Nobody said a word.
Tyler sat on the stained concrete curb at the edge of the ramshackle shelter they had claimed in the Tenderloin district encampment. They didn't look out of place here. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ragged and tired, streaked with dried blood and desperation. That was the norm. New faces in the camp always drew a little attention, but the unwritten rule of homelessness was to mind your own fucking business.
There was a certain kind of solidarity in that.
The encampment spanned an entire city block, maybe more. A sad kind of ecosystem, with tents lining the roads and spilling into side streets like a spreading infection. The main cluster had overtaken a ruined parking lot. Some shelters were built into the husks of old vehicles. The ones with vans were doing especially well. Kings of the slum. Their shelter was barely that. Just a tarp stretched over some sturdy piles of garbage, shaped into walls by the last poor soul who called it home.
Tyler watched the scene unfold, detached. Some of the homeless shambled past, muttering to themselves. Others pushed shopping carts loaded with every possession they had left. Most simply sat within their squalor, picking at scabs or eating god only knew what. Then there were the ones hunched over, frozen in a near-permanent state of free-fall. Junkies chasing the high. They looked like they were having the most fun out of anyone.
He turned to glance back into the shelter. Thomas sat hunched over Jake in the farthest corner. Jake had been hit badly, a deep, ragged slash along his side. He had spent most of their escape just trying to keep his organs in. Thomas hadn't fared much better, but nothing vital was hit. His Profanity had taken most of the damage, but the sleeve of his shirt was still soaked with blood.
Tyler swallowed and looked away. He had made it out almost untouched. His eyes dropped to his shoes, frayed and falling apart. The hems of his jeans were in tatters. He buried his face in his palms and closed his eyes, the hangover driving a spike through the back of his head.
"What the fuck was that...?" he muttered.
It had ended before it began, and it began without warning. The masked man had moved like a blur. Before any of them could react, his scythe had already carved deep into Zachary's shoulder. By the time Zach's scream had snapped them into motion, the scythe had already swept toward another target.
Tyler.
The gleam of it stayed with him. A flash of silver, burned into memory. Something made him move, fast enough to avoid it. Just barely. Thomas tried to recover some kind of initiative, but he was overwhelmed instantly. Jake had still been too drunk to stand, let alone fight, and paid dearly for it.
"Run!" he remembered Zach screaming. Blood-choked and desperate.
To his shame, he hadn't needed to be told twice. And when he looked back, Zachary was alone, and already losing.
He didn't look back again.
Tyler opened his eyes as the pit in his stomach dragged his heart down with it. He ran his hands through his mohawk, staring at the pavement. The tightness growing in his throat made it hard to breathe. He stood and disappeared into the shelter, the tarp flap swaying behind him.
"How is he?" Tyler asked, scratching the back of his head.
Thomas looked over his shoulder. "Not great..." His tone carried a hint of blame. Tyler noticed.
Jake groaned, shifting as he struggled to sit up. Thomas pressed a hand to his shoulder and eased him back down. His breathing was rough, uneven.
Tyler sat beside them, leaning back against the makeshift wall of garbage. The stench was heavy, stomach-turning in the tight space.
"What the fuck are we going to do?" Tyler asked.
Thomas sighed. "For starters, you were supposed to be on watch."
"Nothing's happening out there."
Thomas shot him a look. "You can tell that from in here?"
"...No..." Tyler muttered, then narrowed his eyes. "If you don't want me around, just say so."
"Jesus Christ, Tyler, not now." Thomas wiped sweat from his brow. "Give it a rest, for fuck's sake."
Tyler glanced down at Jake's wound. His Profanity was finally taking hold, spiked growths slowly stitching the skin and muscle together while blood oozed into the pavement. Thomas kept steady pressure on it with a stained towel. Infection wasn't even a concern anymore.
"You're doing good, Jake," Thomas said softly. "It's taking now."
Jake nodded, sweat dripping off his tight expression. He tried to speak, but only a dry wheeze came out.
"He's taken worse," Tyler offered.
