But not as she should’ve been—not awake, not smiling. Her face was pale, her lips parted slightly as though she had something left to say.

The machines beside her whirred on.

His mind did not.

"Mom," was all Livio said.

At some point, a man entered the room. A doctor, judging by the white coat clinging to his wide shoulders.

He was tall, slouched, giving him the hunched-over silhouette of someone who had spent too long bent over computers and charts. His body was round, despite his tall stature, his posture stiff, yet oddly composed.

A thick, bristling mustache covered his upper lip, twitching slightly as he breathed. His glasses reflected the ceiling lights in a solid sheen—white and unreadable—completely hiding his eyes. Livio couldn’t tell if he was looking at him, the floor, or somewhere far away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was slow and deliberate, dragged down by a strange, unplaceable accent.

“We did everything we could have,” he said softly.

No.

“I'm afraid.... we have some, deeply saddening news. Your mother was found unconscious in a motel room, a few cities away,” he continued. “She was... brought in by emergency services… but by the time she arrived, her vitals were already failing.”

His voice was gruff.

“There were no external injuries. Toxicology suggested cyanide or a similar compound. Quick. Lethal. We believe it was self-administered.”

The words barely registered.

He paused, the edge of his coat shifting as he folded his hands behind his back.

“She… left a note. In it, she expressed a decision. One she made alone.”

“In other words…”

It was... impossible.

“Your mother committed suicide.”

At that moment...

Livio couldn't cry.  

Livio couldn't scream.  

Livio couldn't collapse.

All Livio could do... was stand there.

Something left him.

The world dimmed. The whir of machines faded.

And in that hollow space where grief should’ve gone—there was only quiet.

A silence so deep, it echoed.

Something inside Livio shattered.

And so, he became empty.

"[LOCATION: KOYUKUK CEMETERY, ALASKA]"

"[LOCAL TIME: 12:45]"

"[STATUS: 366 DAYS UNTIL THE CALAMITY]"

‎ 

It wasn’t raining at her funeral, in fact there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. The sun was shining even—it’d be quite a nice day if Livio weren’t at his own mother's funeral.

The cemetery wasn’t like the ones in books or movies. There were no white stones in neat rows, no trimmed lawns, no iron gates. This place had been forgotten. Chain-link fences slumped like old men, half-swallowed by golden shrubs and rust-colored undergrowth. Nature had reclaimed it, or was in the process of doing so—slow and patient, curling up through broken steel and loose earth.

A dozen or so crooked headstones leaned between overgrown trees. Moss clung to the names, some erased entirely by time. The forest loomed close, thick with birch and pine.

His mother’s grave was new. Out of place. A fresh wound in a place already scarred.

But nobody came. 

There was only a priest, a coffin, and Mr.Yaga, who stood behind him, eyes shadowed.

The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the sharp scent of dry leaves and smoke. Not even the birds dared to sing.

Livio had asked Mr. Yaga a million questions—where was she? Why would she do this? Did he know about it? Alas, the answer was always the same, cold and cutthroat:

“I don’t know.”

The words landed heavier than any explanation could.

In the background, Livio could hear the priest’s monotonous voice drone on as he gave words that must have been standard procedure for him. He wasn’t sure why they were even there anyway, if there were only two people in the entire sermon.

He wasn't really listening. They were nothing but pointless, empty words.

Mr. Yaga stepped up beside Livio. His boots crunched over brittle undergrowth. For the funeral, he wore an all-black trench coat over a turtleneck, and black camo pants.

He hadn’t shaved, or bothered to comb his hair back like he used to. The wrinkles on his face seemed more pronounced than ever.

Clearly trying not to look at the grave, he sighed and shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

The priest lingered behind them both, keeping his distance, watching.

Yaga opened his mouth, then paused. “You need something?”

“When’s payment?” the priest said, his voice deadpan as ever.

A hush fell over the cemetery as the wind carried a few leaves past.

Is that all this supposed servant of God cared about? Money. The sermon had barely ended, and he didn’t even leave you two a moment of privacy. This was the darkness of the real world.

Yaga clicked his tongue. “You lot are all the same.”

He dug into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a leather wallet. Flicking it open, he drew out a couple hundred dollars in bills and tossed them toward the priest. The priest didn’t react.

As the priest bent to pick up the money, Yaga leaned forward and grabbed the back of his robe by the collar. He whispered in his ear:

“Keep the change. Then beat it, filthy bigot.”

The priest grumbled, snatched the bills, and scurried away.

