The day had started like any other, but for Max, there was nothing ordinary about it. He rose from bed early, though sleep had barely eased the weight of grief pressing down on him. The memory of his parents, their lives cruelly cut short, still burned in his chest. Every corner of the mansion reminded him of them—photographs on the walls, the scent of their rooms lingering faintly in the air, the faint echo of laughter that would never return.
Max trudged to the bathroom, the motions automatic, mechanical. He scrubbed himself, letting the warm water wash over him, hoping it could somehow rinse away the tension and sorrow that had accumulated over the past week. When he was done, he returned to his room, carrying his phone. This was a new tool, a connection to the outside world, a lifeline his friends had given him on his birthday. Now, in the silence of his grief, it was a small anchor to normalcy.
He dialed Elliot first, then Moses. Their voices, familiar and comforting, greeted him, though neither friend had much to say. They offered words of sympathy, words that Max barely needed because he had already lived the tragedy in every heartbeat. Their calls ended quickly, leaving Max with only the echo of their concern.
Before he could dwell too long on his feelings, the driver knocked on his door and stepped in cautiously. "Max," he said gently, "I know you have a lot going on in your mind, but I need to tell you about your parents' burial."
Max's heart skipped a beat, the word burial bringing a fresh wave of pain. "When is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The driver's expression was solemn. "Two weeks from now. It's scheduled for a Saturday."
Max nodded, accepting the news with a tight jaw. He knew the date would mark another painful milestone, but for now, he had to focus on smaller tasks, on keeping himself occupied. He spent the rest of Sunday immersed in technology. He bought some data and began downloading applications that might help him stay connected with the outside world. He installed chat apps, social media platforms, and tools that would allow him to gather information in the future if necessary. Each click and scroll distracted him slightly from the grief, though it did not erase it.
Later that day, the driver took Max to church. The solemn atmosphere, the soft hymns, and the prayers offered a temporary reprieve. Max felt some semblance of peace as he listened, though the loss of his parents remained a deep, gnawing ache in his chest. On the way back home, he saw his uncle waiting at the door. Uncle Zach, the only family member who could lift Max's spirits even in the shadow of tragedy, greeted him warmly. "Max," he said, placing a comforting hand on his nephew's shoulder, "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Max managed a weak smile, feeling a rare flicker of happiness. His uncle's presence was a reminder that not everything in the world was gone, that some bonds remained unbroken. Still, deep inside, the fire of revenge burned quietly, hidden beneath the calm mask Max wore for his uncle. He listened intently as Zach promised, with a hint of secrecy in his voice, "Something will happen tomorrow after you come back from school."
Max's curiosity immediately sparked, his voice anxious. "What will happen?"
Uncle Zach only smiled mysteriously. "Just wait and see," he said, his eyes gleaming with something Max could not yet understand.
After his uncle left, Max spent the rest of Sunday in anticipation. His mind raced, pondering what the promise could mean, what plans might be in motion. Sleep came reluctantly, his thoughts still entangled in shadows of grief and sparks of hope.
Monday arrived. Max woke early, bathed, dressed in his school uniform, and carried his breakfast to the car. The driver took him to school, and though he walked through the gates with a heavy heart, he felt a slight lift in his spirit. The day had begun, and life, in some form, continued.
Soon, he was summoned to the principal's office. Anxiety gripped him immediately. What have I done? he thought. Did I break a rule? Did someone complain? He entered cautiously, ready for reprimand. But instead of scolding, the principal's expression was gentle, almost apologetic.
"Max," the principal began, "I just wanted to… apologize for everything you've gone through. Your parents… it's a tragedy, and I want you to know that everyone at school is here for you."
Relief flooded through Max. He had expected anger, lectures, or suspicion, not sympathy. "It's okay, sir," he said, a hint of gratitude softening his tone.
As he turned to leave, he was stopped by the vice principal. "Max, please come," he called, his voice firm but not unkind.
Max stepped forward cautiously. "Sir, what is it?"
The vice principal's eyes were serious, filled with concern. "Is it true… that your parents died on your birthday?"
Max's throat tightened, the question striking a nerve he had been trying to numb. "Yes, sir," he replied.
"How did it happen?" the vice principal pressed, his voice low, almost hesitant.
Max swallowed, forcing himself to recount the events with a steady voice, though the memory made his chest ache. "During my birthday, my parents were tired, so they went to their room. Someone came… and shot them." His words trembled, but he continued, finishing the explanation with grim composure.
The vice principal nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting sorrow and disbelief. "I… I am so sorry, Max. Truly."
"Thank you, sir," Max replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the floor. He could feel the weight of their concern, the respect and sorrow of his teachers, but it could not fill the emptiness left behind by his parents' absence.
Leaving the office, Max returned to his routine. He walked through the school hallways with a new resolve forming in his chest. He was young, but he knew he had responsibilities now—responsibilities left by his father, trust handed down in the most tragic of circumstances. His mind began to turn over plans, ideas, and possibilities. Revenge was still far off, a dangerous and complicated goal, but justice, that he could start planning for.