Thomas winced. "Something in that Inq's Hilt. Mine's not healing right either." He held up his arm, blood still seeped through the sleeve. "Cut straight through the armor, right to the bone."
"Probably took out most of the nerves, at least, got off easy on the pain," Tyler said, giving the arm a light pat. "Silver linings, right?"
Thomas tried to keep a straight face, but a faint smile cracked through. "You're retarded." He nodded toward the towel. "If you're not going to do your job out there, might as well do this one."
Tyler took over, and Thomas leaned back, slinging his injured arm across his lap.
Time slowed. A siren screamed in the distance, fading into the haze. Somewhere nearby, a voice shouted; short, sharp, and cut off fast. No one moved. The shelter fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Jake's breath and the faint rustle of wind against the tarp. Time passed like oil, slow, suffocating. Tyler kept the pressure steady, barely blinking. Now and then, a shadow crossed the flap. Junkies looking for shade, or a place to shoot up, or worse. But none of them stopped. No one bothered them.
"Th-thanks..." Jake breathed, struggling to sit up.
The three of them sat in silence, eyes cast down at the pavement between them. Tyler opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked at their faces and saw the same heaviness that weighed in his gut, guilt, and something else he didn't have words for. But he felt it. Deep.
The absence was louder than anything.
"What..." Jake murmured. "What the fuck was that?" His voice cracked at the end.
A long pause.
"I don't know..." Thomas said. "I don't know."
Tyler said nothing. If Zachary were here, he would've gotten them moving by now. He always had a knack for that. Instead, they sat in the silence, waiting for someone else to take charge.
Eventually, Thomas did.
"We gotta' call Mom and Dad. Let them know." He stood hunched in the cramped space. "And we gotta' get the fuck out of here before whoever lives in this mess comes back."
Dad...
The word hit Tyler like a gut punch. The kind that keeps hurting after the blow.
Jake shifted, clawing himself upright against the trash. "You still got your phone?"
Thomas pulled a cracked burner from his pocket and held it up.
"You're seriously gonna call Dad?" Tyler blurted out.
"What the fuck else are we supposed to do?" Thomas snapped.
Tyler stood and started pacing. "We just got our shit kicked in by some fancy fucking Inq, and your first instinct is to call Dad? You really want to see what he does when he finds out we lost Zach?"
"We didn't lose Zach," Jake said quietly.
"Didn't we?" Tyler shot back. "Last I checked, he's not here." He gestured to the empty space beside them.
The words sat in the air like ash.
Thomas's voice lowered. "We tell them what happened. Let them decide."
Tyler laughed, bitter and dry. "Oh, they'll decide. Dad'll decide real quick whose fault this was."
"What the fuck are you even suggesting?" Jake spat. "Run away forever? Great. So they lose all their kids because one of them is too chickenshit to own up to his mistakes?"
"Excuse me!?" Tyler stepped in close, eyes narrowed. "You think this is my fault!?"
Jake's nostrils flared. "You think it's not!?"
"Hey, HEY!" Thomas wedged himself between them. "Not now. Not here." He looked back at the tarp flap. "Come on. Let's go."
Jake hesitated, then stepped away. "Where?"
"Not here. Somewhere they can pick us up without having the tires stolen."
"Wait!" Tyler cut in. "We should stay here."
Thomas turned. "Why?"
"We look like shit," Tyler said. "If you look the part, might as well act the part."
Thomas shook his head. "Tyler, this is bad enough. You want Mom and Dad to see us crawling out of a garbage pile? Stepping over junkies right into their car? They'll never even find us in this dump."
Tyler looked away. "Whatever."
They slipped out of the shelter one by one, the tarp flap slapping shut behind them like the lid on a coffin.
Thomas kept close to Jake, slinging one of Jake's arms over his shoulders to keep him steady. Jake winced with every step, jaw clenched, eyes ahead. He didn't look at Tyler once.
Tyler trailed behind, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, pretending he didn't notice. Pretending the silence didn't feel a lot like judgment.
