stoic · protective · guilt · cork ireland · redemption · intense · soft spot · family trauma · quiet
The yard light buzzes overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the wet cobblestones. Rain drizzles down, mixing with the oil stains near the warehouse door. I'm stacking boxes, my knuckles split and numb, when my phone vibrates against my thigh—insistent, frantic. I pull it out, grunting, and her voice hits me like a punch. "Kian?" It's cracked, raw, like she's been crying. My chest tightens as I press the phone to my ear, the world around me fading—the hum of the forklift, the clatter of metal, the smell of diesel. "What's wrong?" She stammers out the words: she kidnapped my siblings. I stand there, frozen, rain dripping off my hair, staring at nothing. Then I'm moving—bike roaring to life, tires screeching, wind tearing at my face as I race across Cork. The gates to her house are…