The small girl from the photos was in the house. Syril's guilt mixed with his resolution; he'd selfishly dragged this family into harm's way. He wouldn't let them be hurt any further. He needed a plan or at least some amalgamation of loosely connected ideas.

"What if I just give you the watch?" Syril tried to quench his doubt as he held the watch, offering it to the now wide-eyed goon.

"It's what you really want, right?"

The goon walked forward, then seemingly thinking better of it, he stopped and stared at Syril.

"Put it on the ground and back up." He said, tightening his grip on Ova for emphasis.

Syril obliged, keeping his eyes on the goon as he kneeled and placed the watch on the floor. He walked back a few more steps, walking around the couch, so he was now next to the kitchen. It was somewhere here; it had to be.

The vacuum hose's shining silver gleamed against the tv's light. Syril slowly walked towards it, feigning that he was backing away from the watch. Syril and the man did not break eye contact; they watched each other with unwavering caution.

When the goon was happy with Syril's distance from the watch, he pushed Ova away and reached for it, taking his eyes off Syril for a brief moment.

In that instant, as the goon's eyes finally peeled away, Syril grabbed the metallic hose, raising it above his head while sprinting at the goon. The man looked up in time to see silver flash across his vision moments before the pole connected with the side of his head.

He fell back, eyes rolling as he landed unconscious beside the couch. Syril was two for two on goons today.

He looked up at the trembling and frightened Ova, the guilt rising again with righteous vengeance. Through her quivering lips, she looked at him, her soft blue eyes misty with water.

"I'm so sorry, Ova… I Never imagined this would…." Syril was struggling to get the words out. How do you apologise to someone for nearly getting them killed?

"It's ok, Syril." Ova closed her eyes, wiping the fresh streaks of tears from her cheeks. She breathed deeply to calm herself, "I would have wanted someone to do the same for my Rosie if she ever needed help."

Syril unconsciously looked at the framed photos of Rosie and Ova lining the lounge walls. The juxtaposition between then and now fuelled fresh anguish in him. They wouldn't be able to return to this house for a long while.

"I think you should get your granddaughter and leave. Do you have somewhere you can go?"

"I'll go to my daughter's house; she's in the next town."

Syril silently nodded, afraid he would choke up if he spoke. To keep busy, he bent down to search the pockets of the unconscious goons. Syril grabbed their phones and wallets, handing Ova fifty dollars out of one of the wallets,

"I think they are mercenaries, so I doubt they have backup coming anytime soon. They'd want the glory for themselves. But I still think we should leave asap."

Ova stared at him, her trembling somewhat calming, "who even are you?"

"I'm kind of still figuring that out myself." He opened Greg's phone, thanking his luck that it had no passcode, "Go get Rosie; I'll wait here. I'll need you to drop me off somewhere if that's ok. It's on your way out of town."

Ova trotted up the stairs, and when Syril was sure she was gone, he dialled the direct number for the Anzora Guard Service. The line connected on the third ring.

"Anzora Guard Service, how may I direct your call?" Asked a very gravely sounding lady.

"Hi, I'd like to report a suspicious male, blonde hair, very handsome, looks very strong – looks like he's carrying a pocket watch."

A brief silence followed; Syril feared he'd laid it on too thick.

"Ok, sir, we have a warrant matching that description." She typed something before continuing, "That man is presently marked as a dangerous fugitive. Do not approach him; please return to a public space as quickly as possible and alert any guards you can see on patrol."

"Oh, believe me, I won't go near him. He's terrifying," Syril nearly snickered at himself.

"Where is the suspect now, sir?"

"Oh, he's near the Ruina Academy; it looks like he's hiding behind the sports shed."

"Thank you, sir. Can I please have your na-"

Syril quickly hung up and pocketed the phone. He looked at the bodies on the floor again; the pool of blood around Greg had stopped growing; he hoped that was a good sign. He grabbed a nearby throw rug and, not wanting to send Rosie to therapy for life, covered Greg and the other goon's bodies.

