Emmett walked into the cramped staff break room. The air smelled like stale sweat and cheap tea bags. He held a chipped ceramic mug filled with hot water and a generic tea bag. He walked to the worn-out brown sofa in the corner and sat down.

Rory squeezed onto the cushion next to him. The springs groaned. Rory held a crumpled copy of a high-society etiquette guide. His eyes were wide and excited.

"Listen to this," Rory whispered. He cleared his throat. He pushed his shoulders back. He started speaking, stretching his vowels. He was trying to mimic the East Coast old money accent the masters used upstairs. It sounded ridiculous.

Emmett stared at his tea. The dark liquid rippled. He listened to Rory's fake accent. His chest felt heavy. He remembered doing the exact same thing. He remembered spending hours in front of a mirror, practicing how to hold a champagne flute, trying to scrub the slum out of his voice.

"We don't get paid enough," Rory complained. He dropped his normal voice. "I can't even afford a tailored suit. Are you saving up, Emmett? We need to look the part if we want to get promoted to the upper floors."

Emmett took a slow sip of his tea. The hot water burned his tongue.

"I send my money home," Emmett said. His voice was completely flat. "To the slums."

Rory rolled his eyes. He let out a loud groan. "You're an idiot. You can't let your family drag you down. You have to cut them off if you want to survive here. You need to think about your future."

Emmett didn't answer. He looked past Rory. He stared at the cracked mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

The reflection blurred. The memory hit him like a physical punch to the gut.

He was standing in his mother's tiny apartment. He was wearing a rented tuxedo. His mother held out a cheap tin of homemade cookies. He slapped her hand away. The tin hit the floor. The cookies shattered. He turned his back on her crying face and walked out the door. He thought he was walking toward a better life.

The memory shifted. The lighting changed.

Rain poured down his face. His chest was slammed against the cold, wet hood of a black police transport carriage. Rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. The cold metal of handcuffs bit into his wrists.

He turned his head. Through the rain, he saw a black, lacquered private carriage. Clara Patterson stood under a large black umbrella. She wore a pristine white dress. She looked at him. Her eyes were filled with fake pity. She looked at him like he was a stray dog being put down.

Clara leaned over and whispered to the family lawyer. The lawyer walked over to Emmett. He shoved a folded piece of paper into Emmett's wet pocket. It was a forged confession. Embezzlement and corporate espionage.

The memory twisted again. A dark courtroom. The heavy wooden gavel slammed down. The sound exploded in his ears. The judge's voice echoed.

A slow, agonizing death behind bars.

"Emmett!"

A hand waved frantically in front of his face.

Emmett blinked. The break room came back into focus. He was breathing too fast. His lungs burned.

He looked down at his right hand. He was gripping the ceramic mug so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The joints popped with a sickening click. The mug was seconds away from shattering in his palm.

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He forced his fingers to uncurl. He relaxed his shoulders. He pushed the panic down into a dark box in his mind and locked it.

"Are you sick?" Rory asked. He leaned away, looking disgusted. "You look like a ghost. Go to the infirmary. I don't want to catch whatever you have."

Emmett turned his head. He forced the corners of his mouth up. He created a perfectly harmless, stupid smile.

"I'm fine," Emmett said softly. "Just didn't sleep well."

The break room door swung open. Moira walked in. She carried a stack of expensive silk shirts. She threw them onto a table.

"The dry cleaners ruined the collars again," Moira complained loudly. She crossed her arms. "But who cares. Did you hear the news? Lady Patterson is looking for a husband for Clara."

Emmett's heart stopped. His blood turned to ice water.

"Really?" Rory leaned forward. "Who is it?"

"Some Wall Street banker," Moira said. "If she gets married, she'll need a whole new staff for her new estate."

Emmett stared at the wall. The name Clara tasted like ash in his mouth. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

"If I get assigned to serve Clara, I'll be rich," Rory said. He smiled dreamily. "She's so sweet. She always says thank you. She'll give huge tips."

Emmett stood up. The sudden movement made the sofa squeak. He walked to the small metal sink in the corner. He dumped his tea down the drain. He turned on the faucet.

The water rushed out, hitting the metal basin loudly.

Emmett leaned over the sink. He gripped the wet metal edges. Under the noise of the running water, he moved his lips.

"She will bring you hell," Emmett whispered. His voice was full of pure venom.

"What did you say?" Rory called out from the sofa.

Emmett turned off the water. He shook the drops off his hands. He turned around. The venom was gone. His face was a blank, obedient mask.

"I said Finch is coming to check the afternoon schedule," Emmett said. "You better hide that book."

Rory gasped. He shoved the etiquette guide down his pants. He frantically straightened his tie.

Emmett walked to the door. He pushed it open. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Rory and Moira were still talking about Clara's money. They were trapped in a fantasy.

Emmett stepped out into the dark hallway. He let the door close behind him. He felt nothing for them. He had cut the cord. His ambition to be a rich man's servant was dead. Now, he only wanted to be their executioner.

The morning air was freezing. Emmett walked out of the massive iron gates of Patterson Manor. He wore his oldest clothes. A faded gray hoodie and worn-out jeans. He held a copper tram token in his hand.

