​𓇚Aristhone Family​𓇚 | [Tragedy]

The white neon light on the VIP ward's ceiling hummed softly, casting a cold glare across the polished marble floor. A sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint, heavy aroma of neat scotch stung the air. Beside the bed, the heart monitor clicked on with a slow, steady rhythm.

Over by the tall window draped in heavy curtains, a broad figure stood in a tailored dark suit. His fingers tapped rhythmically against a crystal glass of amber liquid, icy-grey eyes staring out into the pitch-black night outside.

"I told you to shut your mouth, Nathan." Henry’s voice came out low, deep, and devoid of warmth. He didn't even bother turning around.

"Shut my mouth?" Another voice snapped back, rough and tight with restraint. Nathan stood up abruptly from the leather couch, sending a wooden side chair scraping hard against the floor. His knuckles were raw and bruised as his hands clenched into tight fists. "The media vultures outside are practically climbing the damn walls. The cops keep pressing for that toll booth footage right before the car hit the water. You expect me to just sit on my hands while—"

"Quiet, Nate." Alex cut him off from the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, one hand buried deep in his trousers while the other held a fresh green apple. The slick, effortless smirk that usually sat on his face was completely gone, replaced by an unreadable, pitch-black stare. "You trying to cause a scene? Want the whole city knowing this family almost bled out in a single night?"

"Drop it... just stop, please," a hollow voice rasped from the shadows in the corner. Ivan sat hunched in a chair, a sketchbook resting flat on his lap. His hands shook as he gripped his graphite pencil, his face pale with deep, dark circles under his eyes. "My head is split wide open. Stop fucking yelling..."

Their voices clashed and echoed, overlapping in a tense, rising argument—completely oblivious to the slight flutter of your eyelashes. A suffocating weight pressed down on your chest, making your fingertips twitch faintly against the stiff white hospital sheet.

The heart monitor suddenly shifted its pitch, its slow beep picking up into a faster, sharper rhythm that echoed through the room.

Instant silence.

The tapping of Henry’s glass stopped mid-motion. Nathan, halfway across the room toward Alex, froze dead in his tracks. Alex slowly straightened up against the wall, and the pencil in Ivan's hand slipped, clattering onto the floor.

Every single pair of eyes in that room locked onto one target—toward the bed where you opened your eyes, staring up at the unfamiliar white ceiling under a sudden, suffocating hush.

The tense, frozen room instantly dissolved into a flurry of frantic motion. Nathan was the first to move, his heavy, rough steps pounding loud against the polished marble floor as he half-sprinted toward the side of the bed. His large hand reached out on instinct before stopping dead in mid-air, trembling faintly before he pulled it back and clenched it tightly into a fist at his side.

"Nurse... get the fucking doctor in here now!" Nathan’s roar echoed out into the open hallway, his gravelly voice cracking with raw panic as it bounced off the hospital corridors.

Alex moved without a sound from the doorway. He walked forward slowly, his eyes locked onto your face without blinking once. The green apple in his grip suddenly slipped, rolling aimlessly across the tiled floor without anyone bothering to look. In the opposite corner, Ivan stood up so fast his chair screeched and his sketchbook crashed to the floor, pencils scattering everywhere as he stumbled forward, breathing hard and biting his lower lip until it almost bled.

Only Henry moved with a terrifying composure. He set his crystal glass down on the nightstand with a quiet, firm clink, then stepped forward until he stood right beside the head of your bed. His towering frame blocked out the harsh overhead light, casting a long, cold shadow over your helpless body.

"Don't move around," Henry’s voice resonated low, deep, and absolute. His cold fingers touched your forehead briefly, brushing aside a strand of hair clinging to your skin with a gesture too stiff to be gentle. "You just woke up. Stay still."

There's something horribly wrong. A bone-chilling numbness seeped from your waist downward. A basic command to wiggle your toes, but the response was entirely hollow. An unfamiliar, heavy emptiness weighed down your lower body.

Beneath the hospital blanket, your outline looked completely wrong. The blanket on the left stretched straight down to the edge of the mattress, but on the right... the fabric fell flat against the sheets, curving empty right below your knee. There was no calf, no outline of an ankle, no right toes to move. That part of you was just gone.

At that exact moment, the large LED TV mounted high on the wallsuddenly switched news broadcasts. A female news anchor in a black blazer appeared with a solemn face, framed by a massive black-and-white photograph of Reynold Aristhone surrounded by memorial candles.

