Historias cortas de Familial Bond y novelas con Scumbag ambientadas en Face Slapping

I spent three years studying like my life depended on it before I finally earned a government job. Then, on my first week there, I saw a familiar face. My cousin. The same cousin I’d met at that awkward family reunion back home. Somehow, he had gotten hired by the same department. A few days later, at a family dinner, he made his move. With my uncle sitting right there at the head of the table, acting every bit like the important city official he was, my cousin shoved a classified file into my hands. The pages had clearly been tampered with. Before I could say a word, he let out a sharp cry and dropped to the floor. The file spilled open across the tile. “Ethan!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fake disbelief. “That’s confidential government material! How could you steal it and show it to outsiders? Was the finder’s fee really worth selling us out?” My uncle slammed his hand on the table and stood up, his face dark with rage. He said he would not protect family at the cost of justice. He said he would fire me on the spot and report me to the higher-ups himself. That was when a string of floating comments appeared in front of my eyes. [This cousin is painfully stupid. Does he seriously not know the male lead was brought in from above as the head of the internal inspection team? He’s here to investigate him.] [And the uncle is still acting. Hilarious. The inspection team’s car is literally about to pull up outside.] I read the comments, then calmly lifted my teacup and took a slow sip. Across from me, my cousin was still trying to look loyal and outraged. I set the cup down and smiled. “You’re right about one thing. This file is confidential.” His eyes lit up. Then I added, “But you changed the wrong section.” The color drained from his face. I turned to my uncle. “And Uncle, didn’t you just say you’d put justice before family?” I pushed back my chair and stood. “Great. Then come with me to the Special Investigations Unit and explain how many people you’ve illegally helped into the department over the years.” My cousin stared at me, completely stunned. He had fought so hard to get into public service. He had no idea I was the one sent to clean it up.

The study-abroad list went up on the department bulletin board. Kevin's name sat at the top of the sponsored students column. Mine was stuck in the alternate slot. In front of the whole class, he waved it off like it was nothing. "I'm not going. Can't even afford it." The spot slid down to me. "Congrats, Nathan! You snagged the last public-funded spot!" Classmates crowded around to offer their congratulations. My advisor turned to my parents with a clasped-hand gesture. "Professor Reed, Professor Turner—congratulations! You must be so proud of your boy!" I took the acceptance letter, my chest swelling as I looked at three years of blood, sweat, and late nights finally paying off. Then my mom reached over, plucked it right out of my hands, and passed it straight to Kevin. She grabbed my arm, her face all twisted up with regret. "Kevin's the kid we sponsor—his parents can't afford to send him anywhere. This is his one shot to go abroad. You're our flesh and blood. You need to be the bigger person here and let him have it." Kevin clutched the letter, dropped to his knees with a thud, and thanked her. I stared at that letter—the one that decided my future—and thought about every single night I'd pulled all-nighters over the last three years. They handed my future over to someone else. Fine. If that's how they want to play it, then I don't want this family anymore.

When I touch someone else's personal belongings—things they have had direct contact with before—I can hear the items voicing their owner's thoughts. The day of my grandma's funeral, I clutch the emerald bracelet she wore for over 30 years and hear it shout, "The house mustn't go to Michael! He hit me!" Michael? That's my uncle's name, and right now, he's bawling his eyes out in front of Grandma's casket, seemingly grieving even harder than everyone else.

My little sister was murdered by her kidnappers. I watched it all happen and never said a word about who did it. My mother got on her knees and begged me. I didn't flinch. When my father threatened me with his authority as the Don, I walked away from my place as the Family heir. I moved to a small town down south. Eight years later, I was dying of a terminal illness, and my older sister, Beth Turner, had taken over the Family. Under her, the Turners had become the most powerful mafia family on the East Coast. The first thing she did when she found me was have me dragged back to the Family's tribunal. "Selena Turner, you ungrateful snake. Mia called you her sister for all those years, and you still won't name the kidnapper. "Mia's been dead for years. Don't you feel any guilt at all?!" I was on my knees in the great hall. I couldn't speak. "After all these years, I can finally extract your memories. Today, I'm going to see exactly who you've been protecting. I will avenge Mia." She ordered her men to restrain me and hook up the extractor. On the screen above the banquet hall, a face suddenly appeared. The room erupted into chaos, and Beth's face went deathly pale.

When Mom gave birth to my baby sister, Jocelyn Hanson, she'd reserved an entire floor of the hospital. The next day, a young, handsome nurse named Mike Sutton kept watching her. He told Mom she needed to rest and insisted on taking Jocelyn next door to feed her. Back then, I didn't know any better, and Mom saw no reason to be suspicious. So she let him take Jocelyn. That same day, Mike vanished with Jocelyn. We never saw either of them again. Mom never forgave herself. She sank into a deep depression and eventually took her own life. Dad couldn't handle what had happened. He left me with Grandma, then took his own life too. Just like that, I lost everyone. I shut myself off from the world, and less than two years later, I fell from a balcony because my nanny wasn't watching me. None of us escaped a tragic end. 18 years later, Mike resurfaced as Jocelyn's adoptive father. He brought her back to the Hanson family, and everything my family had left behind ended up in their hands. Even on his deathbed, he still bragged to anyone who would listen, "I sure didn't raise her for nothing." Then I get a second chance. I'm three years old again, back on the day after Jocelyn was born. Mike pushes open the door and comes in. "Ms. Hanson, it's time to feed the baby. Why don't I take her next door so you can get some rest? Kiddo, how about I take your little sister next door so she can have some milk?" His warm smile makes me shudder. All at once, I remember the pain of losing Mom and Dad in my previous life. I gather my courage and shout, "No! My mom can feed her. We don't need you!"