THE SECOND BREATH
1888 Words
The room smelled of grime and antiseptics.
The beeping of a machine echoed off the sterile white walls, steady and relentless.
It was the only sound in the room besides the quiet breathing of the figure on the bed.
"How long is he going to still be asleep for? I have precious time and I would rather sell it than waste it here on him."
A gruff voice cut through the silence.
The man attached to the voice was pacing near the window, his expensive shoes clicking against the tile floor, his face was twisted with impatience, his eyes cold and hard.
"Sir, you've just been here for less than five minutes. What the doctor..." a nurse tried explaining.
She was young, barely out of training, and her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the IV drip.
"So you are now cautioning me on how my time should be spent?" the gruff voice yelled louder. The nurse flinched, stepping back.
"WOULD YOU SHUT THE f**k UP!"
The voice came from the bed. It was weak, hoarse from disuse, but dripping with irritation.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
The pacing man froze, the nurse gasped and the doctor, who had been reviewing charts in the corner, dropped his clipboard.
"W... What did you just say?" the gruff voice asked, his face had gone red, veins bulging in his neck.
"Do you seriously think your voice is great? Disgustingly disturbing and annoyingly frustrating." The irritated voice came again, stronger this time.
The figure on the bed attempted to sit up. He moved slowly, his limbs heavy and uncooperative as his muscles screamed in protest.
He pushed himself up on shaky elbows, but the world spun violently around him.
Colors blurred, his head throbbed and he eventually collapsed back onto the pillow with a grunt of frustration.
"Take it easy, young man. You've been unconscious for the past three months," the doctor said, rushing to his side.
He began examining the patient, checking his pulse, shining a light in his eyes.
"Unconscious? I'm not dead?" The patient's voice was filled with surprise. He blinked, confusion clouding his features.
"I wish you were. It saves us all the trouble," the gruff voice muttered.
"Who are you?" The patient turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing.
He was studying the man, sizing him up like a predator assessing potential prey.
Shock was written clearly on everyone's faces. The nurse exchanged a confused glance with the doctor and the pacing man's jaw dropped.
"You are joking now. Another one of your stupid schemes, I presume." The man crossed his arms, his posture defensive but his voice mocking.
"The sooner you tell me who you are, the sooner I'll know if I can continue to tolerate you," the patient said. There was a deathly edge to his voice now.
It was cold. Commanding and it clearly didn't belong in the body of a sixteen-year-old boy.
"I am your father, you damned forsaken thing!"
"Father." The word came out flat. Emotionless. "I don't have a father."
The room fell silent, even the machines seemed to pause.
"Sir, what do you remember?" the doctor asked gently. He leaned forward, his face kind but serious.
"I can't really recall... but I know I don't have a father."
"Okay. What's your name?"
"Daniel Knox."
"Daniel what?" The gruff voice bellowed, his face was purple now, his fists clenched at his sides. "Who is this Daniel Knox you speak of? You are my son, Adrian Cross. And I am your father, Ethan Cross!"
The patient blinked.
He looked at the man claiming to be his father. Then at the doctor.
Then down at his own hands—smaller hands, smoother hands, the hands of a boy who had never held a weapon or taken a life.
Confusion flooded his features, but beneath it, something else stirred. Recognition. Memory.
Floods of images that didn't belong to him but were suddenly his to carry.
"I believe we need to run some tests," the doctor said calmly, stepping between father and son. "If you would please step outside, sir."
Ethan opened his mouth to argue, but the doctor's expression was firm.
He was a professional, and he had dealt with difficult families before as he gestured toward the door.
Ethan glared at Adrian one last time before stomping out of the room. The door slammed behind him.
—
"Hello, baby," came a sweet voice from the other end of the line.
Ethan had been seething in the hallway, his rage barely contained, but the moment he heard her voice, his entire demeanor shifted. A smile spread across his face.
"Yes, Vanessa dear."
"Is there any news? Is he still okay? Please don't remove him from life support." Her voice was pleading, desperate.
Any outsider would have thought she was a loving mother, devastated by her stepson's accident.
Ethan's smile twisted into something ugly.
"I can't remove him even if I wanted to. The f**k woke up." His voice was dripping with venom now, the pleasant facade gone.
The other line went dead silent. So silent that Ethan wondered if the call had dropped.
"Babe?"
"Yes, babe. I am here." Her voice was different now. Controlled. Measured. "Well, it's a good thing he's awake." The words came through gritted teeth.
"Good thing my foot. The i***t was trying to play the amnesia card, but I didn't buy it for one second. The doctors are with him now. I'll find out if he truly is faking or it's real in a minute."
"Alright, dear. Keep me posted."
The line went dead.
—
At the Cross Mansion...