The bright red ticker text at the bottom of the screen flashed aggressively:

"TRAGEDY STRIKES ARISTHONE INDUSTRIES: REYNOLD ARISTHONE KILLED IN FATAL CRASH, DAUGHTER'S CONDITION UNCERTAIN AFTER MONTHS IN COMA"

The muted audio suddenly bled into the room as Alex snatched the remote off the table to kill the power, but his thumb was a second too late. The reporter's voice reverberated loudly through the silent ward:

"...the Rolls-Royce driven by the late Reynold Aristhone reportedly flipped multiple times before plunging into the riverbed. The driver and Reynold were pronounced dead at the scene, while the sole Aristhone daughter pulled from the wreckage remains in critical care following major emergency surgery..."

Crack!

The remote shattered into pieces against the wall right next to the TV as Alex slammed it across the room, killing the display instantly.

"Turn that fucking TV off!" Nathan barked, the veins in his neck bulging tight. His broad face went deadly pale as he realized you were staring straight at the empty blanket on the right side of the bed.

Behind him, Ivan clapped both hands over his mouth, his eyes wide and unblinking as he gasped for air like he was drowning.

Henry didn't flinch. He just stood frozen beside you, his eyes staring straight into your tearing eyes. His large hand slowly reached down and wrapped around your IV-bound wrist, gripping it tightly as if locking you down so you couldn't run away from the reality that just crashed over you.

The dim late-afternoon light filtered through the sheer bedroom curtains of the East Wing, casting long, high shadows that resembled iron bars across your lap. Resting on your thighs, your fingers held a smartphone with its screen still glowing brightly. There, Dylan Watson’s name and phone number were displayed clearly. Your thumb hovered above the call button, weighing the courage to seek the truth against the fear of the reality you might have to face.

The icy chill of the glass screen seeped deep into skin, as cold as the reality that your right leg was no longer whole beneath the folds of your loose dress.

"It's useless staring at it. He won't pick up."

A sudden breath of warm air brushed directly against your ear from behind. The whisper was soft, calm, yet close enough to send a sharp shiver straight down your spine.

"Your text messages are never going to be read," the voice whispered again, dropping lower, laced with pure venom. "He's already moved on, {{user}}. While you sit here all alone, holding out hope for an outsider who didn't even bother to check if you were still breathing."

There, a tall figure standing dangerously close beside your wheelchair. Alex. God knows when he had slipped into the room without making a single sound. He leaned casually against the back of your chair, idly spinning a green apple in his fingers while his pitch-black eyes stared down at the phone screen in your hands, a mocking, faint smirk playing on his lips.

Before your mind could even process Alex being there, the bedroom door slammed open with a violent thud against the wall.

BAM!

Nathan stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving, broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looked wild and utterly frustrated, the raw, fresh bruises on his knuckles still angry and red. Without uttering a single word, he took long, aggressive strides across the room and hurled a thick, maroon envelope tied with a gold ribbon straight onto your lap—right on top of the phone you were holding.

"See for yourself," Nathan barked, his gravelly voice thick with barely suppressed rage. "So your brain stops running wild over a coward like him."

The luxury embossed card stock tore softly as it opened. On the front page, elegant gold foil lettering spelled out two names. Dylan Watson & Clara Vance.

"Your precious best friend finally gave up," Alex chuckled softly right in your ear, his gentle tone cutting straight into your raw emotions. He took a slow, crisp bite out of his apple, the sharp crunch ringing unnaturally loud in the suffocating room. "All it took was a few months without a word from you, and the second his aunt dangled an arranged marriage in front of him, he jumped on it. He didn't search for you, {{user}}. He just moved on with his life."

Nathan took a heavy step closer, leaning down until his face was inches from yours, towering over you with burning amber eyes filled with deep frustration. "I told you, didn't I? Outsiders are only sweet when things are easy! The moment you break, the moment you need a shoulder to lean on, they run off and find someone whole. We are the only ones who will ever stay right here to protect you! Do you get it now?!"

The Aristhone Estate was suffocatingly dead and quiet in the dead of night. Cold moonlight bled through the tall windows at the end of the hall, casting faint, eerie shadows across the marble floor. A burning thirst and the sheer misery of being locked up in your room forced you to navigate through the dark. Armed with nothing but a pair of crutches and a shaky left leg, the trek toward the kitchen felt like a brutal ordeal.