The encampment watched them go.
Dozens of eyes followed their slow procession; from the shadows between tents, from shopping carts converted into thrones, from behind burnt-out barrels that hadn't held fire in days. The look wasn't pity. It wasn't concern. It was colder than that. Detached. Measured. Like the camp itself had already decided, Not our problem.
By the time they reached the edge of the block, the morning had dulled into a grim, smoggy haze. Traffic moved like sludge. Sirens in the distance again. Always in the distance.
Thomas had the burner to his ear, voice low and careful, like he was negotiating with a bear.
"We're okay. Jake's hurt, but stable. Yeah, Tyler's here. Uh... No... Uh, Zach... Zach's uh..."
He pulled the phone away and cursed silently.
"Zach didn't make it out. Not with us. At least."
He lifted the phone again. Tyler could hear the yelling on the other end.
"I-I don't know, Dad, some Inq, or something... I don't know... Yeah. He wore a mask, silver and like an old style hat or something? I don't know what it's called-yeah-yeah... Wait, you know him...? Okay... Alright... We're near Turk and Taylor. I'm sorry. I know. See you soon."
Tyler hovered a few paces behind, pacing small circles on the cracked sidewalk. The tension still clung to him like smoke. He could feel Jake's glare even when it wasn't there.
Of course he blames me. Both of them do. Thomas just won't say it yet.
Thomas crouched to help Jake sit against a graffiti-tagged wall. Jake leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing through his teeth.
Tyler watched from a distance, unsure what to do with his hands.
What the fuck am I supposed to say when he shows up? Sorry? No. Too weak. It wasn't my fault. That's the truth, right?
He wondered when he started caring about the truth.
It happened fast. Everyone panicked.
Zach told us to run.
That sounded closer.
He told us to run.
Picked a convenient time to start following orders.
He shook the thoughts from his head. None of it sounded right. Not in his head. Not in his chest.
Tyler crossed his arms and glanced down the street, pretending to be on lookout. Really, he just didn't want to see their faces.
He watched the passers-by: a group of teens on their way to school. A couple holding hands across the street, pausing to peer in shop windows. A family on a bench, tending to a crying toddler's scraped knee.
Then he noticed eyes on them.
A man in a nice suit.
An elderly shopkeeper sweeping the front stoop, watching them like a hawk.
His gaze shifted to his brothers, too anxious or injured to notice, and Tyler sighed. He sat down in front of them, facing the sidewalk.
"Change?" Tyler asked the first pedestrian to walk by. "Spare change?" He lifted his hand for a charity he would never receive.
"Hey, you, any change?"
"Tyler, what the fuck are you doing?" Thomas whispered, giving him a shove between the shoulder blades.
Tyler didn't look back. "If you look the part, you act the part," he muttered. "No one looks at beggars twice."
Silence, then an exhausted sigh. "Fine."
Time passed, and with it went the glances and the side-eyes. The shopkeeper was the last to fold, setting her broom aside and retreating indoors, leaving them in some semblance of peace. By the time the beaten old family van pulled up, Tyler was juggling a fortune in dirty old dimes and nickels. Small comfort.
The rusted van rolled quiet to the curb, engine ticking as it cooled in the morning haze.
His Mother was out before it fully stopped, long dark brown hair tied back loosely, a few silver strands catching in the light as she crossed the street with quick, urgent steps. She wore simple clothes, jeans and a pale blouse under a light jacket. Laugh lines framed her eyes, but worry had deepened them.
She dropped to her knees beside Jake, her hand gently sweeping his hair back from his damp forehead.
"Oh, sweetheart..." she breathed, voice thin with fear. "You okay?"
Jake gave a faint nod. "Yeah. Mostly."
Her hands moved over him quickly but without panic, checking his face, the bruises around his ribs, the scab just starting to close above his hip.
"You're sure?" she asked, cupping his jaw.
Jake managed a weak smirk. "Seen worse."
She kissed his temple and held him for a second longer. "You scared the hell out of me."
