Quicksand of Fate

The car pulled away from the curb, entering the morning traffic. Sandro watched the city pass by through the tinted windows, his thoughts drifting in the chaos.

His eyes observed the city pulsing with its usual rhythm—the streets crowded with commuters arriving early for work, the towering skyscrapers glinting in the morning sun.

But Sandro didn't notice. His mind was elsewhere, specifically on his younger brother, whom he hadn't seen for a month. To be honest, he hadn't dared revisit Lorenzo since his first visit when he returned to the Center a month ago.

The coldness with which Lorenzo had greeted him—his apology, which had been accepted but with a dead tone, as if it meant nothing—had made Sandro hesitate.

Lorenzo had always been different, even as a child. Quiet and withdrawn, it was as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

Sandro, who was fourteen years older than Lorenzo, had tried to bridge the gap between them. As the family's only son, his upbringing had shaped him to seek connection, and he was eager to have younger brothers when he graduated from the academy at twenty-two. But Lorenzo's walls were impenetrable. Even after ten years, Sandro still found it difficult to connect with him.

The car stopped in front of the luxurious apartment building where Lorenzo had been living for seven months. Its elegant design spoke of the wealth and privilege that allowed one to live here.

The driver got out and opened the door for Sandro.

"Wait here," Sandro said as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Yes, sir," the driver replied.

Sandro adjusted his coat and approached the entrance, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor as he entered the lobby. The gatekeeper greeted him with a respectful nod and quickly stepped aside to let him pass.

From the reception hall, he headed straight for the elevator.

The elevator chimed quietly, and the doors opened to reveal Lorenzo's floor. Sandro walked out with the disciplined steps of someone who had spent his life in military discipline since childhood as he approached the familiar door.

He pressed the doorbell once, twice, and then thrice, but no one answered. He knocked gently on the door.

There was no answer, but Sandro wasn't surprised. He knocked again, harder this time.

Silence.

He tried the handle and wasn't surprised to find it locked. Stepping back, he crossed his arms and waited.

From what he knew, Lorenzo had that old man as a butler, so it was best to wait quietly for either a response or someone to arrive.

If this had been the home of another younger family member, he wouldn't have minded entering, but Lorenzo was an exception—he didn't want to make things worse between them.

The faint echo of footsteps broke the silence in the corridor. Sandro turned, his arms still crossed over his broad chest, as Lorenzo's butler, Emilio, walked with quick yet organized steps and a steady figure. Despite his age, his stance remained as straight and sharp as a blade.

"Young Master Sandro," Emilio greeted, nodding lightly. "I wasn't informed of your visit."

Sandro nodded, though his expression was filled with annoyance. "I was just passing by, so don't worry. Why aren't you with him?"

"I haven't been allowed to stay with the young master since his psychiatrist visit two days ago."

"Not allowed?"

"The young master threw me out," Emilio explained, his tone neutral. "He insisted that I leave the apartment entirely. I respected his wishes, though I kept an eye on him. It's not the first time he's done this."

"And you didn't think to tell anyone?"

"I informed the master, and he ordered me to follow the young master's instructions for now."

Sandro nodded in understanding and pointed to the door.

Emilio, realizing his mistake, immediately apologized.

"Yes, I'll open the door right away, young master." Emilio stopped before the door and reached for the card in his pocket.

He opened the door, then stepped aside to let Sandro in. Sandro entered the apartment and glanced at the luxurious but soulless living space.

The hall stretched before him, silent and still like the rest of the apartment. The stark white walls and simple furniture exuded an eerie aura of gloom. Sandro's boots echoed as he stepped forward, with Emilio following behind.

They abruptly stopped as they entered the living room and saw the strange scene before them.

Lorenzo was sitting on the floor in front of the glass wall, his hand resting on his cheek. He stared expressionlessly ahead as his dark hair fell messily across his face, contrasting with his dull white and grey clothes.

"Lorenzo," Sandro called, his voice breaking the silence with a cautious, strange tone. Lorenzo nodded slightly, his expression unchanged.

"He's dead," Lorenzo said in a dull tone, gesturing vaguely at the ground in front of him.