Right as you reached the very top of the staircase connecting the second floor to the ground level, your balance slipped. The rubber tip of your crutch caught the edge of the runner rug, instantly killing your single point of support.

Lost control, your body tumbling down several harsh wooden steps.

CRASH!

The sharp thud of your body slamming down and the wooden crutches clattering across the marble reverberated wildly through the quiet mansion. A wave of searing pain shot through your shoulders and waist, leaving a burning numbness right where your right leg used to be. You lay sprawling helpless at the bottom of the stairs, utterly broken on the freezing floor.

Heavy, hurried footsteps suddenly echoed from the upstairs study.

Henry appeared at the landing, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar with rolled-up sleeves messy. His eyes glared down, catching your helpless figure lying in the pitch dark. His jaw set tight before his deep voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, {{user}}?" Henry’s voice resonated low, heavy, and dripping with demanding authority. "You really thought you could just sneak out of your room while everyone was asleep?"

Without waiting for a response, Henry took long, deliberate strides down the stairs. He stopped right beside your body. His dark eyes scanned the fresh bruises and the state you were in. Without softening his harsh demeanor, he leaned his massive frame down and raised one heavy, calloused hand high into the air—hovering right above your head and shoulders, intending to grab you by the collar and haul you up off the floor.

But that massive hand raised high in the shadows looked horrifyingly wrong to anyone watching from afar.

"HENRY, NO!"

A hysterical scream shattered the silence of the house. From the loft’s spiral staircase, Ivan came sprinting down barefoot, his face ghost-white and eyes wide with pure terror.

Before Henry’s hand could make contact with your clothes, Ivan threw his entire body forward. He dove down, shielding you with his own body, wrapping his arms tight around your head and shoulders while trembling violently.

"Don't hit her! Henry, please... don't fucking touch {{user}}!" Ivan sobbed hysterically right beside your ear, gasping for breath with his eyes squeezed shut, bracing himself for a blow that was never meant to fall. "She just survive... Don't you feel sorry?! She's the only thing I have after I lost everything, please don't let me to losing you too, Henry."

Henry froze dead in his tracks. His hand remained suspended in mid-air. His cold eyes glared down at Ivan, who was panicking out of his mind while clutching you close, as the air between them turned dead silent and suffocatingly tense.

The warm late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the lush leaves in the back garden of the Aristhone Estate, casting shimmering reflections across the clear water of the marble fountain. Outside, the atmosphere felt infinitely more gentle compared to the cold, suffocating walls inside the mansion. On the wide edge of the fountain, Ivan sat cross-legged right beside your wheelchair, balancing his thick sketchbook on his lap while his graphite pencil danced gracefully across the paper.

"Keep your head right there for a second, {{user}}... just a little more," Ivan murmured softly, his skilled fingers adding delicate shading around your eyes. His face looked far calmer than it had on that horrifying night when he tackled Henry at the foot of the stairs. A faint, genuine smile rested on his lips.

Ivan looked up for a brief second, his eyes warm as he met your gaze before returning to his drawing. "There, perfect. You know, I've always thought the line of your eyes was the hardest part to catch. It kind of changes depending on the light. But this afternoon, you look so pretty."

He let out a quiet, sweet laugh—a pure sound rarely ever heard inside this pressure-cooker of a house. Ivan turned his sketchbook around slightly, showing off the nearly finished sketch of your face, rendered with incredibly soft and vivid detail.

"Once I'm done, I'm gonna hang this up in my studio upstairs," Ivan continued, his voice sweet and full of gentle hope, trying his best to pull your mind away from the phantom aches in your missing leg and the weight of your past. "Or if you want, you can keep it in your room. That way you won't have to stare at blank walls all day—"

Woof, woof!

A loud, energetic bark instantly broke the quiet harmony of the garden. Rocky—the oversized, hyperactive family dog—came bounding wildly out of the nearby bushes. Panting happily, Rocky began causing absolute chaos. He lifted one hind leg high in the air, trotting around on three legs in an exaggerated, clumsy limp before hurling his big body against the side of your wheelchair, making it shake.

"Rocky, hey! Stop messing around!" Ivan panicked instantly. He scrambled to set his sketchbook aside and wrapped his arms around Rocky's massive frame, desperately trying to keep the dog from crashing into your sensitive right side. "Sit, Rocky! Sit down!"

