The funeral was small.
There was only the silent rustle of wind in the trees of the cemetery, him, and a priest. No eulogy, no choir. The priest referred to her as "Mother to Justin" as though she had no life apart from him and hardly knew her name. She had lost contact with family and had few friends. Her years of juggling two jobs and living pay cheque to pay cheque had depleted her energy and alienated others.
And now, she was gone.
Justin remained motionless, his hands buried deep in his coat from the thrift store, his gaze focused on the inexpensive wooden coffin as it was lowered into the earth. On the top was a pale bouquet of lilies, their petals already wilting in the chilly air.
No tears were shed. The night she passed away, he had sobbed himself dry. A hollow aching was all that remained. A annoying miserable emptiness that grew larger by the hour.
He was left with nothing but questions and a name that sounded unreal.
Bahd Huggies.
Like a curse, he uttered it to himself each night. Trying to make it sound familiar, he said it aloud in the quiet of his flat. But it always sounded like a work of fiction, like the name of a man from someone else's story or a character in a film.
---
It was oppressively quiet back at his flat.
The room was filled with harsh shadows from the shaky light from the overhead bulb as Justin sat at the kitchen table. The linoleum was peeling in the corners, and the walls were yellowed from age. There was only one picture before him.
It was the one photograph he owned of his mother in her youth, most likely no older than he was now. In the arms of a guy whose face had been torn out long ago, she was laughing, her eyes bright and alive. As though someone could no longer bear to look at it, it was literally pulled out.
His father.
Where the man's face had been, Justin traced the jagged edge. The ripped paper was like a cut. Like a hole that had never been filled in his life.
"What kept you from telling me?" He muttered, not anticipating a response. "What made you hide him?"
He had previously questioned her. Many years ago. However, she consistently ignored and claimed it didn't matter, that a man like that wasn't necessary in his life.
She would never tell him the truth now. That name was all he had.
Bahd Huggies.
An owner of a club. A multibillionaire. A shadow character in the underworld of the city. Years ago, during a late-night phone call that his mother hadn't intended for him to hear, Justin had once heard the name. He didn't comprehend at the time. But he looked for him after she died.
He searched for vintage images, discovered articles that mentioned Huggies Clubhouse, security companies, and real estate holdings, and heard rumours about how Bahd Huggies established his business. He studied the pictures of the man's face. icy gaze. angular jaw. A sort of power emanating from each shot.
And there was no denying the resemblance.
The glass of the picture frame creaked as Justin gripped it tightly.
He felt a storm building inside of him, a desire to know more. To learn why such a man abandoned them to their misery. Why his mother had passed away alone in a small flat. Why she had been in hiding all her life.
He wasn't sure what he was hoping to discover—perhaps closure. or responses. Or a piece of himself that he was unaware was gone.
The man who allowed his mother to die alone was the person he most wanted to see.
---
Justin was standing across the street from Huggie's Clubhouse a week later.
From afar, the building roared with life. The glass facade caught the glow of passing cars as neon lights rimmed the edges in electric blue and hot pink. Bass vibrated through the pavement like a heartbeat as music thumped beneath the surface. Cigarette smoke, spilt vodka, and pricey cologne filled the air.
Two men in broad-shouldered black suits with earpieces tucked in, who appeared to be guarding the White House, stood on either side of the entrance. One's eyebrow was scarred across. The other's neck was coiled with tribal tattoos.
Justin had actually delivered ice cream here a few times. Never permitted to leave the lobby. The air was cold, clinical, and smelt of steel and leather, he recalled. He never thought his blood was shared by the man behind those walls.
He inhaled, stuffed his hands in his battered leather jacket pockets, and walked across the street.
However, he refused to enter as Justin. It's not the ice cream shop boy. Not the broke, future-less twenty-one-year-old without a family.
He had a plan.
And changing into a different person was the first step. Someone who poses a threat. Someone helpful.
A bodyguard.
He had been doing more than just grieving for the past week. He would go to the gym. He shaved his beard. received a phoney ID from a friend who owed him money. watched a lot of online videos about self-defence. He didn't have to be the best, but he knew it wasn't enough—not really. Only good enough to enter.
To get close.
Justin would give Bahd Huggies the opportunity to locate his son if he was trying to find him.
Or eliminate the man's myth completely.
---
Inside the club, it was a different world.
Like ice sculptures, glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The bottles behind the gold-trimmed bar were illuminated by LED lights. The walls were lined with more luxurious VIP booths, each with velvet curtains. And people everywhere, laughing, dancing, whispering.
Justin went directly to the security office. His face stayed composed despite his heart hammering hard against his ribs.
"J" is what he called himself. claimed to be seeking employment. possessed "some private security experience." He Googled a few names and dropped them, even feigned a small military stance he had seen in interviews on YouTube.
He was examined from head to toe by the broad, crooked-nosed man behind the desk.
The man remarked, "You're not what we usually hire."
Justin gave a shrug. "Perhaps that is a good thing."
He provided his contact details. left as if he belonged. waited for two days.
Then the phone rang.
---
Now, Justin was in.
Dressed in black. Put on your earpiece. Like the others, they stood at the door.
Bahd Huggies was new to him. Even in his own club, the man hardly ever left the house. However, he was present. So the whispers said. He observed everything from the top floor, according to the staff. that each of his rooms was equipped with cameras. that from thirty feet away, he could read you like a book.
Justin felt it. The eyes. Watching.
He studied the layout each day he worked. names that are committed to memory. discovered who was responsible for what. Observe which girls received royal treatment and which were discreetly paid to vanish. He waited and watched, wondering—
Would he be recognised by his father?
Would the present be acknowledged by the past?
Was he merely pursuing a ghost?