BROTHERS

CHAPTER TWO-THE FIRST PUNCH(Part II)

The next morning began with pain. Not emotional pain. Not grief. Not anger. Actual physical pain. The kind that started in the muscles and settled deep into the bones. The kind that made getting out of bed feel like climbing a mountain. Unfortunately for Ex, he hadn't even trained yet. The pain came from the previous weeks. The sleepless nights. The stress. The fights he'd gotten into after Samuel's death. The reckless wandering through dangerous neighborhoods looking for answers. His body was already paying the price. And things were about to get significantly worse.

"Again."

The voice echoed through Iron Haven. Ex hit the heavy bag. Poorly. The punch landed with a dull thud. No snap. No technique. Just anger.

Nelisha winced.

"Oh, that's painful to watch."

Ex glared at her. She remained completely unimpressed.

"You're dropping your shoulder."

Another punch.

"Still dropping it."

Another punch.

"Worse."

Another punch.

"Honestly, that one offended me personally."

Ex stopped. Breathing hard. The urge to throw the heavy bag at her was growing.

Samuel floated nearby. Laughing. Not helping. Very much enjoying himself.

"She's right."

"Of course she's right."

"You're punching like you're arguing with a vending machine."

Ex looked toward his ghostly brother.

"You know she can't hear you."

"That doesn't make me wrong."

Nelisha crossed her arms.

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Nothing."

"You're talking to him."

The words hit harder than expected.

Ex froze.

Samuel froze.

For a second the gym seemed quieter.

Then Nelisha shrugged.

"Not literally."

The tension disappeared.

Slightly.

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The one grieving people get."

Her voice softened.

"Like somebody's sitting beside them."

Neither brother spoke.

Because for Ex—Somebody actually was. Three days later, training became torture. Five days later, torture became routine. Two weeks later, routine became progress. Not dramatic progress. Not movie progress. Real progress. Slow. Frustrating. Earned. Every morning began before sunrise. Running. Conditioning. Strength training. Technique drills. Sparring. Recovery. Repeat. Again. And again. And again. Ex hated most of it. Especially running. Running felt pointless.

If someone wanted to fight, why not fight? Samuel had laughed for nearly ten minutes when he said that. Nelisha had made him run another five kilometers. Apparently she found it funny too. One afternoon Ex collapsed onto a bench. Sweat soaked his shirt. His lungs burned. His legs felt useless. Nelisha handed him water. He accepted it immediately. Progress. A month ago he would've refused out of pride. Now he was too exhausted.

"Good news."

Ex took a drink.

"What?"

"You're less terrible."

He nearly choked.

"Less terrible?"

"Yeah."

She nodded.

"Still bad."

"Thanks."

"But less bad."

"You're a very encouraging person."

"I know."

Samuel laughed.

Ex rolled his eyes.

Nelisha noticed.

Again.

"You do that a lot."

"What?"

"The eye thing."

"What eye thing?"

"The one where you look at empty space like somebody said something stupid."

Samuel immediately pointed at himself.

"She's talking about me."

"No kidding."

Nelisha narrowed her eyes.

Then shook her head.

"Whatever."

The conversation ended there. But the observation lingered. Ex was becoming careless. Not with fighting.

With Samuel. The ghost had become normal. Too normal. Sometimes Ex forgot nobody else could see him. Forgot nobody else could hear him. Forgot that talking to thin air tended to concern people. A month after joining Iron Haven, Ex got into his first sparring match. A real one. Not drills. Not practice. A fight. Nelisha insisted. Ex objected. Nelisha ignored him. The end result was predictable. Very predictable. His opponent's name was Marcus. Twenty-six. Former amateur boxer. Approximately the size of a refrigerator.

Ex noticed this immediately.

"That's not fair."

Nelisha shrugged.

"Life isn't fair."

Marcus grinned. He seemed nice. Which somehow made things worse. The bell rang. Ex attacked. Naturally. Because patience remained a foreign concept. Marcus stepped aside. Ex missed. A jab hit him. Then another. Then another. Simple. Efficient. Embarrassing. Three minutes later Ex sat on the canvas. Staring upward. Questioning several life choices. Marcus offered a hand. Ex accepted.

"Thanks."

"You've got heart."

Ex frowned.

