Friction and Fire

Mark's Sadness

Mark sits in silence, the grandfather clock’s pendulum carving the minutes with relentless precision. The mansion is still, as if holding its breath after the shock of Rhonda’s visit. He looks at his phone, Alicia’s messages like open wounds, and hesitates, fingers hovering. His sandy hair falls forward, hiding eyes that tell a story of indecision. Yesterday plays on repeat in his mind: the moment the taser hit, Vondrel crumbling like the certainties of their world. His hand shakes with unspoken longing as he types: “Your sister is something else. I’m handling things here. Miss you.”

Morning sunlight pours into the Lancaster conference room, turning polished mahogany to gold. Mark sits at the long table, surrounded by advisors whose voices merge into a single, droning lecture on profits and losses. Vondrel's empty chair looms larger than the man himself, a silent reminder of yesterday's upheaval. Mark tugs at his collar, the tie feeling like a noose of expectations. His uncle’s question snaps him back: "Mark? Your thoughts on the Henderson acquisition?" He fumbles, words escaping him like loyalty. Under the table, his phone is a lifeline he clings to, showing Alicia's name.

The grandfather clock’s tick is relentless, marking time in a room where time stands still. It echoes in Mark’s mind, counting down to decisions he’s not ready to face. He swallows hard, feeling the weight of family legacy pressing down like a second gravity. The tie digs into his neck, as if it knows how uncommitted he is.

“Mark?” his uncle repeats, impatience sharpening the edge of his voice. The old man's hands are steepled in front of him, an imitation of piety from a man whose only faith is in financial gains. "What are your thoughts?"

Mark clears his throat, a hollow sound in a room full of seasoned predators. "I think... we should consider the long-term impacts," he manages, the words weak and half-formed. He glances at Vondrel's chair, half expecting his brother to swoop in with the perfect answer. But it remains empty, leaving Mark to flounder. “Maybe… revisit the numbers?”

His uncle frowns, then exchanges a knowing look with the other advisors. To them, Mark is an open book: the kind of novel that isn’t very interesting to begin with. “That’s why we have you,” the uncle says, sarcasm not entirely hidden. "For a fresh perspective."

Mark nods, pretending not to see the judgment in their eyes. He looks at the agenda, but the words blur and shift, refusing to stay in focus. Profits, losses, projections—it’s all just static, a dull hum in a world where the only clear note is Alicia's name on his phone.

His mind drifts back to the previous day, to Rhonda's defiant entrance and Vondrel’s stunned reaction. It replays like a scene in a film he can't stop watching, each detail more vivid than the last. Rhonda, fierce and unyielding. Vondrel, crumpling under her unexpected assault. The memory sends a small, involuntary grin to his lips.

A soft cough brings him back, and he looks up to see the advisors watching him. It’s like waking from a dream, the harsh light of reality washing over him. Mark straightens, trying to look like he belongs in the room.

“Something you’d like to share?” the uncle asks, a thin smile playing on his lips.

Mark’s face warms, the attention an unwelcome spotlight. “No, just—” He fumbles for words, any words, but they slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He’s left holding nothing but his own inattention.

The advisors shift in their seats, adjusting expensive suits and calculated expressions. Mark can almost hear their thoughts, like a silent chorus of disappointment. He drops his gaze, pretending to take notes while sneaking another look at his phone. The screen is dark, but it might as well be glowing.

The clock’s tick continues its ruthless march, and the meeting drones on. Mark feels like a ghost, hovering at the edges, barely there. He pulls at his tie again, a constant irritation he can’t quite escape. It’s a relief when the voices begin to fade, and he realizes the meeting is finally drawing to a close. The weight lifts, and he allows himself a breath.

His assistant approaches, a stack of documents in hand. “These need Vondrel's signature,” he says, his tone efficient and devoid of judgment. “Should I take them up?”

Mark hesitates, then a spark of determination ignites. “I’ll do it,” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. It’s the smallest rebellion, but it feels like a revolution.

The assistant hands him the papers, a slight pause betraying his surprise. Mark’s grip is firm, the hint of a smile breaking through his composed exterior. He stands, leaving the advisors and their endless projections behind.