“Bigot?” Livio muttered under your breath.

Dusting off his hands, Yaga sighed and closed his eyes in exasperation.

““I won’t be taking care of you, brat.”

No preamble. No warmth. Just like always.

Figures. Mr. Yaga never once tried to act like a father. He was more like a bodyguard than butler. A shadow trailing behind his mother, grumbling and watching from the dark.

Apart from cleaning the house, his main role was drilling Livio in combat. His own personal trainer from hell.

“You’ll be under the care of your uncle in New York. Guy’s already signed all the legal shit. Only thing left is getting you there.”

Livio blinks.

“Uncle?”

His mother... had a brother?

No. That can’t be right.

“Uncle?”

She had never mentioned family, apart from Livio’s Grandfather. Not once. Family holidays and visitors didn't exist. It had always been the three of them. Livio, her, and Mr. Yaga.

He’d watched enough shows and movies with big, loud families to know what one should look like. But he’d never even thought to ask. Never even wondered.

Why would he? She was enough.

“Shouldn’t he be here?” he mutters, heat rising in your chest. “What kind of brother doesn’t show up to his sister’s funeral?”

Yaga shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Don’t ask me. I know the guy about as well as you do. Maybe he’s just not a fan of... traveling.”

Traveling. Right.

But that word—family—kept echoing in his skull.

And with it... another question. 

"You look you got something on your mind, brat. Again. Go ahead, I'll answer one of your questions. And only one, or else we'll be here all day."

“What about my da—”, Livio began.

“That bastard doesn’t give a damn about you,” Yaga snapped, cutting him off.

He spat on the ground, the glob landing beside a knot of weeds.

“Real stand-up guy. Hippie freak who ran off the second you were born. Don’t go looking for him. Trust me—you don’t want to know.”

Livio frowned, but didn’t argue. Not because he didn’t have a rebuttal, he always does—but because... Yaga was right.

He watched Livio for a moment. His rough expression softened just a bit. Enough to notice.

“He didn’t come today either,” Yaga muttered. “So yeah... he’s not much better than your uncle. Seventeen years, kid. Seventeen, and not a word. If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know... I don’t know what will.”

He dug into his coat and pulled out a thin, folded envelope.

"Anyway," Yaga mutters. "Your mom left a will."

Livio blinked.

“A will?”

“Yeah, I figured you’re smart enough to know what that is. If you’re not, I’m not gonna explain it.”

Typical.

Livio gently opens the envelope... 

_____________________________________

I, Evelyn Warbringer, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this document to be my final will and testament.

To my child, Livio Felluga, I leave the following:

Monetary Assets – All balances held in my personal and joint accounts, both domestic and international, totaling approximately $531 million USD, are to be transferred in full to their name upon verification of identity and legal eligibility.

Properties – I bequeath the following:

My primary residence in Koyukuk, Alaska

A secondary safehouse property in Los Angeles, California

Personal Effects – Among these is a small, titanium, gray lockbox, approximately 10x6 inches, cold-to-the-touch, with no visible opening mechanism. It is currently held in the custody of Yaga Killkoff. Under no circumstances is it to be opened by anyone except Livio Legrand, and only when deemed necessary by their own judgment.

I appoint Mr. Yaga Killkoff as temporary executor of this will until all assets are successfully transferred.

Signed this day,

Evelyn Warbringer

Date: 12/28/99

_____________________________________

“Wait... how much?” Livio asks, eyes wide. Just how much money could she have had? It looked like something out of a drama.

Yaga grumbles and kicks a rock across the grass. It clinks off a half-sunken headstone.

“You’re rich now, boy. Your mom left a whole damn fortune. Not just cash—stuff too. Real assets. She wasn’t just sightseeing on those trips, you know.”

He looks off toward the tree line, his voice a little quieter.

“It’s all yours now.”

Livio stares at the paper, but it barely feels real. Four hundred million? Properties? What the hell is he supposed to do with any of this? 

“Not until you’re eighteen, anyway,” Yaga added with a scoff, grounding him back into reality.

Ah, right.

Still, what does he want to do with this money?

Livio’s a multi-millionaire now. Or he will be. 

What does he even do with that kind of money? He doesn't really have much use for it right now, or even an idea of what he’ll do with it later on, but...

It could probably help people. With money, anything is possible, after all. And his good heart will surely find a purpose. It's what she probably would have wanted, too.

“By the way,” Yaga says, pulling something from the deep pocket of his coat. With a casual flick of the wrist, he tosses it to Livio. It flies through the air. 

