The office door clicked shut behind them, the soft thrum of the ventilation system filling the suddenly oppressive silence. The warmth of the room was a shock after the cold outside, but Connie barely registered it. Her hands clutched the photograph in her coat pocket like a lifeline.
"Have a seat," Director Ramirez said, her voice calm but firm, motioning toward the high-backed chair across from her polished oak desk. "And explain yourself. Nicely. From the beginning."
Connie hesitated, then lowered herself into the chair, knees tight together, fingers gripping the edges as though the chair itself could steady her. She drew a slow breath.
"My name… is Constance Lee," she began, voice soft but trembling. "I—uh—I just found out that Aiden… he's my brother. Same father, different mothers. I—I didn't know until recently. I—I came to find him."
She looked down, hoping the tremor in her voice could mask the fever in her pulse. Her heart hammered in a rhythm that made her stomach curl. "I didn't know where else to look. The photo… it's the only thing I have."
Director Ramirez's sharp eyes scanned her, the way she shifted, the small tremor in her shoulders, the subtle tightening around her jaw. Her lips pressed together for a moment, then exhaled in a small puff.
"Do you really expect me to believe that?" the director asked evenly, leaning back. "You think a little story like that would convince me?"
Connie swallowed. She had rehearsed this lie, rehearsed this story, but the truth was… layered. Dangerous. Too honest in its omissions.
Director Ramirez's gaze didn't waver. "I can see the lie on you," she said quietly. "I've been doing this job for decades. I've seen children and young adults spun into fantasies, told themselves stories, played parts like this. I've never been tricked by a little girl like you. Not once."
Connie's chest constricted. She felt the weight of her obsession, the aching hunger for Shade, press against her ribs like iron bands. Her fingers shook imperceptibly.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay," she whispered. "Then… fine. I'm not his stepsister. Not really. I—" her voice caught "—I'm a friend. He… he went missing months ago. The only clue I have is the photo. That's all I know."
She placed the photograph on the desk, sliding it toward Director Ramirez with a hand that trembled despite her attempt at composure. The edges were worn, the ink faint, the corners curling under years of handling and obsession.
The director picked up the photo with deliberate calm, examining it. Her eyes narrowed at the two boys, one small, thin, face sharp and pale, hands curled as if holding onto something fragile. The other… tall, broader, shoulders squared, eyes that burned even in the faded photograph.
She exhaled slowly, a quiet recognition flickering across her features. "Aiden…" she murmured, almost to herself. Then her gaze lifted to Connie. "And… Sticks Jackson."
Connie's pulse spiked at the recognition, though she didn't speak. Every nerve in her body burned with the ache of wanting, the hunger for the boy in the photograph, the same boy who had become Shade.
The director set the photo down carefully, her fingers lingering on the edges. "I remember him," she said softly.
"A boy… small, fragile, but with a fire you couldn't contain. I remember one day he had bloodied hands, standing over another kid. Rage in his eyes… It looked like nothing could stop him. Nothing. And yet…" She paused, a shadow crossing her face. "…he could be sweet. Helpful. He smiled sometimes. Before they took him out of the boys' home."
Connie's chest tightened, a shiver rolling through her. She couldn't move her eyes from the director's. Every word dredged memories she herself had buried, the slow, careful, intimate moments with Shade, the hunger in his eyes, the dangerous tenderness that had consumed her.
Director Ramirez's gaze softened slightly as she studied Connie.
"You look worried enough," she said. "Enough that I can tell someone searching for him might not have good intentions. But…" she hesitated, weighing her words,
"I'll give you a little. Just a little about Aiden. Enough to keep you from wandering into something dangerous, not enough to put him at risk."
Connie's fingers twitched in her lap. Her breathing quickened. She could barely contain the tremor in her hands, the feverish pulse of desire and obsession that had been coiled under her skin since the photo, since the envelope, since she had walked through the snow toward this place.
"Yes, please," she whispered, leaning forward just slightly. "Anything."
Director Ramirez exhaled and reclined back.
"Aiden… he never knew his father. His mother… She died when he was very young. He's survived by learning to trust no one, and to fight anyone who tried to control him. You can imagine what that does to a young boy. And yet…" Her eyes flicked again to the photo. "…there was something about him. He protected those smaller than him. Even when he burned.
Even when he was hurt. And he never forgot anyone who showed him care. Not completely."
Connie's lips parted slightly, and she swallowed hard. Every word felt like a spark to dry tinder. She imagined the fire in his chest, slow, hungry, emotional, and her own hands itching to cling, to possess, to hold, to feed that heat, just as she had that night in the sheets.
She nodded, the tremor in her throat betraying her attempt at composure.
"I understand," she said softly. "Thank you."
Director Ramirez picked up the photograph again, her fingers hovering above Aiden's small form.
"He's not… in any official records anymore. Lost files, destroyed by the transition. I don't know where he is now. But… if someone is looking for him, be careful. People who want him, they're not good. They don't care who gets hurt along the way."
