Chapter 7: A price to pay
Director Kain leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. His piercing gaze locked onto Justin, studying him as if weighing his worth.
"Alright, Reyes. You handled an Echo alone, which is unheard of. That makes you valuable," Kain said, smirking. "So, tell me—how much do you think you're worth?"
Justin folded his arms and leaned back casually in his chair, though the weight of exhaustion still clung to him. "Eighty thousand a week."
Silence.
Kain's lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Eighty thousand?" he echoed, scoffing. "Kid, that's a cute number. You're pushing your luck."
Justin shrugged. "Figured I'd start high."
Kain chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll do you one better. You'll get $5,000 every three hours."
Justin's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his reaction. That was more than he expected—hell, more than he had ever dreamed of making. He could finally get out of that damn shack. But he didn't let his excitement show.
"Fine," he said coolly, nodding. "That works."
"Good. But don't think this is free money. You show up every day for training, no excuses," Kain continued, his tone sharpening. "We need to assess your full potential. Which reminds me—what else can you do?"
Justin smirked but kept his expression unreadable. "You'll just have to wait and find out."
Kain narrowed his eyes but didn't push further. Instead, he tossed a small, sleek device toward Justin. He caught it midair.
"That's your comms device—keeps tabs on you and the rest of the team. We expect you to answer when called," Kain said.
Justin rolled the device in his palm, nodding. "Understood."
"Good. Now get the hell out of my office."
---
A Home That Was Never Home
The sky was painted in deep shades of indigo and violet by the time Justin made his way back. The familiar scent of mildew, burnt cigarette butts, and stale alcohol greeted him before he even stepped inside. The shack stood like a rotting corpse, barely holding itself together.
As he pushed the door open, the creak was immediately followed by a snarl.
"You little bastard!"
His grandmother's voice cracked through the air like a whip. The dim glow of the overhead light barely illuminated her hunched figure. Her sunken eyes burned with intoxicated fury as she staggered toward him, a half-empty bottle clutched in her bony fingers.
"Where the hell were you?! You think you can just come back this late, huh?! I've been starving all damn day!" she shrieked, slamming the bottle onto the table.
Justin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You could've made something yourself."
His words were met with a sudden, sharp crack.
The sting spread across his cheek before he even registered the slap.
"You little shit." Her breath reeked of whiskey and decay. "You think you're too good to cook for me now?! What, you got money now? Eating somewhere else while I rot in this house?!"
Justin clenched his fists, inhaling sharply. "I didn't eat anywhere."
"Liar!" She grabbed a nearby empty plate and hurled it at him. He tilted his head slightly—just enough for it to shatter against the wall behind him.
"You're just like your mother," she spat, voice slurring. "Thinking you're special. Thinking you're better than this place. But you ain't, boy. You're nothing. Always will be."
Justin swallowed the lump in his throat. He could take punches. He could take exhaustion. He could take hunger. But those words… they cut deeper than any wound ever could.
He exhaled slowly, suppressing the rage bubbling in his chest.
"I'm going to bed," he said simply, walking past her.
"Don't you turn your back on me!" she screamed, grabbing for him, but he slipped out of her grasp with ease.
As he entered his small, cluttered room, he locked the door behind him. His heartbeat drummed in his ears as he pulled out the book from beneath his bed, its presence a strange comfort.
This was the fourth month,he could finally draw again.
And this time, he wouldn't just change himself.
He'd change his whole damn life.