POV Floris
After Sia’s warning and a day that felt like mental assault disguised as spreadsheet analysis, I finally collapsed in my room.
My head was spinning with everything she’d said—about Eric’s patterns, about falling in love, about the cost of dignity versus survival.
The phone rang in my pocket just as I was contemplating whether it was possible to have a nervous breakdown in a room that was probably being monitored 24/7.
“Jake?” I answered on the first ring.
“Hey, sis.” His voice sounded stronger than it had in months. “Just wanted to check in.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good. Really good, actually. The new treatment is working. My white blood cell count is up, I’m keeping food down, and I actually walked to the cafeteria today without wanting to pass out.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly started crying. “That’s amazing, Jake.”
“I know, right? Dr. Peterson says if this keeps up, I might be able to go home in a few weeks.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in forever.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. You know how I am at home. Remember when I tried to make spaghetti and somehow set the smoke alarm off three times?”
I laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in days. “That was because you kept forgetting you were cooking and wandering off to play video games.”
“Hey, I was fourteen and had ADD. That spaghetti was a lost cause from the start.”
“You were such a disaster in the kitchen. Remember the great pancake incident of 2018?”
“Oh God, don’t remind me. I still don’t understand how you can burn pancakes on one side and have them be raw on the other.”
“It’s a special talent. Like how you used to hide my homework when we were kids because you thought it was funny to watch me panic.”
“I was helping you build character! And resilience! And…” He paused. “Okay, I was just being a little shit.”
“The biggest little shit. Remember when you convinced me that if I ate watermelon seeds, I’d grow a watermelon in my stomach?”
“And you believed me! For like, three months! You refused to eat any fruit with seeds.”
“I was eight! And you were a very convincing sociopath.”
“I prefer ‘creatively mischievous.’”
“You literally told me the tooth fairy was a debt collector and that’s why she took teeth instead of just leaving money.”
“That was a valid economic theory!”
“I didn’t lose a tooth for six months because I was terrified of supernatural loan sharks!”
We were both laughing now, and it felt like the first normal conversation I’d had since stepping foot in this corporate nightmare.
“God, we were such weird kids,” Jake said.
“Weird but happy.”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad always said we were like two halves of the same chaotic brain.”
The mention of our parents hit like it always did—unexpected and sharp. “They would’ve been so proud of you, you know. Fighting this hard, staying positive.”
“They would’ve been proud of you too. Taking care of me, making sure I get the treatment I need.” His voice went soft. “I know this job isn’t what you wanted, Floris. I know you’re sacrificing a lot for me.”
“You’re my brother. It’s not a sacrifice.”
“It is, and we both know it. But… thank you. For everything.”
After we hung up, I sat there feeling something I hadn’t felt in weeks: genuine happiness. Hope, even. Jake was getting better. The treatment was working. Maybe there was light at the end of this tunnel after all.
My room phone rang—the internal line.
“Rooftop. Now.” Eric’s voice, then dial tone.
The rooftop was exactly what I’d expected from Eric Brighton’s idea of relaxation—sleek furniture, ambient lighting, and a view of Amsterdam that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
He was already there when I arrived, two glasses of wine waiting on a low table.
“Sit,” he said, not looking up from his phone.
“‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ are still words, you know.”
He looked at me then, and something in his expression was different. Softer, maybe. “Please sit, Floris.”
I sat, accepting the wine because after today, I needed alcohol more than I needed dignity.
“You looked happy,” he said. “On the phone with your brother.”
Of course he’d been watching. “He’s doing better.”
“Good. The treatment’s working?”
“Yeah. He might even get to go home.”
Eric nodded, swirling his wine. “Tell me about him. Your family.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
I studied his face, looking for the trap. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Your childhood. Your parents. How you ended up taking care of him instead of the other way around.”
“Don’t you already know all this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have a file on me thicker than a phone book.”
He chuckled—actually chuckled, like I’d said something genuinely amusing. “Well, yes. But it’s better to hear it from you.”
“Right. Because surveillance reports don’t capture the emotional nuance of family trauma.”
“Something like that.”
I took another sip of wine, feeling the alcohol loosen the knot of tension in my chest. “We grew up middle class. Suburbs outside Boston, two-car garage, family dinners every night. Mom was a teacher, Dad was an accountant. Normal people living normal lives.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
“It was. Until they died in a car accident my junior year of college.”
Eric went very still. “I’m sorry.”
“Drunk driver. T-boned them on their way home from date night.” I stared out at the city lights. “Jake was still in high school. I came home, finished my degree locally, made sure he graduated and got into college.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for someone barely out of their teens.”
“It didn’t feel like a responsibility. It felt like… I don’t know. What you do for people you love.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the wine and the altitude making everything feel surreal.
When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, almost wistful.
“At least you had a childhood.”
“Eric—”
“Don’t.” He stood abruptly, but I caught the flash of something broken in his eyes before he turned away.