Livio fumbles slightly, but manages to catch it, almost dropping it when it lands in his hands.

It's a lot heavier than he expected.

A small, titanium box sits in his palm. It’s cold. Heavier than it looks. Reinforced rods line its sides, and a strange groove—not quite a keyhole—rests at the top. There's no latch. No hinges.

He shook it.

Nothing happens.

““That's the one mentioned in the will,” Yaga says, watching him with tired eyes. “Don’t lose it, brat.”

“Is it... supposed to open?” Livio asks, turning it in his hand. Maybe it’s a time capsule or a message. Maybe it's just a paperweight, Livio`s mother always liked messing with him.

Yaga shrugs.

“Probably.”

Without another word, he turns and walks back down the path—southward, toward the sagging fence gate.

Livio follows, still holding the box.

The sun hangs lower now, stretching the shadows of the crooked headstones. The wind shifts again, bringing with it the faint smell of diesel.

As they both near the exit, Livio spots it—a black taxi parked just beyond the gate under a bare tree. The driver leans against the hood, smoking.

Yaga stops just short of the gate. Livio stopped too.

He reaches into his coat one last time and hands him a chunky, black flip phone.

He blinked. “Wait… is this—”

“A couple hundred out of your inheritance. Hope you don’t mind,” he says with a grunt. “You’re gonna need it to reach your uncle. His number’s already in there.”

He flips it open, presses the green call button, and scrolls through the tiny screen. Only one contact appears:

[Ace Granger]

As if on cue, Yaga pulls a worn, folded photograph from his wallet and holds it out.

“That’s him. Try not to wander into some stranger’s van.”

Livio pockets the phone and opens the photograph.

The first thing he notice is his hair—an enormous, black afro that dominates the top half of the picture. Below that, bronze skin, golden eyes, and brows so thick they look drawn in with charcoal. Long lashes, a chiseled jaw, and a neck thick enough to crack bricks. He looks like he belongs on a magazine cover. Or maybe a boxing ring. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between a yawn and a sigh.

“This guy is my uncle?” Livio says aloud, baffled. There's almost no resemblance to his mother. None, except perhaps in the sharpness of his features. The er... colour-colours of his... eyes are pretty much the complete opposite of his mother's.

Livio lowered the photograph.

Yaga hasn’t moved. His posture is firm, almost rigid.

He glanced at the gate, then back at him.

A simple question lingered in Livio’s mind. He always had a lot of those.

“Will I... ever see you again?”

Yaga doesn’t answer immediately. His expression darkens just a little, as though the question cuts too close to something he's buried.

“No,” he finally says. His voice is flat. Final.

After a pause, he huffs a breath through his nose and speaks again—low and distant.

“Wasn’t supposed to get attached. That wasn’t the job.”

He reaches up, adjusts his coat collar, gaze fixed somewhere past the tree line.

“Your mom made me promise I'd protect you. That’s all it was meant to be. Orders. A duty.”

Another pause. He thinks that’s it—but then he mutters, almost to himself:

“Damn woman always knew how to make people care, even when they didn’t want to.”

Livio isn't sure if he’s angry or mourning. Maybe both.

Finally, Yaga shifts his eyes toward him. Just for a second.

“You won’t see me again, brat. That’s how it has to be.”

He starts to turn, but then stops—one last breath caught between his teeth.

“…But if things ever go to hell, all you gotta do...

"...is look over your shoulder.”

Yaga doesn’t explain.

Doesn’t wait for a response.

Just walks away, shoes crunching over gravel.

Livio watches his silhouette fade between the gate, each step getting further and further.

A soft click breaks his trance—the trunk of the taxi opening.

The driver, still chewing on his cigarette, lifts a plain black suitcase from the ground and tosses it in with a thud. It takes Livio a second to register: it’s his. Yaga must’ve packed it ahead of time.

Of course he did.

The driver shuts the trunk, then opens the rear door for him without a word.

Livio slid in.

The door shuts behind him with a dull thunk. A moment later, the tires shift against the gravel, and the car begins to roll forward.

Away from the cemetery.

Away from the past.

Away from everything you’ve ever known.

His mother is dead.

He’s being sent across the country to live with a man he`s never met.

And all he has to show for it is a cold, metal box.

Great grip it tightly, like that’ll somehow make any of this make sense.

His mind—usually sharp, overflowing with questions—is quiet.

Except for one thought:

Why me?

 The memory fades...