Before long, Ova started hobbling down the stairs, trailing behind a sleepy-looking girl, no older than seven. She carried a small red bag on her back and a pink blanket in her hand. Her blonde curls ruffled, and her eyes a puffy red.

"I told her that we're going on an adventure to see her Aunty," Ova said as she tugged Rosie down the stairs, "My car is out the front."

Syril stepped over the throw rug, obscuring a brief patch of blood-covered carpet that the rug had missed. He avoided looking Ova in the eye, the guilt had violently bubbled in his stomach, and he was unsure if it was more polite just to say nothing.

"Who's that?" Asked the sleepy Rosie.

"Oh, that's just a friend of mine, sweetie. We're just going to drop him off…." Ova trailed off, looking at Syril expectantly.

"Oh, at the library, please," Syril said quietly, the adrenalin from the night now slowly wearing off.

"He needs a shower." Rosie was now wide-eyed at Syril, "He also looks funny."

Syril checked himself over and guessed she was referring to his blood-stained clothes.

"Oh, I spilt sauce on myself during dinner." Syril was a terrible liar.

Rosie continued to stare at him, scrunching her face as if she were thinking hard.

"Are you stupid?" Rosie finally asked; Ova giggled, and Syril tried not to look hurt.

"Yes, I am Rosie." Syril said quietly, "I'm pretty stupid."

Ova opened the front door, silently gesturing for them to leave. Syril followed them, watching the darkened street carefully for any sign of more goons. They got into Ova's small white car parked on the side street; there were only two doors, so Syril had to climb in first – contorting his body to squeeze into the seats.

"It gets me from A to B," Ova said without provocation; she clearly had people complain before.

"Hey, it doesn't bother me; I'm just happy to sit down."

She buckled a now wide-awake Rosie into the front seat, and Syril sat anxiously in the back, ready for a swarm of guards to descend on them at any moment. But the eerie silence of the night continued, the street empty and lifeless, the goon's still running van the only noise.

Finally, Ova started the car, and they pulled out of the driveway. As they drove through the empty main street, the streetlights morphed into fluorescent blurs. Before long, they had pulled onto the main highway, merging with the heavy stream of traffic.

Syril finally felt a semblance of peace and safety; the car seat had become a comfortable reminder of what had been. Before this morning, before the watch had altered his world forever. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the fabric on his skin and the engine's purr.

"How old are you?"

He opened his eyes; Rosie was staring at him, questioning eyes burrowing into his own.

"I'm um… 16" Syril didn't know how to talk to children, "How old are you?"

She nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, "You're old. I'm six."

"Oh, that's… nice" Syril racked his brain for what to say next, "are you having a sleepover with your grandmother?"

Rosies' eyes lit up, "Yeah. Mum's away for work, so I have to stay with grandma."

"Her mum has been away for a long time Syril…." Ova said solemnly, staring at Syril through the rear-view mirror to convey an unspoken thought.

Oh.

"Well, your grandma is pretty cool…." What in the name of all the gods was he meant to say?

"Yeah, she's my best friend." Rosie said, nodding, "do you have any friends?"

"I have a brother. He was my best friend too" Syril felt a knot form in his chest and tried to push it away "we did everything together... we were inseparable. But he joined the scouts in Wigston, and I haven't seen him in a long time."

The monster that had killed Seabright was not his brother.

"What about parents?" Ova asked, again looking at Syril.

"I uh… live with my uncle. I never knew my parents."

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry." Ova sounded disheartened, "Where is your uncle now?"

"He's away for work." Syril lied.

They sat in silence for the rest of the trip. Syril stubbornly did not look back from the window; instead, he thought about his brother and uncle. He felt a burning rage and a longing that he could not push down. He longed for normality, to wake up tomorrow and walk into the kitchen for breakfast – join his brother teasing his uncle for burning pancakes, go for a walk in the park, walk to school. He wanted his family again.

He thought about the family he did not know, the ones who had abandoned him and Davion. A family that, until now, he had pushed down inside of him; tried to kill and forget. He wondered what they looked like, smelled like, and who they were as people.

What, they were.

Before long, he felt his eyes grow heavy again and drifted into a dreamless sleep.