The Outcast: Michael Grey's Rise to the Top

Chapter Two: The Outcast of the Grey Family

By the time Michael reached the street where his house was located, the sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon. The city had quieted into the low hum of nighttime life. His arms ached slightly from the weight of the grocery bags he carried, most of which he had picked up from corner stores across several districts. It had taken a while, but he’d gotten what he needed.

Not everything he bought was food. A large portion of the ten thousand dollars he had earned earlier that evening had gone into something far more important—something he couldn't afford to risk being without.

As he approached the small duplex that had been his home for as long as he could remember, a familiar shape caught his eye. A sleek black limousine had pulled up in front of the building, its polished surface reflecting the streetlights like a mirror. Michael froze instantly as he recognized that car.

He clenched his fists tightly around the plastic handles of the grocery bags as a sudden wave of anger surged through him. His entire body tensed. He didn’t need to see the man inside to know who it was. The voice that drifted out from the open window confirmed it.

“Well, well. If it isn't my dear cousin Michael.”

Michael didn’t acknowledge the voice. He kept walking, focusing on the stairs that led to his front door. But he didn’t make it far. A massive figure stepped into his path, blocking the way with a chest as broad as a doorway. Michael didn’t even bother looking up.

He turned slowly to face the source of the voice. A man had stepped out of the limousine, his golden suit gleaming under the street lamps. It looked absurdly expensive—possibly worth more than the entire duplex. His blond hair was perfectly slicked back, and his white teeth shone beneath a smug grin that Michael remembered all too well.

Victor Grey.

He strolled toward Michael with casual confidence, clearly enjoying himself. When they stood face to face, the contrast between them was impossible to ignore. Though they were close in age, Victor looked like a statue come to life—tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built. His suit clung to his athletic frame like it had been sewn on. Michael, on the other hand, was leaner, with a runner’s build and a quiet presence that didn’t demand attention.

“Not even a hello?” Victor asked with mock surprise. “Or are you not going to offer your dear cousin a drink? It's been so long.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. His voice came out low and sharp. “Victor. Tell your servant to move.”

The bodyguard behind him let out a growl and reached forward with a meaty hand. “It’s Mister Victor to you, you insolent—”

Before he could finish, Michael shifted. He moved fast and clean, slipping into a practiced martial arts motion that knocked the man’s arm aside and twisted his wrist. The bodyguard let out a grunt of pain and stumbled back, clutching his hand.

Michael was already at the base of the stairs, his eyes locked on Victor.

The bodyguard snarled and took a threatening step forward, but Victor held out a hand without looking at him.

“Easy, Mark,” he said, still smirking. His half-lidded eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched Michael. “Let the brat go. You can’t expect someone like him to have manners. Not when his mother wasn’t around to teach him.”

The words barely had time to register before Michael reacted. His groceries hit the ground as he launched himself forward, clearing the steps and the bodyguard in one smooth motion. But Victor had been waiting for this moment.

With the kind of grace that spoke of years of training, Victor pivoted and delivered a spinning roundhouse kick that connected hard with Michael’s chest. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs and sent him crashing backward onto the concrete stairs.

Michael gasped, doubling over as pain bloomed across his ribs and spine. Laughter echoed through the street—cold, mocking, and all too familiar.

Victor stood at the top of the steps, shaking his head. “What a pathetic display,” he said. “No wonder Grandfather disowned your family. You’re all an embarrassment to the Grey name.”

Something rolled down the steps and came to rest near Victor’s feet. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. A white plastic bottle. His gaze flicked to the label, and a slow grin spread across his face.

“Well now,” he said, turning the bottle between his fingers. “Isn’t this Ari’s medicine?”

Michael forced himself upright, gripping the railing for support. His eyes burned. He looked like he was holding himself together by sheer willpower alone.

“Don’t say her name,” he growled. “Give it back.”

Victor raised an eyebrow at the venom in his cousin’s voice. He seemed briefly intrigued by the reaction. Then, without warning, he tossed the bottle toward Michael. It wasn’t a soft toss either. Michael reached out to catch it and lost his balance, falling backward again onto the cold concrete with a dull thud.

Victor turned away as if the whole encounter bored him now.

“You should really take better care of that,” he said over his shoulder. “That bottle probably costs more than you and your father make in a month.”

With a wave of his hand, he signaled his bodyguard.

“Let’s go, Mark. I’ve got business to handle, and I’d rather not waste another minute here.”

The limousine’s door shut with a soft click, and the vehicle pulled away into the night.

Michael didn’t move. He lay on the stairs, staring up at the sky as the stars slowly emerged one by one. His chest rose and fell with each breath, but he was still, as if paralyzed by more than just pain.

Even after the limousine disappeared from sight, he remained there for another twenty minutes.

The cool night air wrapped around him, but it wasn’t enough to douse the fire burning inside.

He thought of Victor’s smug face.

He thought of the pain in his chest.

And most of all, he thought of his grandfather—the man who had built a global empire, who had chosen to cast aside his own son and leave Michael’s family to rot in the shadows.

There had never been an explanation. No closure. Just cold silence.

Michael’s fingers curled slowly around the bottle in his hand.

One day, he promised himself. One day, he would make all of them answer for what they had done.

And when that day came, his grandfather would have no choice but to face him—and explain why.