Evan hit the entrance of his apartment block just as the sky finally broke.
One second, it was sprinkling; the next, the rain was pouring down in thick, vertical sheets. It wasn't just rain; it was a deluge, a wall of water so dense it blurred the streetlights into smears of orange and grey.
Made it, he thought, letting out a long breath under the concrete overhang. Barely.
The air temperature had plummeted. The heat of the day was gone, replaced by a damp chill that seeped instantly through his thin shirt.
A few unfamiliar faces dashed in behind him, shaking off water like wet dogs.
Evan tightened his grip on the grocery bag. He scanned them instantly.
Three men. Late twenties. Cheap leather jackets. They didn't look like residents.
Evan knew most of the tenants. This building didn't have a doorman or a name, but it was a closed loop. Everyone knew everyone else's business, usually against their will.
He kept one hand near his pocket, fingers brushing the hard edge of his access card.
Do not hold the door, he told himself. They're not neighbors.
The building management—which was just Mr. Greg—took one thing seriously: the front door. It was the only barrier between the residents and the rest of Edgewater.
The strangers huddled in the corner of the overhang, lighting cigarettes, clearly just using the shelter to wait out the squall. They ignored him.
Evan relaxed slightly.
He peeked into the plastic bag. Bread was dry. Cans were intact. He carefully lifted the lid of the carton. Twelve perfect ovals.
Lucky.
He swiped his card at the reader. Beep. The lock clicked—a heavy, mechanical sound.
He stepped inside the narrow hallway. The door swung shut behind him, muting the roar of the storm to a dull thrum.
The air inside was thick. It smelled of damp paint, cheap floor wax, and the lingering scent of someone cooking cabbage on the second floor.
It was the smell of home.
He grabbed the grocery bag tighter and headed for the stairs. The elevator had been "Out of Order" since he was in high school.
The building was quiet. The kind of quiet that meant everyone was smart enough to be inside, hiding from the sky as it tried to drown the city.
Evan climbed the first flight, his footsteps echoing on the concrete.
Halfway up, he stopped.
Someone was blocking the landing.
It was Mr. Greg.
Greg was a broad man, shaped like a barrel that had been left out in the rain. He had tired eyes that seemed permanently squinted, and thinning gray hair combed over a scalp that had seen better decades. He was wearing the same sad brown sweater he always wore. Evan had a theory that it had fused to his skin years ago.
Evan gave a polite nod, shifting to pass him. "Evening, Mr. Greg."
Greg stopped, blocking the path. He looked down at Evan, his eyes scanning the grocery bag, then Evan's face.
"You're Evan, right? Aaron's boy?"
"Yeah," Evan replied, trying for a faint smile. "That's me."
Greg crossed his arms. His forearms were thick, covered in faded tattoos of anchors and eagles—remnants of a life before he became the keeper of leaky pipes.
"Still in school?" Greg asked. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.
"University," Evan corrected gently. "My final year."
Greg snorted. The sound was dry, like sandpaper rubbing against stone.
"University," he muttered, shaking his head. "Waste of time if you ask me."
His voice was flat but sharp.
"Should be out working full-time," Greg continued, leaning against the railing. "Helping your parents. They're struggling, boy. And you? You're sitting in a classroom reading books about… what? Computers?"
Evan blinked, blindsided. The attack was sudden and personal.
"I… I'll have my degree soon," Evan said. "It's Computer Science. The starting salary is—"
Greg cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Doesn't matter. Degree or not, you'll end up with the same pay as the next guy. The city doesn't care about your paper, kid. It cares about what you can do with your hands."
He tapped his temple with a thick finger.
"Nothing. Skills pay better. Plumber. Electrician. Welder. That's real work. That pays the rent."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"You think you're going to climb out of here with a diploma? People like us… we don't climb. We work. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you stop being a burden on your old man."
The word hit Evan harder than the collision with the man in black.
Burden.
The word echoed in his skull.
He wanted to retort. He wanted to explain the economics of the tech industry. He wanted to scream that the degree was the only ladder out of this pit, that manual labor broke your body by forty, just like it had broken his dad's.
But nothing came out.
The logic died in his throat. Greg wouldn't understand. Evan was too exhausted to make that happened. He just swallowed everything to himself.
Greg gave him one last disapproving look—a look of pity mixed with disdain—and then lumbered past him.
His heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs.
Evan stood there on the landing. Alone.
The sound of the rain outside was now a frantic drumming against the frosted windowpane.
Burden.
Deep in his pocket, buried under the lint and the keys, the black card pulsed again.
It was a faint gold light. A quick, silent beat. Like a heart waking up.
Evan didn't notice it.
He was too busy gripping the railing, his knuckles white. He was wishing he'd thrown something back at Greg. Something smart. Something cutting. Something that proved he wasn't wasting his life.
But the worst part wasn't the insult.
The worst part was the little voice in his head calculating the probability that Greg was right.
His scholarship was suspended. His bank account was almost empty. If he didn't graduate… if he failed… then all those years were just lost income. Sunk costs.
For Evan, education was the nuclear option. The only way to break the cycle. He had clung to that belief like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.
Now, even the driftwood felt waterlogged.
"It's okay," he whispered to himself. He forced his hand to let go of the railing. "I have nothing to prove to anyone."
It was a desperate lie. But he needed it to keep moving.
He climbed the rest of the stairs slowly. The grocery bag felt heavier with every step.
Third floor. Unit 304.
He reached the door. The paint was peeling in the corner, revealing the green layer from ten years ago.
He slipped his key into the lock. It stuck—it always stuck—and he had to jiggle it up and to the left.
Click.
He pushed the door open.
The apartment was dim. It was lit only by the lonely yellow light of the kitchen hood fan. The dining table was empty, the placemats straightened with military precision—his mother's way of maintaining order in chaos.
He placed the grocery bag on the table.
Then he heard it.
Voices.
Low, sharp, and painfully familiar.
It was his parents. Arguing again.
The sound was coming from the living room.
Evan froze in the narrow hall, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn't move. He became a ghost in his own house. He couldn't make out every word, but the tone was enough. It was the tone of exhaustion. Of two people who loved each other but were being ground down by the friction of survival.
His eyes flicked to the closed door on his left.
Lily's room. His twelve-year-old sister.
She would be in there. He knew exactly what she was doing. Headphones on. Volume up. Curled under her blanket, staring at her phone, wishing she had a superpower to mute the reality on the other side of the drywall.
Evan sighed silently. He looked for Jacob, his younger brother. The sneakers were missing from the rack.
Figures.
Jacob was fourteen and already an expert at tactical retreat. When the tension built, Jacob vanished.
"Got stuff to do," he would say.
Evan couldn't blame him. He used to do the same thing. Just grab a ball and disappear with Jordan until he believed it was already calm at home. But Evan wasn't fourteen anymore. He couldn't leave.
He walked past the four tiny rooms. The hallway was so narrow that if he stretched his arms, he could touch both walls.
As he got closer to the living room, the voices got clearer.
Then, he heard his name.
Evan paused mid-step.
He really didn't want to deal with this. Not tonight. Not after the Dean, the fight, and Mr. Greg. He just wanted to rest.
But he couldn't stand in the hallway forever.
He took a quiet breath, fixed his face into an expression that looked like "everything is fine," and walked into the living room.