The penthouse was a masterpiece of wealth—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, priceless artwork lining the walls, but none of that mattered now.
Vanessa Cross screamed. It was a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the walls.
Her perfectly manicured hands grabbed the nearest object—a crystal vase filled with fresh roses—and hurled it across the room.
It shattered against the wall, water and petals exploding everywhere.
The servants huddled in the corners, their heads bowed. None of them dared to move.
They had seen their mistress angry before, but not like this. Not with this level of unhinged fury.
"After all the planning! All the resources! All the money!" She grabbed a lamp and flung it toward the wall. It smashed into pieces. "The bastard didn't die!"
"What's wrong, mother?"
A voice cut through the chaos. A young man stood in the doorway, his expression curious but unconcerned.
He was tall, athletic, with cruel eyes that mirrored his mother's.
"Cain, my love. The bastard lives." Vanessa's voice cracked, her carefully constructed composure crumbling.
She rushed to her son, clinging to him as Cain's eyes turned crimson, his jaw tightened and his hands clenched into fists.
"He's awake? Has he told Dad?"
"According to what your father said, he doesn't remember anything." Vanessa's face twisted into something dark. A slow, sinister smile spread across her lips.
Cain relaxed slightly and patted his mother's back, soothing her.
"It's alright. It's good that he doesn't remember. If he can't be on guard, it will be easier this time."
Vanessa nodded slowly, her son was right.
She had been too hasty, too emotional. She pulled back from him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Yes. Yes, you're right."
They hugged again, mother and son united in their hatred.
Their plotting continued in hushed whispers as the servants remained frozen in place.
—
Back at the Hospital...
The doctor called Mr. Cross back into the room and explained the situation calmly, professionally.
"Mr. Adrian has indeed lost his memories. As for whether the memory loss is temporary or permanent... only time will tell."
Meanwhile, the patient—who was now Adrian Cross but also Daniel Knox—sat in stunned silence.
He listened to the conversation but wasn't truly hearing it but his mind was racing.
He had memories, so many memories.
He remembered being Daniel Knox—the streets, the g**g, the Italian mafia, the assassination, the rise to power, Marina, the wedding, the explosion and he remembered dying in Eric's arms.
But he also had new memories—foreign, unfamiliar. The memories of Adrian Cross.
A pathetic existence.
A boy who had been raised by his mother Celeste and his stepfather Salvador Grant.
They had loved him unconditionally, and what had he done? He had left them.
He had run to his biological father, seduced by promises of wealth and status.
Ethan Cross had money, or at least he pretended to. He had a mansion, connections and had promised Adrian the world.
Instead, Adrian had been treated worse than a servant.
He was a punching bag for Cain, a target for Vanessa, a mockery for Clarissa and an annoyance to Ethan. He had been a fool. A stupid, naive fool.
Daniel—now Adrian—made a decision. He would play along.
He would pretend to have amnesia. It would be easier. Safer.
He would gather information, learn about his enemies, then he would destroy them.
"Although I still want him to stay for more tests, he insists he wants to go home. The preliminary tests are done, which shows he's in perfect health. So he's free to go," the doctor said.
At that moment, both father and son stood up with the same mannerism and pose.
It was an unconscious mirroring that neither noticed, the doctor blinked but said nothing.
"Mr. Adrian, these are your items," a nurse said as she handed him a bag filled with his belongings from the crash.
"Mhm," Adrian muttered. He took the bag and started to walk out of the hospital.
Outside, the air was crisp and cold. Adrian stopped and waited.
He didn't know which car belonged to his father, so he stood in the middle of the driveway, scanning the vehicles.
Eventually, Ethan Cross appeared. Four guards flanked him, their heads bowed in respect.
"Mr. Cross."
Adrian sized up the two black cars, the both were expensive—shiny, sleek, dripping with wealth.
He ignored the guards and walked toward the one with the door already open.
As he was about to enter, a guard raised his arm, blocking his path.
"Excuse me, sir, but this car is for Mr. Cross."
Adrian slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto the guard's.
"And who am I?"
"The boss's son."
"What is my last name?" Adrian's voice was ice-cold, his glare deathly.
The guard swallowed hard, his hand trembled slightly.
"Cross."
"You're lucky I don't have to teach you rules," Adrian said smoothly.
He stepped into the car without another word, settling into the plush leather seat.
The guard stood frozen, the other guards exchanged uneasy glances as Ethan gaped at his son, shock written across his face.
Then Ethan slipped into the car beside Adrian.
"Don't get into the back seat again," Ethan growled, his voice was low and threatening.
"Then where do I sit? The trunk?" Adrian replied coolly.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat. He was already meditating, blocking out the man who was supposedly his father.
Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but Adrian was already gone—lost in his thoughts, planning his next move.
- Writer
