“He’s lying,” Elijah said, his voice flat.
“I know,” Maya sighed, looking at the vitriolic comments calling Elijah unstable and dangerous. “Dad, promise me you won’t respond. No online arguments. Don't let them pull you in.”
Elijah stared at a framed photograph of Marcus on the dining table. “What if staying quiet lets them win?”
“Then you stay safe,” Maya said firmly. “And that matters more to me.”
That evening, a knock at the door broke the silence of the apartment. It was Jordan Ramirez, a thin, anxious seventeen-year-old student from Ironway who had followed Elijah out to the parking lot the night before.
Jordan stood in the hallway clutching a heavy backpack. “I need to tell you what really happens at Ironway,” he whispered.
Once inside, Jordan unzipped the bag, spilling folders, printed screenshots, and medical records onto Elijah’s table. “Trevor’s been hurting students,” Jordan explained, his voice shaking. “Not training them. Hurting them. Dana lets it happen because the streams bring in money.”
Maya leaned forward, her nurse’s instincts kicking in. “What kind of hurting?”
Jordan recounted the horrors: Caleb Price, fifteen, thrown so hard he suffered a severe concussion; Ruth Henderson, a woman in her seventies bullied until she quit; beginners used as punching bags. Dana had silenced the families with NDAs, legal threats, and quietly paid medical bills.
Elijah listened without interrupting. A part of him wanted to close the folder and return to his quiet grief. He was tired. His hands sometimes trembled on bad mornings. But looking at the paperwork, he didn't see just statistics; he saw children who had trusted adults to protect them.
“I’m not a crusader anymore,” Elijah said finally, feeling the weight of his years. “I’m too old and too tired to save the world.”
Jordan’s face fell.
“But,” Elijah continued, his eyes hardening into the steel gaze of a Marine, “I know how to gather intel. I know how to organize an objective. And I will make sure the truth gets heard.”