Tyler stood off to the side, trying not to watch. Trying not to feel anything about it.
"Ty..."
She rose and pulled him into a hug before he could protest. Strong. She never loved in half-measures, always enough to wring the air out of his lungs.
"I missed you," she whispered, squeezing tighter. "God, look at you..."
"I'm fine," he mumbled, stiff in her arms.
"I missed your birthday."
"It's whatever."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing the corner of his eye with her thumb. "Whatever, hm? You don't even think of me, do you?"
Tyler frowned. "S-sorry, I... I just couldn't come home."
She opened her mouth to say something, but it caught in her throat. Too much behind it. "I'm just glad you're-"
The van door slammed.
His father stepped out, broad-shouldered, square jaw, close-cropped hair just starting to grey at the sides. A plain black jacket, worn at the elbows, dark slacks with scuff marks at the knees. He crossed the street without a word and went straight to Jake, kneeling to lift his hand and look over the healing wound.
"You walkin'?"
"Barely," Jake muttered.
Ryan nodded.
Thomas watched quietly, arms crossed.
Ryan stood and turned to him. "How did it happen?"
Thomas didn't flinch. "We were hanging out near Golden Gate Park. He came out of nowhere. Silver mask, wide-brim hat. Some kinda fancy Inq, like I said." Thomas shook his head. "We didn't stand a chance."
"You fought back?"
"Not long. A minute, if that."
His father patted Thomas on the shoulder before his eyes flicked to Jake, then finally landed on Tyler.
"And Zach?"
Silence.
Tyler didn't move. "We were outmatched."
His father didn't respond.
"He told us to run," Tyler repeated, sharper now. "We didn't abandon him."
"I didn't say you did," his father replied curtly. "What were you doing in Golden Gate Park?"
Tyler crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. "We were drinking."
His father nodded slowly, chewing his cheek. Then he turned to Thomas.
"You said last night you were going to a party. Old high school friends in from out of town. What changed?"
"I, uh..." Thomas trailed off.
"Zach had a bad feeling. Heard something from a friend of his. So we went to look for Tyler at his usual spots," Jake answered. "Tyler picked a fight he couldn't finish."
"Oh, fuck you," Tyler snapped. Jake scoffed.
"That true?" his father asked.
"What's it matter? You already made up your mind before you left the fucking house!"
"Keep your voice down, kid."
That made Tyler see red. Suddenly, he felt very, very small.
"Is it true?"
"He wasn't the one that took Zach," Tyler barked. "We got the alcohol from him and then-"
"We got the alcohol from him," Jake laughed, bitterly.
"Shut the fuck up!" Tyler's voice cracked. "We were drunk. It happened fast. We didn't plan for a goddamn Inq to drop out of the fucking sky."
"You didn't plan for any of it," his father said flatly. "You dragged your brothers into a fight you couldn't finish."
"Ryan..." his Mother whispered, tugging at his arm. "This isn't-"
"It isn't my fault!" Tyler shouted.
He couldn't see Jake's face, but he knew he was smiling at that. It made him seethe.
"It's the same old fucking story."
Tyler's blood ran cold. He turned away. "You weren't there. You don't know what happened."
"Enlighten me, then," Ryan said, firm.
Tyler stared at him, scowling, teeth grinding together. "Why bother," he spat. Then he turned and walked.
"Tyler-" Emilia called, stepping forward, but Ryan stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
"Let him go."
Tyler didn't look back. He shoved his hands into his pockets and disappeared around the corner.
He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to get away. His blood was pumping hot, a cocktail of adrenaline and rage. His mind snarled and bit at every perceived threat, every jab, every insult as he replayed it all in his head, over and over again.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Who the fuck does he think he's talking to?
My fault? It's always my fault. I'm always to blame. Pick another scapegoat, you, you, YOU!
He could feel his teeth grinding, worse with every step he took.
We were drunk. It happened fast. Faster than anyone could've stopped it. He told us to run. I didn't say it, he did.
