The river didn't rush.
It moved slow and steady, dark water reflecting the fading sky like it had nothing to prove. Streetlights flickered on one by one along the path, their glow stretching across the surface in broken lines.
Ethan arrived first.
He stopped near the old railing, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the quiet stretch of concrete and water. Every instinct told him to prepare for something dramatic—sirens, shadows, movement from behind.
None of that happened.
Instead, footsteps approached from the opposite direction.
Unhurried.
Deliberate.
Ethan turned.
Dawson Daniel Reeve didn't wear a mask tonight.
No helmet. No shadows. Just a dark coat, hands relaxed at his sides, face open to the night like he wasn't hiding anymore.
They locked eyes.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
It was strange how obvious it felt now. The shared sharpness in their gaze. The same stillness when they stopped moving. Even the way they both stood like they expected trouble but didn't fear it.
"So," Ethan said first, breaking the silence. "This is you without the theatrics."
Dawson's mouth twitched. "You're disappointed?"
"Relieved," Ethan replied. "I was getting tired of talking to masks."
Dawson stopped a few feet away. Not close enough to crowd him. Not far enough to pretend distance.
"I knew you'd come," Dawson said.
"Yeah," Ethan answered. "You always seem to."
That earned a breath of a laugh from Dawson. "Habit."
They stood there again, the weight of years pressing into the space between them.
"You could've told me," Ethan said finally.
Dawson's gaze dropped to the water. "You weren't ready."
"I decide that now," Ethan snapped.
Dawson looked back up—calm, but unflinching. "I know."
The tension tightened.
"Then start talking," Ethan said. "No riddles. No half-answers. I'm done chasing shadows."
Dawson nodded once. "Fair."
He took a breath.
"We were separated on purpose," he said. "Not because they didn't care. Because they cared too much."
Ethan frowned. "Who's 'they'?"
"People who thought loving you meant hiding you," Dawson replied. "And people who thought raising me meant turning me into something useful."
Ethan scoffed. "Useful how?"
Dawson didn't answer right away.
"When the Reeve name started attracting attention," he said instead, "you became a liability. Not because you were weak—but because you were clean."
"Clean?" Ethan repeated.
"You hadn't been shaped yet," Dawson said quietly. "You hadn't learned how to survive the way I did."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "So they dumped me in an orphanage?"
"They saved you," Dawson corrected. "From becoming me."
The words landed heavier than expected.
"You watched me," Ethan said. "All these years."
"Yes."
"From the shadows."
"Yes."
"You interfered."
"Yes."
"You lied."
Dawson met his eyes. "I protected."
Ethan laughed, sharp and humorless. "By letting me think I was alone?"
Dawson stepped closer. "By making sure you never were."
The anger in Ethan's chest faltered.
"You don't get to rewrite my childhood," he said.
"I wouldn't dare," Dawson replied. "I remember it for both of us."
That stopped him.
The river whispered between them.
"Why now?" Ethan asked. "Why let me find out?"
Dawson's voice dropped. "Because someone else has."
Ethan's pulse jumped. "Who?"
"People who don't want you safe," Dawson said. "They want you useful."
A chill crept up Ethan's spine.
"So what happens next?" he asked.
Dawson held his gaze. "Next, you decide."
"Decide what?"
"Whether you walk away," Dawson said. "Or whether you finally stop being protected… and start being prepared."
Ethan looked at him—really looked.
Not the mask.
Not the myth.
Just a man who had carried too much alone.
A brother.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"You're not my guardian," he said. "And you don't get to control my life."
Dawson nodded. "I wouldn't want to."
"But," Ethan continued, "you're not my enemy either."
Dawson's shoulders eased slightly.
"So we're doing this differently," Ethan said. "No secrets. No disappearing acts."
A pause.
Dawson smiled—small, genuine. "You sound just like her."
"Clara?" Ethan guessed.
Dawson chuckled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Ethan turned back toward the river.
"I don't know what I'm stepping into," he admitted. "But I'm not stepping alone anymore."
Dawson moved to stand beside him.
"Good," he said. "Because neither am I."
The city hummed behind them. The river flowed forward.
And for the first time since the night they were separated—
The brothers stood in the same place, facing the same direction.
Not healed.
Not whole.
But no longer divided.
The river kept moving.
It always did—like it had never learned how to stop for anything. Ethan leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the water, trying to steady his breathing. Dawson stood beside him, arms crossed, posture rigid like he was bracing for impact.
Ethan broke the silence first.
"You said I didn't leave the orphanage," he said quietly. "You said I was taken."
Dawson nodded. "You were."
"Then explain the Cole family," Ethan continued. "Because that part doesn't make sense. If you were protecting me… why put me there?"
Dawson didn't answer immediately.
That pause was the first crack.
"I didn't choose them," Dawson said finally.
Ethan turned sharply. "What?"
"The night you disappeared," Dawson continued, "you were already gone before I got there."
Ethan's heart skipped. "Gone how?"
"Removed," Dawson said. "Cleanly. No paperwork. No trail."
Ethan felt cold. "By who?"
Dawson's jaw tightened. "People who knew exactly who you were."
The river suddenly felt louder.
"I spent years thinking I'd failed you," Dawson went on. "That I was too late. That someone had already gotten to you."
"And the Cole family?" Ethan asked.
Dawson exhaled slowly. "That was the lie that made it believable."
Ethan frowned. "You're saying my adoption was fake?"
"I'm saying it was convenient," Dawson replied. "Too convenient."
Ethan's mind raced—memories flashing in fragments.
The sudden paperwork.
The rushed smiles.
The way no one ever talked about where he came from.
"They never asked questions," Ethan whispered. "About my past."
"Because they already knew which questions not to ask," Dawson said.
Ethan felt his chest tighten. "You're telling me the people who raised me were part of this?"
"Yes."
The word hit harder than any punch.
"They weren't your rescuers," Dawson continued. "They were your cover."
"Cover for who?"
"For the people watching you grow."
Ethan staggered back a step. "So my entire childhood was—"
"Surveillance," Dawson finished quietly.
Silence crashed between them.
Ethan laughed once—short, broken. "You're lying."
"I wish I was."
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "Why didn't they hurt me?"
"Because you were more valuable alive," Dawson said. "And untouched."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," Dawson replied. "It's supposed to make you careful."
Ethan stared at him. "Then why didn't you take me away? If you knew?"
"Because I couldn't," Dawson said, voice low. "Every attempt I made to get close, something blocked me. Legal walls. Paper walls. People who smiled while daring me to try."
Ethan's voice dropped. "So you watched."
"Yes."
"And let me believe they were my family."
Dawson didn't deny it.
"I protected you from the outside," he said. "I just couldn't protect you from the house you lived in."
The realization crept in slowly.
The rules.
The distance.
The way affection always felt… measured.
"They were never afraid of me leaving," Ethan said softly. "They were afraid of me remembering."
Dawson nodded.
Ethan's hands curled into fists. "Then what does the Cole family have to do with the Reeves?"
Dawson's eyes darkened.
"They're on opposite sides of an old line," he said. "And you were placed right on top of it."
Ethan swallowed. "As what?"
Dawson met his gaze fully now.
"A leverage point."
The word echoed.
"So my life wasn't an accident," Ethan said.
"No," Dawson replied. "It was a long-term move."
The river flowed on, indifferent.
Ethan felt something settle in his chest—not fear this time, but clarity.
The Cole family hadn't saved him.
They had kept him visible without letting him know he was being seen.
And that meant one thing.
Whatever game this was—
It had never been over.