Athena walked with no destination, her footsteps dragging like her body was moving without permission. The street was loud—sound pouring from cars, radios, people yelling from somewhere—but everything felt distant, like someone had dipped the world into fog.
Her tears kept falling anyway.
She wiped them away with the back of her wrist, like tears were an inconvenience instead of the consequence of everything collapsing.
Just yesterday, she had a family.
Today, she had ashes.
She pressed her nails into her palms, forcing herself to feel something solid.
She stopped when someone stepped in front of her.
Not forceful… just hesitant.
A boy, barely older than her, clothes too big, hair messy like he never met a comb, held something in his hand. His eyes carried that rare softness people only develop when they've known hardship too early.
He extended the chocolate bar toward her.
"You look—" he swallowed, "—like you need this more than I do."
Athena blinked at him. Her voice refused to form words, so she only nodded. She took it. Not because she wanted chocolate, but because her throat was too tight for anything else.
"You shouldn't be alone," he tried again, voice small.
She shook her head, whispering, "I'm fine."
It came out broken.
He didn't stop her, just nodded like he understood heartbreak was something you walk through alone.
She walked away.
Then everything froze.
Black cars slid into the street like shadows forming shape. Doors opened in sync. Men stepped out—dark suits, expressionless, silent authority. The crowd instinctively stepped back.
Athena knew even before he appeared.
Scott Williams.
Her grandfather.
His presence filled the street—not loud, not aggressive… just solid. Unquestioned.
"Athena."
Her name sounded too familiar on his tongue.
She stared at him, and that was where her hatred felt real—because she recognized him instantly. The jawline from old photos. The eyes everyone said she inherited.
Except the pictures never showed the cold.
She whispered, "You're late."
He didn't flinch. He studied her instead.
"What happened to your parents wasn't a result of your choices," he said calmly. "But what happens to you next will be."
Her throat burned.
Her chest tightened.
"You weren't there."
Her voice cracked.
"You didn't protect them."
Scott didn't react. That made it worse.
"My mistake," he replied, like he was acknowledging a business loss. "And I will not make it twice."
She laughed. A humorless, hysterical sound.
"You can't just show up now."
He stepped closer—close enough for her to see the lines beneath his eyes.
"I am offering you safety. Protection. Family."
"They're dead," she whispered.
"And that is exactly why you need us."
She shook her head, tears falling again—not silently this time.
"I don't want anything from you."
"You don't have a choice, Athena."
The words were cold. Final.
"That's how this family works."
Then he turned.
The door of the car shut, sealing his decision like a command.
The convoy disappeared down the road.
Athena remained there—small, trembling, grieving. She sat on the low cement fence, biting pieces of the chocolate only so she wouldn't scream into the air.
Hours blurred.
Until headlights returned.
A sleek black car rolled in, quieter, smaller. A man stepped out—young, dark suit, expression soft but structured with discipline.
"Miss Athena?" His tone was gentle but careful.
She didn't answer.
He continued, "My name is Elijah. I'm assigned to bring you home."
"I don't have a home anymore," she whispered.
He blinked—pain flickering in his gaze.
"You will," he replied softly.
She looked away. "Why me? Why now?"
Elijah shifted slightly, lowering his voice.
"The Williams don't lose blood. Not if they can still claim it."
She swallowed hard.
"I don't want their protection."
"Eliminating danger doesn't require your consent," he answered. "Only your presence."
Her knees wobbled.
Her strength was thinning.
Elijah stepped back, giving space—not pushing her, not demanding.
"Please," he said quietly. "Come with me. Or things will get worse than they already are."
It wasn't a threat.
It was truth.
Athena stood—not because she accepted anything, not because she forgave anyone—but because survival demanded movement.
Elijah opened the door.
She entered the car with a single bag, half-eaten chocolate, and fragments of a life that no longer existed.
The door closed with a soft thud.
A sound that felt final.
As the city lights streaked across the tinted glass, Athena whispered into the dark seat beside her,
"I never chose any of this."
Elijah—voice barely above a breath—replied:
"Most people born into power never do."
She leaned her head against the window, and the truth settled like a wound that never stops bleeding—
The choice was never hers.
And that was the tragedy no one would ever apologize for.