Connie's pulse throbbed, hunger and longing coiling tight inside her. She nodded again, almost imperceptibly, sliding the photograph back toward her coat.
"I… I'll be careful," she murmured, though she knew in her core that being careful had nothing to do with her obsession, her need, her want.
Director Ramirez studied her for a long, careful moment. Then she inclined her head slightly, letting the weight of her approval, or lack of condemnation, settle.
"You have someone you care about," she said quietly, almost more to herself. "Don't let that ruin you. Or him."
Connie's chest ached, heat coiling low and consuming. She nodded, too fevered, too hungry, and as the door clicked softly behind her in the silent office, she realized she would follow this thread anywhere. Through snow, concrete, lies, or obsession.
Shade. Aiden. Her everything.
And no one, Dee, the world, or even fate itself, would stop her from finding him.
Connie stepped out of the office, the photograph burning a hole in her coat pocket. Her pulse throbbed—not from the warmth of the office, nor the polite caution of Director Ramirez, but from the fevered pull of the next thread. The next lead.
A name had come to her, whispered beneath the ruins of memory: Sticks Jackson.
She had only known him from glimpses in old records and a dozen social media mentions over the years. He had grown into a public figure, an activist advocating for Black empowerment, a teacher in the city's underfunded schools, a presence larger than life. But the boy in the photograph, small, tense, almost fragile in stance, was the same size as Aiden.
It twisted her stomach, that contrast. Then again, the past rarely fits neatly into the present.
Her mind traced the lines of his history, a jagged map of survival. Sticks Jackson had been the son of a preacher, killed violently in a street dispute before the boy could comprehend the finality. His mother had abandoned him shortly after, fleeing with what little she could carry, leaving him in an empty home that smelled of mildew and stale bread. He had lived off the system that failed him at every turn—foster care, group homes, charity programs that promised much and delivered little. Each failure had hardened him, carved him into someone the streets could not ignore.
Now he was a figure of influence, a beacon for young people who might otherwise fall into the traps that had nearly consumed him. But to Connie, the edges of his story made him more than a figure. They made him a target. The city's underbelly whispered that even a saint could be hunted, and she knew that only too well.
Aiden and Sticks had always been opposites, two boys cut from the same struggle but shaped in diametrically different molds. Aiden, small, sharp, quiet, his fire coiled, hidden, dangerous only in intimacy or betrayal. Sticks, loud, commanding, unafraid of visibility, his rage tempered into guidance, a kind of discipline others could see and follow. One survived in shadows; the other thrived in light.
Connie's fingers tightened around the photo as she walked down the sidewalk outside the center. Rain had started, cold and biting, each droplet stinging exposed skin. Puddles formed in uneven patches along the cracked concrete, reflecting the harsh overhead lights like fractured mirrors. The wind whipped around her, tugging at her coat, her hair plastering against her face, and yet she felt nothing but heat—an internal fever stoked by obsession, longing, and hunger.
She imagined the two boys in the photograph, their small bodies, tense and wary. Aiden, lips tight, eyes glowing with that slow, simmering hunger that made her shiver even now. Sticks, taller, broader, already standing as if to guard the world. She could almost feel the friction between them, the pull and push of two different energies orbiting the same universe.
Her mind raced, reconstructing their paths. Aiden had vanished without a trace, leaving only ghostly memory and obsession. Sticks had survived, thrived, and transformed that survival into something almost untouchable. Yet, she knew the past left marks that no amount of social influence could erase. Every fist, every wound, every memory of abandonment, the boy Sticks had been, the boy in the photo, could still exist somewhere beneath the polished surface of the man he had become.
And if she could reach him, follow him, trace the faint imprint of his existence, perhaps she could find Aiden. Perhaps she could find the boy she craved, the one who had haunted her nights, the one whose memory left her restless, feverish, and trembling.
The wind caught her hair again, sending strands across her lips. She licked them almost unconsciously, a subtle, reflexive gesture of the desire she had bottled tight inside herself. Every breath felt like a promise she could barely contain. Every step toward the building where Sticks might be lurking, teaching, guiding, protecting, was a step closer to Aiden.
She paused at the corner, glancing at the photo once more. Sticks' small hands in that old photograph, bloodied, tense, ready, mirrored Aiden's in a way that made her ache. Two boys, both lost to time and circumstance, one trapped in shadows, one wielding light as armor. And somewhere, somewhere beyond the concrete and glass, she would trace the lines, follow the threads, and find her boy.
For now, she only needed Sticks. The activist, the teacher, the man who had survived everything the system had thrown at him. Through him, through his memory, she might reach Aiden. Might.
Her lips curved slightly, a small, fevered smile, and she stepped forward, letting the rain wash over her, her coat plastering to her skin, the city around her blurred into neon, shadow, and obsession.
She would follow Sticks Jackson wherever he led. And through him, she would find Shade.