BETRAYED ONCE: FROM NOTHING TO BILLIONIARE POWER

Chapter 3: Rock Bottom

The rain stopped sometime before dawn, but Ryan didn't notice. He lay curled beneath the bridge, concrete above him, wet cardboard beneath him, his body shaking in waves that came and went like tides.

His hospital gown had dried stiff with mud. His feet were cut in a dozen places, though he couldn't feel them anymore.

Then eyes were open when boots stopped inches from his face.

Thwack!

The pain exploded across his ribs before his brain registered what happened. Ryan's body curled tighter, instinctively, and a second blow caught his shoulder.

"Up. Now."

Ryan's eyes found the source. A police officer stood over him, baton in hand, face twisted with disgust. Behind him, a second officer watched, coffee in hand, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth.

"I said up, you filthy piece of shit!”

Ryan moved, not because he wanted to buy, but because his body understood what his mind was too slow to process: comply or get hit again.

He rolled onto his hands and knees. The world swam, and his arms gave out once, twice, before he managed to push himself upright, leaning against the concrete wall for support.

The officer looked him up and down, then shifted his gaze to the mud-crusted gown and the bare, bleeding feet. The hollow eyes.

"This is private property. You can't sleep here. It's against city law."

Ryan's lips moved, but nothing came out, and he tried again. “I...I didn't know."

"Didn't know." The officer snorted. "They never know."

Behind him, the second officer took a long sip of his coffee. "Look at this guy. I think the rain yesterday was the first bath he's had in months?"

The first officer laughed; he was short and ugly.

"Probably the only bath. I can smell him from here."

Ryan stood still. His hands hung at his sides. His face showed nothing.

"You hear me?" The officer stepped closer, baton tapping against his palm. "Move now before I decide to take you in and let you rot in a cell for a few days."

Ryan's legs obeyed. He stumbled past them, out from under the bridge, into the gray morning light.

"Disgusting," the second officer muttered as he passed. "All these beggars. Why don't they just get a job?"

Their laughter followed him down the street.

Ryan walked.

He didn't know where. His feet carried him forward. The city woke around him, and stores opened. People hurried past with their heads down, briefcases in hand, not seeing him. Or seeing him and choosing not to.

‘Where do I go?’ the word finally came in.

The question arrived like a stranger, demanding an answer he didn't have.

He has no home, no money, no clothes. No name anymore. The Zoula had made sure of that. The Ryan Wright who built things, who invented things, died in a hospital bed with a needle in his neck.

This man was just a body. A body that had clawed out of a grave. 

His father's face flashed, blurry. He'd been six when he walked out on them. The memory was more of a feeling than an image: the weight of his hand on his head and the smell of motor oil, with a voice saying, "Be good for your mother," before walking out the door forever.

Then his mother's face slipped in, clearer. The hospital room and the machines beeping. Her hand is so thin under pale skin. Her voice, barely a whisper: “I'm proud of you, baby, so proud."

And where was he? Working for Zhou Industries. A deadline for Zoula, who had said, "This is important for the family, Ryan. Your mother would understand."

‘She'd died alone.’

The thought hit Ryan like a blow, and he stopped walking when the street blurred. He blinked, and something wet ran down his cheek. It wasn't raining; the sky was clear.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand and kept walking. 

The sun climbed higher, but Ryan felt none of its warmth. Now he was passing pawn shops with barred windows and bodegas that smelled of old coffee and cheap cigarettes. A few pedestrians stepped around him like he was garbage blown onto the sidewalk.

Maybe he was.

A grocery store appeared on his left, with rows of food displayed behind spotless glass. The smell of fresh bread drifted out through the automatic doors, and Ryan's stomach cramped violently.

He stopped.

Stared through the window at people buying things. Normal people living normal lives in a world where bodies didn't get buried alive and wives didn't watch you die.

Ryan's mouth watered. He hadn't eaten in how long? He tried to count.

He could go in.

He could find something and steal something. A loaf of bread or a piece of fruit. He was fast enough and desperate. Security might not have even noticed until he was gone.

His hand reached for the door.

'Stopped. What am I doing?!’

He looked at his reflection in the glass. A stranger stared back. Hollow eyes, his hair matted with mud and, God knew, what else. The hospital gown hung on him like a shroud.

If he went in like this, they'd call security before he reached the first aisle. They'd throw him out. Maybe call the cops. The same cops who'd hit him under the bridge.

Ryan's hand dropped. He turned away from the store and kept walking.

Twenty minutes passed. Ryan's legs were shaking now, but not from cold but from real hunger, the kind that made your vision blur and your thoughts scatter. He'd read about starvation once, in a book somewhere. The body consumes itself. Muscle first, then organs, then a shadow fell across him.

"You look like you could use a meal."

Ryan spun; his body reacted before his brain could. With his fist raised and shoulders tensed, ready to fight or run. The man behind him stumbled back a step, hands raised, and eyes widened.

"Easy, easy! I'm not going to hurt you."

Ryan didn't believe those words. He stared at the man who was maybe in his early fifties, maybe older. It was hard to tell with his neat hair and expensive grey suit, like he'd been born in it. 

The man's eyes that held something Ryan couldn't name.

"Pity? Recognition? Or both?'

"Who the hell are you?" Ryan's voice came out sharp.

"My name is Harrison Cole." The man replied, not moving closer. He kept his hands where Ryan could see them. "I've been looking for you."

Ryan's laugh was short and bitter. "Yeah? Join the club. Cops found me yesterday. They hit me with a baton and told me to move along. So unless you're here to do the same—"

"I'm here because of your father."

The words hit Ryan like a physical blow.

Ryan's mind went blank. Then filled with noise. His father? The man who walked out when he was six? The man whose face was nothing but a blur and the smell of motor oil?

"I don't have a father," Ryan muttered with a wrinkled face.

Harrison's expression didn't change. "I know you have no reason to trust me. I know you probably hate him. But please let me buy you a meal; that's all I'm asking."

Ryan shook his head. "I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity." Harrison's voice was quiet. "It's an apology. From him, for everything."

Ryan's jaw tightened. "He walked out on me and my mom when I was six years old. Left us with nothing. No money, no explanation, no goodbye. Just gone,” he scoffed, almost tasting the distaste in his tone.

“My mom worked double shifts for years to keep us afloat. She died alone in a hospital bed while I was working for people who—" He stopped, forcing down a lump.

Harrison waited.

Ryan's eyes burned as he blinked. "And now you show up, talking about a meal, talking about him, like eighteen years of nothing can be fixed with a plate of food?"

Harrison said nothing for a long moment. Just stood there, hands still raised, face unreadable.

Then Ryan's stomach growled. The kind of sound that echoed off the buildings around them. Harrison didn't smile or comment but waited.

Ryan looked away. At the ground. At his bleeding feet. At the hospital gown that marked him as nothing, less than nothing, a corpse that forgot to stay dead.

"Fine," he muttered. "One meal. Then you leave me alone."

Harrison nodded once. "There's a diner two blocks from here. They have decent food and a private booth. Please follow me."

He turned and walked, and after a moment, Ryan followed.