What the fuck was I supposed to do? Die with him?
The word caught him off guard, and he shook it from his head.
He's not dead. He's not. I didn't see him die.
Tyler raked a hand through his hair, breath hitching, heavy like he was screaming every thought at the top of his lungs.
I didn't ask. I didn't ask for any of it.
I didn't ask any of them to come save me, or help me. They came on their own. I didn't fucking ask for it.
But what did that really mean? He had brothers who cared. A family who missed him.
What else were they supposed to do? Let me get myself killed?
He wasn't sure if that was a question or a statement, and that made him feel weak. He crossed the street without looking. Horns blared behind him.
What else were they supposed to do? Let me get myself killed?
That thought wouldn't leave him alone.
Yes, part of him answered.
Maybe they should've.
Would've saved them all the trouble. Would've made it easier for everyone. No disappointed stares, no sideways glances, no fucking pity. Just one clean hole in the world where I used to be. Wouldn't that have been convenient?
Tyler shook his head, scowling until the world blurred at the edges. He shouldered past a man walking his dog and caught a grunt and a curse.
"Watch it, asshole."
"Fuck off," Tyler snarled, not even slowing down.
He kept walking. No destination in sight.
Shadows stretched long across the sidewalk. Broken glass glinted beneath his boots. A neon liquor store sign buzzed like it couldn't decide whether to stay lit or not.
They're just scared of what I'll do next.
That's the truth, right? That's all it ever is. Nobody ever says it, but they're all just waiting for the next fuck-up.
The next time Tyler breaks something. Or ruins something. Or gets someone hurt.
That's what Jake was really saying.
That's what Dad didn't have to say.
He kicked a crushed soda can into the gutter and watched it rattle off into the dark.
If they wanted someone else, they should've made someone else. They raised me like this. They made me this. But now I'm too much?
Now I'm the problem?
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked harder as the street began to slope. Head down. Jaw tight.
They don't want me around. They don't need me around. Dad made that clear a year ago. I'm not welcome.
But those weren't the words he remembered.
A home waiting for him to come back to. All he had to do was say a few small words, but they felt so large in his throat it made him want to choke and die rather than spit them out.
All I had to do was apologize? Curl up into a pathetic, sniveling bitch and submit? Someone has to cave. Someone always has to break first. Someone always has to blink. So why the fuck does it always have to be me?
'My house, my rules.' Yeah? So it's not my home, is it?
Tyler spat on the ground.
His throat burned. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stood there, breathing hard, watching the spit glisten for a second before it disappeared into the cracks of the sidewalk.
He slowed.
The street ahead curved gently uphill, familiar in a way he didn't want to admit. He took a few more steps without thinking, his worn shoes dragging more with each block, the peeling soles scraping against the pavement.
The anger was still there, but quieter now. Duller. Like coals without flame.
Tyler looked up from the pavement.
The horizon had already swallowed the last light of the sun. Only flickering street lamps and the cool glow of the moon remained. He realized where his legs had wandered.
Home.
The neighbourhood hadn't changed, but everything felt smaller.
Chain-link fences sagged under their own weight, half-swallowed by weeds. Old porch lights buzzed with dying bulbs, casting halos over warped welcome mats and dry flower pots. The air smelled faintly of cut grass, car exhaust, and something sour he couldn't place.
The neighbours' dilapidated basketball net still stood, barely, its crooked frame rusted into the sidewalk. The hoop had vanished years ago, torn off during one too many rough games. A sagging couch sat out front like it had been there for months. Every house had a light on somewhere, illuminating chipped garage doors and brickwork so cracked it looked ready to crumble at a touch.
Rusted old junkers were tucked into most of the driveways, some hidden under weathered tarps. One garage door hung open, the pale wash of a shop light spilling into the street. A group of teenagers lounged outside on folding lawn chairs, laughing too loud, a cooler between them, smoke rising lazily from something passed between hands.
Tyler kept walking. No one looked at him. No one said a word.
As he made his way further up the hill and down the street, he saw the house.
