In a blink, three days passed.
Life, as always, refused to wait for anyone—least of all for someone who had just crawled out of a ruin, awakened, negotiated with the mafia, and nearly rewritten the course of his own future.
West’s father came to pick him up from Aria’s place two days earlier, the moment the news finally reached him.
Mark Einstein looked like a man who hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
Deep lines ran beneath his eyes and his shoulders slumped from years of overwork rather than age. His shirt was creased, his tie loosened, and there was a perpetual tension in his posture as though he were constantly bracing for something to go wrong.
But the moment he saw West standing there, alive and breathing, something in him visibly loosened.
"West."
That was all he said at first.
Then he pulled his son into a tight hug, gripping the back of his jacket as if letting go might cause him to disappear again. Mark didn’t say much... he never did... but the way his hands trembled for just a second said more than any words could.
On the ride over, Mark barely spoke.
He drove through streets that no longer made sense, following detours and emergency routes as the city slowly tried to stitch itself back together.
When they reached where the neighborhood used to be, Mark pulled over without realizing it.
There was nothing there.
No apartment blocks.
No convenience store.
No familiar sidewalks.
Just flattened land and scorched markings, like the ghost of a city pressed into the earth.
Mark stared at it in silence.
His mind traveled back a bit in time to when he got West text and rushed over to the neighborhood.
When he met nothing here, he was deeply disturbed and the news link West attached to the message didn’t help things.
It made him more perplexed, wondering if his son truly made it even though the message had come from West himself. He could remember the feeling of dread... if he lost his son, all would be for naught.
---
"TIMOTHY ALEXANDER QUEEN SAVES NEIGHBORHOOD FROM RUIN DISASTER."
The headline was everywhere.
Video footage showed the aftermath... the empty stretch of land where buildings once stood, emergency responders, displaced civilians wrapped in blankets. Interviews played one after another.
Elderly men.
Women holding children.
Tired faces filled with relief.
Every single one of them said the same name.
"Timothy saved us."
"If not for the mafia heir, we wouldn’t be alive."
"He personally ensured we had shelter."
Then came the final segment.
Timothy Alexander Queen himself, barely eighteen, dressed immaculately with a confident posture. He spoke with practiced humility.
"The Mafia isn’t just a name of fear and dread... We have always existed to protect this city," he said. "It is our duty to ensure no citizen is left behind."
Behind him, officials nodded. Public sentiment shifted almost visibly through the screen.
The mafia family was being praised exactly as Timothy had intended.
Mark let out a shaky breath when he saw the news at the time. "Thank God..." he murmured. "Thank God that boy was there."
---
The relocation happened faster than anyone expected.
The surviving residents of the neighborhood had been moved into a district where the mafia owned most of the buildings. Clean apartments. Functional utilities. Security patrols.
Five years of free accommodation.
No paperwork headaches. No endless waiting lists.
To the public, it was generosity.
To West, it was the first installment of a debt being paid.
By the third day, West and his father were settling into a modest apartment on the third floor of one of the buildings. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was solid, clean and safe.
Mark moved through the space with visible relief, unpacking boxes, checking windows, testing lights.
"I still can’t believe how fast they handled this," he said while shaking his head. "That Timothy kid... unbelievable. Barely older than you, and already carrying that much responsibility."
West leaned against the wall with his arms folded as he watched his father work.
"Yeah," he said lightly. "He’s something."
Mark chuckled. "If he hadn’t stepped in... I don’t even want to think about it."
West only smiled without responding. His father had no idea who was truly responsible for saving all those people and he intended to keep it that way.
He was only bummed because he didn’t get to finish things with Aria.
After that night, Ross stayed for indoors in the apartment than he was supposed to. He was asking West which gang he intended to join now that he was awakened and warned him to stay away from the mafia.
Technically, he was trying to advice West on being an awakened and also trying to recruit him which of course didn’t work but West said he’d think about it.
When Ross later left, West and Aria barely had time to do anything before West father arrived.
Between relocation logistics, and settling into the new apartment with his father, time had slipped through his fingers.
Messages were exchanged but nothing more... there was no time to finish what they started just yet.
West thought maybe that was for the best... at least for now.
He had no experience in the real deal so technically he had more time to make more research and be fully prepared.
Mark finished arranging the living room and wiped his hands together. "We’re getting there."
As if on cue, a loud engine rumbled outside.
Mark peered out the window. "That must be the delivery."
A large truck had pulled up below with workers unloading furniture and boxes... all items Mark had ordered online in a rush once the relocation was confirmed.
Beds...
A dining table...
Appliances...
"Alright," Mark said while rolling up his sleeves. "Let’s get to work."
...
They got to work almost immediately.
The truck idled outside the building with its back doors flung open as stacks of boxes, furniture, and flat-packed appliances waited to be hauled upstairs.
The elevator was functional but slow... and after a brief exchange of looks, Mark decided it would be faster to take the stairs for the heavier items rather than wait endlessly for a lift that could barely handle the load.
So they went back and forth.
Again...
And again...
Stairwell doors creaked open and shut as father and son carried boxes up to the third floor. Sweat gradually darkened Mark’s shirt while West remained eerily unfazed.
Mark noticed it early on.
The first time West lifted a boxed washing machine by himself, Mark had paused halfway up the stairs, blinking.
"You sure you got that?" he questioned with a tone of skepticism, amidst heavy breaths.