That sounded suspiciously like an insult.

Marcus noticed.

"It is."

Definitely an insult.

The second sparring session went better.

Marginally.

He remained conscious longer.

Nelisha considered that progress.

Ex disagreed.

The third session ended with a black eye.

The fourth with a bloody nose.

The fifth with bruised ribs.

The sixth—

Actually went well.

Not great.

But well.

For the first time, technique appeared.

Tiny glimpses.

Moments where training overrode instinct.

Moments where Samuel's advice aligned with Nelisha's instruction.

Moments where Ex stopped trying to win every exchange and started trying to learn.

Those moments mattered.

Then came the first real problem.

It happened on a Thursday.

Late afternoon.

The gym was unusually quiet.

Only a handful of people remained.

Ex worked a heavy bag.

Nelisha trained nearby.

Samuel sat on top of a squat rack pretending to be a coach.

"Keep your hands up."

"I am."

"Not high enough."

"They're literally at my face."

"Higher."

"That's ridiculous."

"Higher."

The argument ended when the front door opened.

Three men entered.

Nothing unusual there.

Gyms attracted all kinds.

The unusual part was their attention.

The moment they stepped inside—

Their eyes found Ex.

Immediately.

No searching.

No hesitation.

Straight to him.

Samuel noticed first.

His expression darkened instantly.

"Ex."

The tone got his attention.

"What?"

Samuel didn't answer.

He simply stared.

Ex followed his gaze.

Saw the men.

And understood.

Trouble.

The biggest of the three approached.

Broad shoulders.

Neck tattoos.

Broken nose.

The kind of face that looked assembled from spare parts.

He stopped several feet away.

Studied Ex.

Then smiled.

A humorless smile.

"You Samuel's brother?"

The gym grew quiet.

Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough for people to listen.

Enough for people to notice.

Enough for tension to spread.

Ex set the gloves down.

Slowly.

"Who's asking?"

The man's smile widened.

"Good."

"Good what?"

"You've got attitude."

Something about the way he said it made Ex's skin crawl.

The man stepped closer.

"Jefferson wants to meet you."

The name immediately changed everything.

Nelisha stood.

Not aggressively.

Just alert.

Samuel's expression turned grim.

Ex felt his heartbeat quicken.

Not fear.

Something colder.

Something harder.

The man noticed.

Laughed.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The family resemblance."

The room felt smaller suddenly.

The man looked around.

Completely relaxed.

Completely confident.

Like somebody who expected no consequences.

"Here's the invitation."

He reached into his pocket.

Pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Held it out.

Ex didn't take it.

Neither moved.

Eventually the man sighed.

"Dramatic."

Then tossed it onto the floor.

The paper landed between them.

The message felt deliberate.

Disrespectful.

A challenge.

The man turned.

His friends followed.

The three headed for the exit.

Then stopped.

One final glance.

One final sentence.

"Don't keep him waiting."

The door closed behind them.

Silence filled the gym.

Nobody moved for several seconds.

Then Nelisha walked forward.

Picked up the paper.

Opened it.

Read it.

And immediately swore.

That got Ex's attention.

"What?"

She handed it over.

The message contained only one line.

One location.

One date.

One time.

And beneath it—

A single sentence.

Let's talk about your brother.

The blood drained from Samuel's face.

Which should've been impossible for a ghost.

Yet somehow it happened anyway.

Because he recognized the trap instantly.

And judging from the look on Nelisha's face—

So did she.

The only person who didn't was Ex.

Because the moment he saw Samuel's name—

Logic stopped mattering.

And that made him exactly the kind of person Jefferson Veyron knew how to manipulate.

The address sat on the passenger seat.

Ex stared at it the entire ride home.

Not because it was complicated.

Because it wasn't.

The location was a bar near the waterfront.

The date was tomorrow.

The time was 8:00 PM.

Simple.

Clean.

Direct.

Almost respectful.

Which made it suspicious.

Very suspicious.

"You're not going."

Samuel had repeated that sentence twelve times.

Ex counted.

Not because he wanted to.

Because Samuel refused to stop saying it.

"You're not going."

Thirteen.

Ex kept driving.

The city lights drifted past the windows.

Traffic moved steadily around him.

Life continued.

Normal people headed home.

Normal people worried about normal things.

Bills.