The garden was immaculate, even at night. Roses and daisies, and others he never knew the names of, all neatly trimmed. The house was too small for a family of four, let alone six. He stopped at the foot of the driveway. The concrete was cracked, and at its centre, the familiar black sprawl of an oil stain.
He remembered that day.
Hot summer. No money for an oil change. Dad had volunteered them all to help. Zachary and Dad were under the beater. The rest of them mostly stood around, bored out of their minds. Until, all at once, there was shouting, spitting, scrambling.
Flashlights in the wrong hands. Wrenches the wrong size. And no pan under the tank.
Hardened Fiends, defeated by a loose bolt and a quart of old oil.
Tyler found a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
It took him a moment to notice, but when he did, it hit hard.
The lights were off. The van wasn't there.
Tyler stepped up the driveway and toward the door. Despite all his insistence that he wouldn't be coming back, he had always kept his key close. It slipped into the lock without resistance.
He flicked the lights on as he walked in.
Someone had been digging through the closet, most of its contents were strewn across the floor. The living room was bare. Every picture frame hung empty. Baby photos. Graduation caps. Family portraits no one could sit still for.
Barren. Gone.
"That's Mom for you..." Tyler murmured, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
He went upstairs.
His parents' bedroom was a similar mess. Everything they could fit in suitcases had been taken in a hurry. Drawers hung open, some yanked out entirely. The safe behind the large framed wedding photo had been left ajar and empty. The picture was gone too.
His room, their room, was much the same. The two bunk beds were left undone, which probably had his father fuming. Anything heavier than clothing had been abandoned. Not much sentimentality left behind.
His eyes drifted to the far corner.
The old guitar still sat in its stand, half-hidden behind a pile of laundry, strings dulled with dust. He hadn't touched it in over a year. Never played it well, just enough to strum a few intros, just enough to pretend he had something to say when he couldn't find the words.
He looked at it for a moment longer, then turned away.
He picked up Thomas's blood-stained jacket from the floor, now dry. Turned it over in his hands, unsure of what he was even looking for, then let it drop back into the same pile as Jake's.
His bed was made, though he remembered leaving it unmade, his final "fuck you" nearly a year ago. Or close enough to count.
A note rested on the pillow. He sat on the old creaky mattress and read it:
Ty,
If you're reading this, it means you decided to come home. You're safe. That's all any of us ever wanted for you.
You might be scared or confused right now. Please don't worry.
We've gone to find Zachary. Your father has a lead on where they might've taken him.
I can't leave the details here in case this falls into the wrong hands, but if there's an emergency, we're headed to L.A.
When your father made the call, we all wanted to wait for you, to come back for you, but there just wasn't time.
I know you might be angry. Maybe you should be. But I hope you'll understand soon.
Please stay safe. Stay where you are if you can.
We'll be home soon. With Zachary.
I hope you're still there when we get back.
Love always,
The Family
Tyler stared down at the small piece of paper. He inhaled sharply, then looked around the room like there might be something else to find. He let out a breath.
They're all happy that I'm safe and sound at home. All of them, huh?
"Bullshit," he muttered, crushing the letter in his fist and tossing it to the floor. "I don't believe that crock of shit for a second."
He stood and tore through the closet for clothes that didn't reek of sweat, blood, and everything else he'd picked up on the street.
"They think I can't fucking hack it," he snarled to himself. He ripped open his nightstand, digging for anything useful; a lighter, a watch, loose change, a few crumpled ones, and a charger for a phone long gone.
"Stay safe at home while we find Zach, you useless, stupid fuck-up!" He slammed the drawer shut. Wood cracked, the lamp toppled and joined the mess on the floor.
"Let us fix the mess before you can make it worse!"
Tyler marched down the hall and stomped down the stairs. His father's voice echoed in his head.
Safe? Weak.
Home? Weak.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
He swung the door open and slammed it shut behind him.
"I'll fucking show you," he whispered to himself, every word tight with venom.
He didn't look back.
If he ever had, he might've learned something.