Kyle’s Reality

The alarm goes off around 5:00am, loud and shrill. Kyle knocked it off with a groan and stared at the cracked ceiling above him. Noise coming from the fan above doing little to stir the heavy air in the room.

Another Day.

He sat up slowly, the old mattress groaning beneath him. His room, if it could be called that, was the size of a rich man’s wardrobe. One narrow bed, a rusted fan, Walls painted a dull-peeling-grey. In the corner, a half broken dresser and a cracked mirror barely clung to the walls.

Kyle dragged himself to the sink in the bathroom, and splashed water on his face. Sharp and real. His eyes found the broken mirror. Still the same man but a different surname, Kyle Brooklyn instead of Kyle Rutherford, mixed skin, curly black hair that needs a trim, Brown eyes heavy with something more than sleep. The ghost of who he used to be, clung to his reflection. The boy who once had a future. A family. A name that meant something.

He walked back into his room. On his cupboard, sits a little frame of his father’s arm around his mother, both of them smiling in a way Kyle hadn’t seen in years. At least they were happy before everything fell apart. He looks away. No time for grief today.

The streets outside his building were already awake. Handavale city never truly slept. The city shimmered beneath the early morning sun like glass kissed by fire. Skyscrapers clawed at the pale sky, their shadows stretching over narrow alleys and polished streets below. Horns blared. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the exhaust of buses groaning down. Somewhere in the buzz of it all, Kyle stepped out of his cramped apartment, straightening his shirt. Kyle navigated the street, head down, and steps fast. As he turned a corner, passing a flower stand, his thoughts drifted briefly to before. Before his life was measured in tips, small pay and hours spent rendering services to the elites.

Back when he was just Kyle Rutherford. He remembered the smell of cinnamon in the air, the way his mom always burnt the toast but made it up with jam. His dad’s laugh; deep and chesty, the kind you felt in your bones. They’d lived in a small house by the lake, far from all of this. He still remembers the street name; he had taken a bus down there the other day, staring at the new building which stood in the space. Mornings were filled with lazy music from the radio, games in the yard, books scattered on the porch. There was always peace, always warmth. Kyle never had to worry about time or money or people lying through their teeth. He was only ten when it was taken from him. Everything came so fast: gunshots, sirens, police tape. A betrayal buried in silence. And then… nothing. No answers. No justice. No one would talk. No one would look at him the same. That was the last time he was truly happy. Since then, he’d built his life brick by brick, avoiding questions, avoiding memories. Just trying to stay invisible.

He checked his watch. 6:33 AM. He picked up his pace. Then, sprinted to the junction just as the bus wheezed up. The driver barely slowed. Kyle hopped on, gripping the rusted rail for balance. “Morning shift?” asked the conductor. Kyle nodded. “Yup.” The city flew past; towers of glass rising above, homeless teens sleeping beside billboard ads. In the distance, cutting across the skyline like a gold dagger, stood The Orlen Hotel. The playground of the elites.

He clocked in 10 minutes late. The staff entrance was hidden behind metal doors and flickering fluorescent lights. Kyle changed quickly, clipping his name tag in place. “Mr.Brooklyn, cutting it close again,” said Talia from behind a vending machine, her mouth full of biscuits. Kyle grunted. “ The bus broke down.” “That’s your third excuse this week.” Talia tossed him a can of cola. “They’ll fire you one day.” “Let them,” Kyle said, catching it mid-air. “I’ll just reapply under another name.” Talia snorted. “You are lucky you look like a mannequin.” Kyle smirked but said nothing. He grabbed his gloves and stepped into the gold-rimmed staff door, back into the lobby.

The Orlen Hotel was another world. Golden floors. Perfumed air. Every surface gleamed like it had been born from wealth. Classical music played faintly through hidden speakers. The bell boys moved quietly with grace. Receptionists smiled like it was stitched into their faces.

Kyle stood beneath the valet tent, adjusting his posture as the first guest of the day arrived. He opened doors, greeted guests, and parked cars worth more than everything he’d ever owned. He memorised faces. Watched who tipped and who didn’t. Who barked and who smiled tightly. But beneath it all, he just watches.

Kyle leaned by a stone pillar beside the tent, pretending to check his watch though he had done that five minutes ago. A black car purred to the curb. He gets into action, opening the doors with his usual blend of silence and distance. As he waited for the guests to climb out; an older man by the wheel and a lady with a little boy about 5 years old playing with a small toy truck at the back and the older boy by the other side of the passenger seat, quietly looking at his surroundings. His thoughts wandered backwards to the chapter of his life he rarely visited.

After the funeral, after the headlines faded and no one asked questions anymore, Aunt Corinne had come. Not his mother’s sister, no, his father’s distant cousin. A woman with stiff posture and cold perfume, who wore pearls like armor and smiled without ever truly seeing him. She lived in Ebonridge, a city made of old money and quiet scandals. Her estate had white stone walls and rose gardens clipped with military precision. Her husband, Henry Baxton, didn’t speak much and rarely looked Kyle in the eye. They took him in, but not like a son. Not even like family. More like… a responsibility. A duty.

Her son, Elliot, was two years younger than Kyle but acted as though the world spun just to entertain him. Charming on the surface, venom beneath. The kind of boy who never heard “no,” who loved taking and he hated being told to share. Elliot had a way of making Kyle feel invisible in broad daylight. He’d laugh with his friends about Kyle’s shoes or the way he spoke, mimic his orphan story like a party trick behind his back, then throw a fake grin his way when adults were watching. Kyle bore it all calmly. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t have to. Because he knew deep down he was just passing through. He’d left the day he turned sixteen. No long goodbyes. Just a note on the edge of his neatly made guest bed, “Thank you for everything. I’ll manage.” He’d never looked back.

Now, standing here, he couldn’t help but wonder if they even noticed. If Elliot still strutted around that glass mansion, or if Aunt Corinne still arranged roses like they held the world together. He doubted they remembered him. And honestly, he didn’t care.

The hotel guest lady murmured a thank you, breaking Kael from the memory. He dipped his head, handed her the valet ticket, and slid behind the wheel.

Driving came easy. It always had. Something about being in control, even if it wasn’t his car, it gave him space to breathe. He rolled down the window, let the breeze ruffle his collar, and whispered under his breath; I’ll make something of myself. Without them. Without anyone. His vision quickly diverted to his family for 2 seconds. And I must take my revenge.

The engine hummed through the garage as he shifted the car into park. Kyle sat still for a breath longer, a shadow caught between who he’d been and who he was becoming.