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Sage
The sound of my dad’s voice is urgent, with a strong undercurrent of visceral fear. “Sage, I need you to come here now.”
I throw my phone down on my bed, rushing across the hallway to his office. He spends most of his time there when he isn’t out playing poker with his friends. I barely ever see him, but I’m not bothered by it. We don’t get along that well after mom died, and he started acting strange a few weeks ago.
I was going to move out, but now I’m glad I didn’t. He could be hurt or in trouble, and I’m the only one who can help him.
“Sage, come right now,” he says as I rush to the door to his office. He opens it before I’m able to grab the knob, and I search his hunched figure for some sign of what he could be calling me in for.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my eyes moving over his disheveled appearance and the deep lines of worry etched into his face.
There’s no blood or sign of injury. That’s good, at least. I was worried he was hurt, but looking at his face suggests that physical harm would’ve been the better outcome. Something is horribly wrong, and he’s just looking at me, unable to respond.
“Dad, say something.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, just gestures for me to come in and close the door behind me. I do, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. His office is cluttered, papers strewn everywhere, and the smell of stale cigarettes hangs in the air.
He never used to smoke, but since mom died, he’s been smoking and drinking like he’s trying to join her as quickly as possible. The funny thing is, he never seemed to like her much before she died.
“Sage, I’ve made some terrible mistakes,” my dad finally says, his voice cracking. He collapses into his chair, burying his face in his hands. “It’s all coming down on us now, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?” I ask, stepping closer. “What mistakes?”
He looks up at me, eyes red and filled with despair. He must have been drinking, because he only looks like this when he comes home after a night out with his friends.
“Gambling debts. I thought I could win it back, thought I could make everything right again. But I’ve lost everything, Sage. Everything.”
“But… you run a business. You make plenty of money,” I say, laughing despite the gravity of what he’s telling me. It feels like a joke, but I know he wouldn’t look like this if it were.
He shakes his head, putting his face in his palms again. “I’m sorry, but that’s gone now, too.”
“What do you mean gone?” I ask, trying hard not to yell.
“Everything, gone,” he says, looking at me again and smiling like he’s lost his mind. “Poof, like a dream. Gone just like Maria.”
I clench my fists. “Don’t bring mom into your mess. She has nothing to do with it,” I growl, feeling a surge of white-hot anger. I hate it when he mentions her. He always acts like he’s miserable because of her, like she chose to die instead of sticking around to take care of him.
He waves his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone anyway. On top of that, I owe money.”
“How much do you owe?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“More than I can ever repay,” he says, his voice breaking. “And now, they’re coming for me. For us.”
The knot in my stomach tightens to the point where I feel like my entire body is about to cramp up. “Who’s coming for us?”
He doesn’t need to answer. A knock on the door echoes through the house, followed by the sound of it opening. Heavy footsteps reverberate on the hardwood floor, approaching with a measured, menacing pace.
My dad’s eyes widen with fear as he looks toward the office door. “It’s too late,” he whispers. “They’re already here.”
Before I can react, the office door swings open, and a tall, imposing figure steps inside. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders and muscular build. His dark hair is slicked back, revealing chiseled features anda strong jawline. Everything about him radiates power and danger, but it’s his eyes that really draw me in.
They’re cold, piercing, and calculating, yet possess an allure that’s impossible to ignore. When they meet mine, I feel like he’s looking straight into my soul, attempting to pull it out of my body and consume it.
As he takes another step, his presence fills the room, and I feel a strange, unsettling mix of fear and fascination. I’ve never seen anyone like him, but I know that he’s the type of person you regret ever meeting, like a bobcat in the woods at night.
“Good evening, Mr. Thompson,” the man says, his voice smooth and controlled, rumbling deep in his chest with a Russian accent. “I believe we have some business to discuss.”
