Reuben was just fourteen, but he already had a mind that burned too bright for obedience. He’d been raised on contradiction — taught to think critically, to question authority, to challenge every rule with a scalpel-sharp tongue. But when he did just that, when he pushed back too hard, too often, his father’s pride curdled into disdain. There were lessons meant to forge steel in him, yes — but no one prepared him for the cuts that came with it.

Conformity was never an option in the Castañeda household. It was a demand, a silent command echoed in every guarded look, every stiff dinner, every unspoken expectation. Reuben, defiant and too clever for his own good, rejected it all. He made decisions based on a compass his father had helped build — only to be punished when it pointed in what others believed is the wrong direction. Lines meant to restrain others were stepping stones for him, and soon he crossed them with such reckless ease that it stopped shocking everyone… even himself.

But the rift between him and his strict senior had grown too wide, too jagged to bridge. Whatever flicker of affection had once existed between father and son had long since been snuffed out by silence and contempt. Reuben could no longer remember the last time they had looked at each other without one of them clenching their jaw or their fists.

What he wanted now wasn’t love. That ship had sunk in blood and ice. He wanted freedom — freedom from the suffocating mansion that smelled of cold marble and colder regrets, from the curse of the family name whispered with fear or envy, from the cage of perfection his father forced him to inhabit.

What about your sister? And your brother-in-law?

The thought stabbed him with guilt, brief and hot. They’ll miss me, he thought. But they’ll survive. They always do. They have each other.

While, he had no one. Not really.

"Right now," Reuben murmured to himself, eyes fixed on the darkness just beyond the estate’s gate, "being free is what matters the most… if I want to stay sane."

The word sane echoed like a warning in his skull.

His bag was already packed — bare essentials, a change of clothes, burner phones, documents that looked almost too real. He had cash — thick stacks of it, in rubber-banded rolls, tucked inside the lining of his duffel. No credit cards. Too easy to trace. That morning, he’d walked into a downtown ATM kiosk and drained his accounts through a string of smaller withdrawals, just enough to avoid triggering alarms.

Even if they tried to track me, he reasoned, paper bills don’t leave footprints. He smirked bitterly. And they really shouldn't have taught me how to make fake IDs.

With his angular jawline, sharp eyes, and quiet confidence, he could pass for eighteen without even blinking.

Stupid, really — how the same father who distrusted him so deeply once insisted on teaching him the art of deception. “To survive,” he said. “In case you’re ever taken.”

What a joke. No one had taken him.

He was leaving of his own accord.

A gust of wind tugged at his hoodie as he lingered near the back fence. The house behind him loomed like a Gothic tomb — towering windows reflecting moonlight like cold, judging eyes.

His heart slammed in his chest.

He wasn’t scared of the world outside.

He was scared of being pulled back in.

He’d left notes — carefully written lies addressed to his father and sister.

“Staying with a classmate,” he wrote, “school project due Monday.”

That classmate of his, Leo, was getting a thick, generous envelope for playing his part.

The boy didn’t even ask questions.

Money had a way of buying silence — and Reuben had learned long ago that being rich and good-looking wasn’t just luck. It was armor. It was leverage.

But even armor cracks under the weight of desperation.

He closed his eyes.

For a brief moment, he thought he heard his sister’s distant laughter, from some memory he couldn’t place.

He clenched his fists.

If he looked back, he’d never leave.

And if he stayed, something in him would die.

He hoisted the duffel over his shoulder.

No more practice runs. No more fantasies of rebellion.

Tonight, Reuben Castañeda vanishes for good!

---

Within the next hour, Reuben holed up in a seedy motel on the city's forgotten edge. The fourth-floor room was dank and falling apart. He had ordered takeout and locked the door. He ate, then waited. He had no intention of sleeping.

"I just need to hold out until sunrise," he muttered. "Dump my bike in the river, get to the airport, and vanish. Pick a random country. Blend in as a backpacker."

You make it sound so easy…

"Believe me — it is."

A flicker of movement in the shadows caught his eye.

What was that?

He leaned closer to the dirty window.

That shadow… probably just someone walking.

In this part of town? At this hour? Even muggers avoid this place.

"Maybe it’s someone with a death wish."

Then he saw her. A girl. Small. Fragile-looking. Alone.

No way I’m letting her walk around here.

What about your escape?

"It can wait."

He pushed open the window. Exiting through the front would take too long. Moving like a gymnast, he slipped through, scaling down the rusted piping, denting a gutter with his grip. With a quiet roll, he landed upright — mere feet from her.

She looked around ten to twelve. Dirty, yes—but her dress was decent. Her blank stare held no fear. Her eyes — cold and blue like his — pierced through him.

There’s something off about her, he thought. Way off.

He approached slowly, speaking gently. “Hey… are you headed somewhere? Want some company? It’s not safe out here.”

A flicker of light sparked in her eyes — then vanished. Without a word, she turned and walked.

Reuben followed.

She's not going to talk. Fine. I’ll just track her and stay close.

He watched the dust shift beneath her steps.

Only her footprints. Good. The road’s so ancient, they never even paved it. Easier to trace—wait… what the—