As he walks toward the door, the smile grows. His thoughts are a thousand miles away, but his feet are exactly where he wants them to be.

Mark drives through the city, where each block sheds a layer of family expectation. His hands grip the wheel like it might escape. He parks the Genesis G-80 far from Rhonda's garage, hoping distance will keep secrets. Through the window, he sees her hands transform machinery into life, her confident movements filling him with equal parts awe and terror. He leaves the package by the door, his heart racing. The note is a risk wrapped in brown paper, his act of defiance quiet but bold. Back at his desk, he stares at Alicia's text: Rhonda got your gift.

The roads blur by, streaks of pavement and possibility. Mark's heart beats a wild rhythm as he navigates the path to rebellion. With every mile, he feels the grip of family legacy loosening, slipping off his shoulders like an unwanted coat. He drives faster, feeling the rush of freedom mix with the fear of being caught.

The Lancaster mansion fades into the distance, and Mark's pulse quickens with the thrill of escape. He imagines Rhonda's face, the flash of her green eyes as she faced down Vondrel. It's the boldest thing he's ever witnessed, and the memory pushes him forward, pushes him toward something unknown and exhilarating.

Mark parks the sedan a block from the garage, tucking it between two unremarkable cars. He sits for a moment, breathing in the adrenaline, the anxiety, the excitement of a life unplanned. He checks the street for familiar faces, for any sign that the Lancaster name might follow him even here.

The coast is clear, and Mark steps out, his legs carrying him toward Rhonda’s world. The air is thick with engine oil and independence, scents foreign and thrilling to his carefully curated existence. With each step, he feels further from Vondrel’s shadow and closer to something real, something raw.

He watches through the window, the frame a lens to a life he never imagined. The garage is a symphony of clattering tools and thumping rock music, the rhythm chaotic and alive. Mark’s eyes find Rhonda, and his breath catches. She moves with practiced precision, every action filled with purpose and confidence.

Her auburn hair is tied back, escaping in wild tendrils that mirror her untamed spirit. Mark sees the grease smudged on her cheek, a badge of honor he’s beginning to understand. He watches her hands, deft and determined, coaxing life from stubborn machinery. It's the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

She doesn’t see him, doesn’t know he’s there. But Mark feels the impact of her presence, feels it shake the foundations of everything he thought he knew. His heart races, an engine of emotions he can’t quite control. He clutches the small package, feeling its weight and significance.

With one last look, he leaves it by the side door. His hands tremble as he places it down, the note tucked inside: "For the next time you need to shock some sense into someone. - M." It’s a risk, a dare, a promise wrapped in brown paper.

He hesitates, every instinct telling him to turn back, to play it safe. But the memory of Rhonda's defiance propels him forward, propels him away. Mark hurries down the block, the thrill of rebellion singing in his veins.

Each step is a heartbeat, each heartbeat a step closer to something he can’t name. It feels like treason and triumph all at once, a strange and exhilarating mix that sends his pulse into overdrive. Mark reaches the sedan, his breath coming fast, a laugh escaping as he leans against the door.

He's done it. He's really done it.

The drive back is a blur, the landscape of his mind more vivid than the passing streets. He replays the drop-off, imagines Rhonda finding the package, imagines her reaction. It's a risk, a gamble, and he feels more alive than ever.

Vondrel's world looms as he approaches the mansion, its perfect lines and careful order an affront to the chaos Mark craves. He thinks of Alicia, her warmth, her laughter, the way she looks at him as if he's more than the shadow of his brother. The way she makes him believe it's true.

Back at his desk, Mark stares at the phone, waiting, hoping. It's a beacon, a connection, a lifeline that pulls him toward something he can't yet define. The seconds stretch, each one a tiny eternity of anticipation.

When the text finally comes, it lights up the screen and his world. "Rhonda got your gift. She's suspicious but impressed. When can we meet?" His heart does a reckless, joyous somersault.

Mark grins, the smile transforming him. It's the look of a man who has finally chosen his own path, finally decided what and who he wants. His fingers move over the keys with newfound confidence.

"As soon as possible," he types, sending the message with a heart full of love and defiance.