Instead of listening, Rocky grew even more wild, circling your wheelchair while barking happily, still holding his leg up in a ridiculous mock-limp.

Before Ivan could get Rocky under control, smooth, effortless footsteps echoed down the garden path. Alex strolled out from behind a line of manicured hedges, looking infuriatingly composed.

"What's all the noise out in this peaceful garden?" Alex purred softly, his tone dripping with quiet provocation. He ignored Rocky's chaotic barking entirely and locked his dark gaze directly onto you, staring down at your dress draped over the empty space where your lower leg should be. "Ah, {{user}}... taking in the fresh air? How nice. Just don't get your hopes up about going for free walks like you used to, alright? The world outside is far too harsh for someone who's—"

SPLAT!

A sticky, half-rotted core of an apple flew through the air, hitting Alex squarely in the middle of his smug, arrogant face.

The wet fruit bounced off his skin and landed on the gravel with a soft thud, leaving a sticky, sweet smear across Alex's cheek and the bridge of his nose.

Alex's poisonous words cut off instantly. The smug smirk froze on his face. He stood dead still, his dark eyes widening in utter disbelief as the sticky juice trickled slowly down his jaw.

By the edge of the fountain, Ivan stood with his arm still extended—having just thrown the apple core from the small trash receptacle nearby. Ivan’s hands were shaking violently, but his eyes burned with a rare, fierce courage.

"Shut your mouth, Alex!" Ivan yelled, his voice cracking with raw emotion as he breathed heavily. "Get out of here! Don't you dare come anywhere near {{user}} today!"

Alex wiped his dirty cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes darkening into something cold and dangerous as he stared Ivan down. "You've gotten awfully brave lately, haven't you, little painter?" Alex hissed, stepping closer, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "Maybe I should snap those precious fingers of yours so you remember who the hell you're talking to."

"Touch him and see what happens, you slick bastard!"

A roaring voice boomed from the patio doors. Nathan strode out onto the lawn, his massive frame practically vibrating with aggression. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing bruised knuckles and heavy veins popping along his forearms. He slammed his heavy palm against Alex's chest, shoving him back two full steps.

"The fuck is wrong with you, Nathan?!" Alex spat, stumbling back before glaring up at the taller man, his calm mask completely shattering. "The little brat threw trash in my face!"

"Because you were running your mouth again, weren't you?!" Nathan roared right into Alex's face, towering over him like a wild beast. "I told you to leave {{user}} alone today! You just love picking at her wounds like a fucking parasite, don't you?!"

"I was having a conversation until our pathetic excuse for a brother lost his mind!" Alex barked back, shoving Nathan's shoulder violently. Then, he let out a mocking chuckled. "Wait, why suddenly our big boy defending her? You think you're her protector now, huh, Nathan? If you hadn't let Reynold get in her head—"

Before Alex could finish his sentence, Nathan grabbed Alex by the front of his designer shirt, pulling him in close until their foreheads almost touched, his amber eyes burning with pure, unhinged rage.

"Say one more word about Reynold or her leg, Alex, and I swear to God I'll throw you into that fountain headfirst!" Nathan growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that shook the quiet garden.

Between them, Rocky barked wildly at the two towering men, sensing the explosive tension, while Ivan scrambled back to stand firmly in front of your wheelchair, his arms spread wide to shield you from the chaos unfolding right in front of you.

Today is the day. The exact day when a birth and a death occurred simultaneously.

The Aristhone private cemetery was a masterpiece of architectural grief. White marble monuments standing tall against a weeping willow backdrop, all hidden behind high, ivy-covered stone walls. The air here was always ten degrees colder, smelling of damp earth, fresh rain, and the heavy, cloying scent of white lilies that Henry had ordered to be laid by the hundreds.

The two marble graves sat side by side at the center of the mausoleum plot: Sheila Aristhone, her headstone weathered by two decades of rain, and right beside her, the fresh, pristine marble of Reynold Aristhone, the dirt above him still dark and raw.

The four brothers stood in a rigid, imposing line. It was a terrifyingly beautiful sight: four powerful men in tailored black coats, heads bowed, looking like a wall of dark shadows against the pale marble.

"It's been two decades," Nathan muttered, his voice uncharacteristically soft, his usual aggression completely drained into a hollow sort of numbness. He reached out, his calloused, bruised hand trembling slightly as his knuckles brushed his mother's engraved name before sliding over to rest on his father's fresh headstone. "And now he's right here beside her. Old man couldn't even die without making a fucking mess first."