Relationships.

Work.

Dinner.

Meanwhile Ex was considering attending a meeting with the man who murdered his brother.

Normal had become a distant memory.

"You know it's a trap."

Fourteen.

"I know."

"Then why are you thinking about it?"

"Because he mentioned you."

Samuel groaned.

"Exactly."

Ex didn't answer.

Because that was exactly why.

If Jefferson wanted to kill him, there were easier methods.

Safer methods.

More efficient methods.

The Veyrons had money.

Influence.

Men.

Resources.

If they wanted Ex dead, they could make it happen.

So why invite him?

Why mention Samuel?

Why now?

The questions bothered him.

And unanswered questions had a habit of becoming obsessions.

Samuel stared out the window.

For the first time all evening, he looked genuinely unsettled.

Not angry.

Not frustrated.

Unsettled.

That worried Ex more than the invitation.

Back at the apartment, the argument continued.

Mostly because Samuel refused to let it die.

"You can't seriously be considering this."

Ex tossed the paper onto the table.

Samuel immediately pointed at it.

"Look at it."

"I have."

"No."

Samuel floated closer.

"Actually look at it."

Ex frowned.

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Nothing."

"Helpful."

"Exactly."

Samuel threw his hands into the air.

"Nothing."

The ghost paced.

Or floated.

Or whatever ghosts did when they were annoyed.

"There's no explanation."

"No context."

"No reason."

"No details."

"Just a place and a time."

Ex sat on the couch.

Thinking.

Samuel wasn't wrong.

That was the problem.

He usually wasn't.

Even when alive.

Especially now.

"You're scared."

The words slipped out before Ex could stop them.

Samuel froze.

The apartment grew quiet.

Very quiet.

Then Samuel laughed.

Once.

Softly.

Without humor.

"Of course I'm scared."

The honesty surprised Ex.

Samuel met his gaze.

"I watched a knife go into my stomach."

A pause.

"I remember dying."

Another pause.

"And now you're talking about walking directly into the people who did it."

The words landed heavily.

Because Samuel rarely spoke about the murder itself.

Most of the time he avoided it.

Changed subjects.

Deflected.

Joked.

This was different.

Raw.

Real.

For a moment Ex looked away.

The guilt returned.

It always did.

The memory of that night never left.

Not really.

It simply waited.

Patiently.

Ready to surface whenever his guard dropped.

"If I hadn't followed you—"

Samuel immediately cut him off.

"No."

"Sam—"

"No."

The response came harder this time.

Sharper.

More emotional.

The apartment seemed to shrink around them.

"If you hadn't followed me, they would've killed me anyway."

Ex fell silent.

Samuel continued.

"They weren't there because of you."

"I know."

"They weren't there because of the fight."

Ex frowned.

That got his attention.

Samuel noticed.

Immediately regretted speaking.

Too late.

Ex sat forward.

"What does that mean?"

Samuel looked away.

Wrong move.

Very wrong move.

Ex knew that look.

The same look he'd been seeing for months before the murder.

The same look that started all of this.

"What does that mean?"

Samuel remained silent.

"Sam."

Nothing.

"Samuel."

Still nothing.

The tension grew.

Slowly.

Relentlessly.

Then Samuel sighed.

The sound carried years of exhaustion.

Years of secrets.

Years of decisions.

"I was causing problems."

Ex blinked.

"What kind of problems?"

Samuel rubbed his face.

A habit carried beyond death.

Apparently.

"The Veyrons."

"What about them?"

Another pause.

Too long.

Way too long.

"I knew things."

Ex stared.

The words hit differently than expected.

Because suddenly the worker's warning returned.

Your brother wasn't the first.

The pieces didn't fit together yet.

But they were starting to resemble a puzzle.

"What things?"

Samuel hesitated.

Then something strange happened.

His expression changed.

Like a person trying to remember a dream.

Confusion replaced certainty.

Frustration replaced understanding.

"I..."

He stopped.

Ex frowned.

"What?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Samuel looked genuinely disturbed.

"I remember knowing."

The silence that followed felt wrong.

Deeply wrong.

"I remember being worried."

Samuel's voice lowered.

"I remember hiding things."

Another pause.

"I remember being afraid."

Ex felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Samuel stared at his own hands.

