Sonata of a Fight — Chapter 1 — The House
Ryan's grey life at home: a distant father, a colorless routine, a morning that never stops hurting.
Ryan has everything. Except a morning that doesn't hurt.
My name is Ryan.
What comes next happened before I entered your story. Before the hallway. Before the box (main line, ch. 15). I'll start at the beginning, because that's the only way it makes sense.
It's a house.
My house. I won't fake modesty: it's a very rich house. There are wings I haven't set foot in for months. There are staff whose names I never learned, because I wasn't supposed to.
My father and my mother built all of this. They're not famous — both of them treat discretion like a religion. But they're rich in a way the word can't reach. Businesses all over the world. Some I know about. Most I don't.
— I already have money for my children. — My father always says it with the same calm. — For my children's children. And for their children. And even then they won't manage to spend everything I've earned.
He lets the line breathe. Then comes the part that matters to him.
— I don't need you to make money, Ryan. I need you to be a clear representation of our class, of our superior caste. Of who we are and what we mean to this world.
I agree. Agreeing is cheaper.
My life is like the scores I play on the long grand piano — they look beautiful, and none of it was written by me. I only reproduce it. I obey.
My mornings start at five.
Not because I wake up. Because they wake me. One of the staff knocks twice on the door and turns on the closet light before I open my eyes, and from there the day is already moving without me.