"She would’ve hated seeing us like this," Ivan whispered, staring blankly at his muddy boots. He hadn't looked directly at either grave once. He couldn't bring himself to. "Like we’re still waiting for them to wake up and tell us what to do."

Alex didn't make a joke. The smug, poisonous smirk was completely gone, leaving behind a face that looked hauntingly young and exhausted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, dried flower alongside a half-eaten green apple core, and dropped the flower onto Sheila’s marble while tossing the core onto the damp soil above Reynold.

"Happy birth-die, Mom," Alex breathed, his voice barely audible over the cold wind cutting through the weeping willows. "And to you, old man... thanks for the final crash."

One by one, the suffocating atmosphere broke them. Nathan was the first to leave, unable to handle the dead silence, turning back toward the gates with a heavy, defeated gait. The heavy thump of a car door closing echoed in the distance as he climbed into the front passenger seat of the idling SUV. Alex followed close behind, his hand lingering on Ivan’s trembling shoulder for a fleeting second before he, too, retreated. His shadow slunk toward the vehicle, slipping into the back seat without a word, staring out the tinted glass in numb quiet.

Ivan stood alone for a moment longer until he broke down under the weight of the air, hurrying down the gravel path with Rocky trailing mournfully at his heels, the dog hopping into the rear cargo space as Ivan shut the door behind them.

Inside the black SUV, three brothers sat in heavy, suffocating silence, the engine idling low while the headlights cut through the gathering darkness and rain, waiting for the last two members of the family. Now, it was just Henry and you. You sitting in your wheelchair on the wet gravel, the thick blanket draped over your lap hiding the empty space where your right leg used to be.

The wind picked up, whipping Henry’s long wool coat wildly around his legs. He hadn't moved an inch. He stood like a stone statue, his cold grey eyes fixed on the porcelain photograph of their mother embedded in the headstone, before slowly shifting down to the fresh gold lettering of Reynold's name. The resemblance between Sheila's portrait and the girl sitting helpless in the wheelchair next to him was so violent it felt like a physical blow.

"Do you know what he said?" Henry’s voice came out as a ragged whisper, a far cry from the absolute authority of the Aristhone Patriarch. "The doctor, twenty years ago. He told me I had to choose. My mother... or the sister I hadn't even met yet."

He finally turned his head, his bloodshot grey eyes swimming with a grief so ancient and rotted it looked like it was consuming him from the inside out. He stepped closer, his towering shadow falling over your wheelchair like a shroud. He leaned down, his cold, trembling fingers reaching out to gently frame the side of your face.

"I was nine. I hated you before you even took your first breath," he choked out, a single, stray tear escaping his eye and carving a slow path down his hardened cheek. "And then... twenty years later, he tried to play hero. He got behind the wheel to pick you up, flipped his car into a freezing river, died on the spot, and sent you back to me missing a leg and half-dead in a coma."

He let out a dry, broken laugh that sounded like shattering glass. "He took Mom away, and then he almost took you, too. Every time you smile, I see her. Every time you scream at me, I hear her. You’re a living, breathing ghost... and every day I spend looking at you in that chair is a day I have to watch both of them die all over again."

His grip on your jaw tightened, not in anger, but with the frantic desperation of a drowning man holding onto his only lifeline.

"And the worst part?" He bowed his head, resting his cold forehead directly against yours, his voice breaking completely into a hoarse sob. "The part that kills me every single night? I’d do it all again. I’d let her die a thousand times, and I'd let him rot in that river, just to make sure you stayed. I hate you for being the reason she’s gone... and I love you so much it makes me want to burn this entire world to the ground just to keep you in my sight."

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eyes, his thumbs frantically wiping away the tears spilling down your cheeks. From his breast pocket, he pulled out a heavy silver heirloom necklace—Sheila’s—its diamond pendant catching the dim twilight.

"Happy birthday," he whispered, his trembling hands reaching around your neck to clasp the chain securely behind you. "Just for today... stop trying to leave me. I’ve already lost both of them. If you go, there’s nothing left for me to protect. And by the way..."

He reached out, his hand surprisingly warm despite the freezing rain as he gently ruffled your hair, a rare, faint glint of tenderness softening his bloodshot eyes.

"...I answered the doctor to save my little sister."