Or rather the ghostly version of them.

"I can't remember why."

The revelation hung over the apartment for hours.

Neither brother liked it.

Not one bit.

Because memory loss wasn't supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not to Samuel.

Samuel remembered everything.

Birthdays.

Addresses.

Phone numbers.

Conversations from years ago.

The man had once remembered exactly how much money Ex owed him after eighteen months.

To the cent.

Yet somehow—

The most important secret of his life had vanished.

Or been taken.

Or hidden.

None of the possibilities felt good.

The next morning Ex returned to Iron Haven.

Mostly because sitting alone with his thoughts had become unbearable.

Nelisha found him hitting a heavy bag.

Aggressively.

Very aggressively.

The bag swung violently.

The technique remained questionable.

The emotion did not.

She watched for thirty seconds.

Then spoke.

"You're going."

Not a question.

A statement.

Ex stopped punching.

Sweating.

Breathing hard.

Thinking.

"Maybe."

Nelisha laughed.

"That's a yes."

He didn't argue.

Because it was.

The moment he'd read Samuel's name on that paper, the decision had practically made itself.

Nelisha sat on a nearby bench.

Studied him.

Then shook her head.

"You're exactly the kind of i***t I thought you were."

Samuel immediately pointed at her.

"See?"

Nobody acknowledged him.

A recurring problem.

Nelisha leaned forward.

"Let me guess."

"What?"

"You think you're going to get answers."

Ex remained silent.

Again, that was answer enough.

She sighed.

"That's how people like Jefferson operate."

"What does that mean?"

"They don't fight."

The answer surprised him.

"Jefferson fights."

"No."

Nelisha shook her head.

"He hits people."

A pause.

"Different thing."

Interesting distinction.

She continued.

"Real fighters understand consequences."

"Jefferson understands entitlement."

The bitterness in her voice wasn't subtle.

Ex noticed.

Samuel noticed.

Even the heavy bag probably noticed.

"Sounds personal."

Nelisha looked away.

That was answer enough.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ex filed the observation away.

For later.

That evening he received another surprise.

An unwelcome one.

The moment he stepped outside the gym, someone called his name.

"Exhavier."

He turned.

Immediately regretted it.

Two police officers stood beside a patrol car.

One of them looked familiar.

Gray hair.

Tired eyes.

The detective from Samuel's case.

The older officer approached slowly.

Not threatening.

Not aggressive.

Just tired.

Very tired.

"Can we talk?"

Ex already hated the question.

People only asked that when they intended to ruin your day.

The detective noticed his expression.

"Five minutes."

Ex glanced toward Samuel.

The ghost looked equally suspicious.

Not encouraging.

Not discouraging.

Just watching.

Finally Ex nodded.

The detective leaned against the patrol car.

Thinking carefully.

Choosing his words.

Then:

"Jefferson Veyron contacted the department."

Every alarm in Ex's head activated instantly.

"What?"

The detective sighed.

"Apparently he's requested a meeting."

Ex stared.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

His stomach tightened.

The detective continued.

"He specifically asked that we inform you."

Now things were getting strange.

Very strange.

Because powerful people didn't usually involve police when setting traps.

At least not openly.

The detective seemed to share the confusion.

"I don't know what's happening."

His honesty was refreshing.

And concerning.

Mostly concerning.

"He says he wants to talk."

Ex laughed.

A cold laugh.

"He stabbed my brother."

"I know."

"He murdered him."

"I know."

"And now he wants to talk?"

The detective's expression darkened.

"People like Jefferson aren't used to consequences."

A pause.

"Sometimes they think conversations can solve everything."

That sounded dangerously plausible.

The rich often confused power with forgiveness.

As though enough money could erase blood.

The detective pushed himself off the patrol car.

"I'm not telling you what to do."

"Good."

"But if you go..."

His eyes hardened.

"...be careful."

The warning felt genuine.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because genuine warnings usually existed for good reasons.

The detective left.

The patrol car disappeared.

And once again Ex found himself standing at a crossroads.

One path led away.

The other led directly toward Jefferson Veyron.

Toward answers.

Toward danger.

Toward whatever Samuel had forgotten.

And despite every warning—Despite Samuel. Despite Nelisha.

Despite common sense itself—Ex already knew which path he would choose.