Chapter 4

I froze, the check still in my hand. My father's voice echoed in the narrow, dirty hallway, a sound that didn't belong here. It was the sound of my old life crashing into my new one.

"I know he's in here! The landlord said so!" he yelled again, followed by a heavy pounding on a door down the hall.

How did they find me? The question screamed in my mind. Then I remembered the check. The university. They must have sent a copy of the refund notice to my home address. My carefully constructed anonymity was shattered.

I had to think fast. My first instinct was to barricade the door, but my cheap, flimsy door wouldn't hold for more than a few seconds. Running was not an option, he was already in the building.

I took a deep breath, forcing my racing heart to slow down. The Liam from my past life would have panicked. The new Liam had to be smarter.

I unlocked my door and opened it just as my father, his face red with anger, reached it. Sal, the landlord, was behind him, looking both annoyed and scared.

"Liam!" my father barked, pushing past me into the tiny room. His eyes swept over the bare mattress, the single chair, and the old laptop on the floor. His expression was a mixture of disgust and fury. "What is this? What are you doing, living in a place like this? You're embarrassing us!"

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice calm. I leaned against the doorframe, blocking his exit, a subtle act of control.

"What do I want?" he sputtered. "I want you to come home! Your mother is worried sick. You run off without a word, like some kind of delinquent."

"She didn't seem too worried when you were stealing my future," I said, the words slipping out, cold and sharp.

His face darkened. "Don't you dare use that tone with me. We did what was best for this family. Noah is thriving at the university, making contacts, building a future. A future you would have wasted."

The hypocrisy was breathtaking. He stood there, in his expensive suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year, and lectured me about waste.

"Why are you really here?" I asked, cutting through his tirade. "You didn't come here because you were worried. You came here for something else."

He hesitated, and for a second, a flicker of something else crossed his face. Greed. I saw it. Then I remembered the check in my hand. Of course.

"The university sent a refund check," he said, his eyes darting to the paper in my hand. "It belongs to the family. I paid that deposit."

"You paid it from my savings account," I corrected him quietly. "The one I had from my part-time job."

"It's all family money!" he snapped. "Give it to me. We need it for Noah's expenses."

I almost laughed. They had stolen a full scholarship worth tens of thousands of dollars, and now they were hunting me down in a slum for a few hundred. The sheer, pathetic greed of it was almost comical.

I calmly folded the check and slipped it into my pocket. "No."

"What did you say?" he growled, taking a step toward me.

"I said no," I repeated, my voice even. "This money is mine. You've taken enough."

He raised his hand, his face contorted with rage. I didn't flinch. I just stared back at him, my eyes cold and empty. In my last life, I would have cowered. Now, I felt nothing but a distant, icy contempt.

He must have seen something in my eyes, something new and unyielding, because he stopped. He lowered his hand, his breathing heavy.

"You're making a huge mistake, Liam," he hissed. "You'll come crawling back, you'll see. But when you do, don't expect any help from us."

"I won't," I said.

He stared at me for another long moment, then turned and stormed out of the room, shoving the landlord out of his way. I watched him go, then quietly closed my door and locked it. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the confrontation.

I knew I couldn't stay here anymore. They knew where I was. I had to move, and I had to do it tonight.

I packed my bag again, my movements swift and practiced. It was a frustrating setback. I had just found a rhythm, a routine. Now I was back to square one.

My mind raced as I shoved my clothes into the bag. I needed a new place, but I also needed to finish my software. The encounter with my father had lit a new fire under me. It wasn't just about revenge anymore, it was about survival. I had to become so successful, so powerful, that they could never touch me again.

I left the building through a back alley, melting into the night. I had the check in my pocket and a half-finished application on my laptop. It wasn't much, but it was a start. It was mine.

I found a 24-hour internet cafe a few miles away. The place was filled with gamers and people with nowhere else to go. It was noisy and smelled like stale coffee, but it was anonymous. I paid for a full day's access and found a corner booth.

I had a decision to make. I could use the check to find another cheap room, to survive for another month. Or I could take a risk.

My software was close to being finished. It just needed a final push, and then a platform to launch it. The check wasn't enough to rent an office or hire anyone, but it might be enough to buy a small server space and a domain name.

It was a gamble. If the software failed, I would be on the street.

I looked at the code on my screen. It was clean, efficient. It was good. I knew it was good.

I took a deep breath and made my choice. I opened a new tab in my browser and started searching for web hosting services. The time for hiding and surviving was over. It was time to start building.

As I was typing, a familiar face appeared on the cafe's large TV screen. It was a local news segment. A reporter was standing in front of my old university, talking about a recent charitable donation. And standing next to the university president, smiling for the cameras, was Emily Roberts. The caption identified her as a representative of a major philanthropic foundation.

I stared at the screen, a strange feeling twisting in my gut. I had pushed her away, thinking she was just a kind-hearted volunteer. But she was clearly more than that. She was connected, powerful in her own right.

And I had been incredibly rude to her.

A new notification popped up in the corner of my laptop screen. It was an email. The subject line read: "A Second Chance."

My heart skipped a beat. I clicked it open.

"Liam," it began. "I know you don't want to talk to me. But I can't just stand by. I know what your family did. I have friends in the admissions office. I heard the whispers. I'm so sorry. If you ever need help, real help, just say the word. I believe in you."

It was from Emily.

I stared at her words, a storm of emotions warring inside me. Hope, shame, and a deep, aching loneliness. I had been so determined to do this alone, but now, a lifeline had been thrown to me.

I closed the email without replying. I couldn't accept her help. Not yet. This first victory had to be mine, and mine alone. It was a matter of pride.

I turned my attention back to the web hosting service. I entered my details, my fingers flying across the keyboard. I was about to click the purchase button when I heard a commotion from the front of the cafe.

Two large, thuggish-looking men had just walked in. They were scanning the room, their eyes cold and predatory. And they were looking right at me.

My father had sent them.