sylvis's voice shattered his focus. He realized he'd been staring at his eggs for ten seconds too long.
"Yeah... fine, Mom," he said, letting out a laugh that sounded a bit too high-pitched even to his own ears. "Just... really focused on how amazing this looks. Best meal of the week!"
Sylvis tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. The silence stretched. Then, she broke into a laugh that made his heart skip a beat.
"You're always so on edge with me," she teased, leaning over to ruffle his hair. "You don't think I'd actually kill you for being late to breakfast, do you?"
Brakus felt the blood drain from his face. Shit. She knows. She definitely knows. A mother's intuition was a terrifying superpower, one that he and Brock had failed to defeat a hundred times before.
WHACK.
A piece of cold, buttery toast smacked Brakus right in the cheek. He blinked, the tension breaking as the bread slid off his face.
"What was that for, you weirdo?!" Brakus barked, turning to see Brock grinning like a maniac.
"You looked like you were seeing a ghost," Brock retorted, already reaching for another slice. "Eat your food, slow-poke."
"He's like a gremlin sometimes, isn't he, Mom?" Brakus cracked up, sticking his tongue out at his little brother.
"No way, that's you! I'm the civilized one!" Brock fired back.
In seconds, the bickering escalated into a full-scale skirmish. Forks clattered, napkins flew, and the brothers were halfway to a wrestling match when a loud CRACK echoed through the room—a plate had finally met its end on the floor.
"Stop it! Or you'll both be doing chores until the world ends!"
The house seemed to vibrate. Even the birds outside went silent. The boys froze mid-punch, turning slowly to see Sylvis standing over the table, her shadow looming long and menacing. They scrambled back into their seats in perfect unison.
"Sorry, Mom!"
Just as quickly as the storm had come, it vanished. Sylvis slumped into her chair, the fire in her eyes replaced by a weary, heavy exhaustion. She intertwined her fingers, leaning her elbows on the table.
"No need to apologize," she sighed, her shoulders dropping. "I'm just... on edge."
There's trouble at the firm. They're talking about giving my promotion to someone else."
The weight of her words sat heavy on the table. "Things are going to change. I can't guarantee we'll keep this house, but I've been planning for this."
Brakus reached across the table, covering her hand with his. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the ache of seeing her struggle. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll find a job. Starting today."
"You don't need to do that, son—"
"I'm doing it," Brakus insisted, standing up with a suddenness that made his vision swim. He didn't care about the fractures anymore. "I have to go see someone in the city anyway. Don't wait up!"
He vanished out the door before she could protest, leaving the house behind as he headed toward the city. He needed a paycheck—but more importantly, he needed to know what his father had to do with the monsters in the dark.