The Raise of James Morrison.

The rain came down in sheets, hammering the pavement with relentless fury.

More thunder rumbled overhead as passengers huddled beneath the narrow metal shelter, their shoulders pressed together, trying to stay dry. The afternoon had turned dark as evening.

James stood at the edge of the shelter, staring out at the curtain of rain with an expression carved from stone. His clothes were simple, worn but clean a faded denim jacket over a plain gray shirt, jeans that had seen better days. In his hands, he clutched a small shopping bag, its handles damp from the spray.

But it wasn't James that drew the attention of every single person waiting at that bus stop.

It was the five men kneeling in the downpour.

They were dressed impeccably tailored three-piece suits in charcoal gray and midnight blue, Italian leather shoes that now squelched in puddles, silk ties plastered against their chests. Rain pounded their backs, streamed down their faces, soaked through their expensive clothing until the fabric clung to their skin. Their hair, once neatly combed, now hung limp and dripping. One man's glasses had fogged completely. Another's face was pale, lips tinged blue from the cold.

Yet none of them moved. None of them stood. They remained on their knees in the middle of the sidewalk, heads bowed, hands clasped before them like supplicants before a king.

The other passengers had shifted as far away as possible, some retreating to the opposite side of the shelter, others abandoning the bus stop entirely to stand beneath nearby awnings. They whispered among themselves, phones out, recording, staring with wide eyes and open mouths.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Are they… begging him?”

“Who is that guy? Is he some kind of gangster?”

“Look at those suits. Those men aren't nobodies.”

However James didn't look at them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, as if by sheer force of will he could make them disappear.

“Young Master James, please!” The man in the center, older than the others with streaks of gray at his temples, raised his voice over the roar of the rain.

“The family needs you! Your grandmother—Mrs. Morrison she's realized everything! She knows the family made a terrible mistake!”

“She's willing to make amends!” another man shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.

“Your position in the Morrison family will be fully restored! Everything that was taken from you, everything you deserve it will all be returned!”

“Please, Young Master, just come home!” a third man begged, water streaming from his nose and chin. “The matriarch herself sent us! She swears on the family name that you will be given your rightful place!”

James's fingers tightened around the handles of his bag. His knuckles went white.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

“Young Master—”

“I said get up.” His voice was low, but it cut through the rain like a blade. "And stop calling me that."

The men hesitated, exchanging glances, but they didn't rise. The older man in the center spoke again, his tone pleading, almost frantic.

"Your grandmother regrets everything, Young Master James. She's an old woman now, and she sees clearly what the family did to you, to your mother—"

"Don't." James's voice turned to ice. "Don't you dare talk about my mother."

"Young Master, please, just listen—"

"No, you listen." James finally turned to face them, and the look in his eyes could have frozen the rain itself. "You come here, dressed in your fancy suits, kneeling in the rain like this is some kind of dramatic performance, and you think that makes up for anything? You think I'm supposed to forget?"

The older man opened his mouth, but James cut him off.

"Where was the Morrison family when my mother was dying?" His voice rose, shaking with barely restrained fury. "Where were they when she was working three jobs just to keep the lights on? When she couldn't afford her medication? When she was coughing up blood in a one-room apartment because she married for love instead of status?"

"Young Master, we—"

"They chased her away!" James shouted. The passengers in the shelter flinched. "Your precious Morrison family disowned her because she chose my father a good man who loved her instead of some arranged marriage to a business partner! They cut her off, left her to suffer, and when she got sick, when she was dying, not one of you came! Not one!"

Rain dripped from James's hair into his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away.

"And my father?" His voice dropped again, bitter and cold. "When he died in that construction accident, did the Morrison family send flowers? Did they come to the funeral? Did they even acknowledge that he existed?" He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "No. They acted like he was dirt. Like *we* were dirt. Because we weren't rich enough, we weren't important enough."

"Young Master James, please, those were mistakes grave mistakes but the family wants to correct them now!" The older man's voice was ragged. "Your grandmother is willing to do anything! She's prepared to publicly apologize, to restore your name, to—"

"I don't care."

The words landed like stones.

"I don't care what she's willing to do now. It's too late. My mother is dead. My father is dead. And I spent three years being crushed under the weight of the Morrison family's so-called 'traditions' before they finally threw me out like garbage. You think I'm going to go crawling back now because they suddenly decided I'm useful?"

"But Young Master—"

"Stop calling me that!" James's voice cracked like a whip. "I'm not your Young Master. I'm not part of the Morrison family. I haven't been for a long time, and I will never be again."