He stopped on the sidewalk. He turned around and looked back. The manor sat on a hill, surrounded by morning fog. It looked like a giant, beautiful tomb.

A loud screech of brakes pulled his attention away. A rusted city tram stopped in front of him. The doors rattled open.

Emmett stepped up. He dropped his token into the slot. He walked down the narrow aisle and sat in the very back row, pressing his shoulder against the cold window.

The tram drove away from the wealthy suburbs. The scenery outside the window changed. The perfectly cut green lawns disappeared. They were replaced by cracked sidewalks, brick walls covered in soot and grime, and the tall, dead smokestacks of abandoned factories.

The inside of the tram smelled like cheap cigarettes and unwashed clothes. A baby cried loudly two rows ahead.

In his past life, Emmett would have covered his nose. He would have looked at these people with disgust. Now, he just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the vibrating glass. He let the noise wash over him. It was real. It was alive.

An hour and a half later, the tram stopped in the middle of the industrial district. Emmett stepped off. The cold wind whipped a dirty newspaper across his boots.

He walked down the broken pavement. He headed toward his family's tenement housing complex.

He stopped at a corner grocer. The bell above the door jingled.

He walked down the narrow aisles. He grabbed two loaves of fresh bread, a large carton of milk, and three boxes of the expensive chocolate his younger siblings loved. He carried them to the counter. He pulled out the few dollar bills he had saved.

The store owner, a heavy man with a dirty apron, scanned the items. He looked Emmett up and down. He sneered.

"What's wrong, pretty boy?" the owner mocked. "Did the rich folks kick you out? Couldn't cut it in the big house?"

Emmett's face didn't change. He didn't feel the hot flash of anger he used to feel. He just looked at the man's tired eyes.

"Thank you," Emmett said politely. He picked up the heavy canvas sacks and walked out.

He walked two blocks to a peeling brick building. He took a deep breath. He walked up the wooden stairs. Every step groaned under his weight.

He reached the third floor. He stood in front of a door with chipped white paint.

He raised his hand to knock. He stopped. His fist hovered in the air.

For five seconds, he couldn't move. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. The guilt was suffocating. The last time he saw his mother in his past life, she was lying in a cheap coffin, dead from a sickness she couldn't afford to treat. Because he had kept all his money to buy tailored uniforms.

He swallowed hard. He knocked on the wood.

He heard hurried footsteps inside. The lock clicked. The door opened two inches.

His fifteen-year-old sister, Elspeth, peeked out. Her eyes were sharp and guarded.

When she saw Emmett, her eyes went wide. Then, her face hardened into a glare.

"What do you want?" Elspeth asked coldly. "Did you come to beg Mom for more money to buy your stupid fancy clothes?"

The words felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. He deserved it.

Emmett didn't argue. He just lifted the heavy grocery bags and held them out to her.

Elspeth looked at the food. He saw her throat move as she swallowed. She was hungry. But she kept her hands by her sides. She was too proud.

A weak cough came from inside the apartment. "Elspeth? Who is at the door?"

Emmett pushed the door open gently. He stepped past his sister.

The apartment was tiny. The air smelled heavily of damp mold and old cooking oil.

His mother lay on a sunken, ripped sofa in the living room. She wore a faded blanket over her shoulders.

When she saw Emmett, she gasped. Tears instantly filled her eyes. She pushed her weak arms against the cushions, trying to sit up.

Emmett dropped the bags on the floor. He crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees on the dirty carpet. He reached out and grabbed her hands. Her skin was rough and freezing cold.

"Mom," Emmett whispered. His voice shook. The emotion broke through his flat mask. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. I was a selfish bastard."

His mother looked shocked. She pulled one hand free and touched his cheek. Her thumb brushed his skin.

"Emmett," she cried. "You're home. As long as you're safe, nothing else matters."

Two small heads peeked out from the bedroom door. Maeve and Tobin. They stared at him with big, scared eyes. They barely recognized their older brother.

Emmett turned his head. He reached into the grocery bag. He pulled out the boxes of chocolate. He looked at them with the softest expression he had ever made.

He waved the boxes.

The kids couldn't resist. They ran across the room and crashed into his legs.

Emmett dropped the chocolate. He wrapped his arms around their small bodies. He pulled them tight against his chest. He buried his face in their hair.

Elspeth stood by the door. She watched them. Her eyes turned red. She wiped her face with her sleeve and quietly closed the front door.

Emmett looked around the cramped, poor room. The block of ice inside his chest finally melted.

He squeezed his siblings tighter. He made a silent vow. He didn't care how much blood he had to spill. He didn't care who he had to destroy. In this life, he was going to rip the Patterson family apart, take their wealth, and build a fortress for his family.

It was early afternoon. The living room of the cramped apartment was quiet. Emmett reached inside the lining of his gray jacket. He pulled out a thick, yellow envelope.

He placed the envelope on the scratched coffee table. He pushed it toward his mother. It contained every dollar of his miserable monthly salary from the manor.

His mother stared at the cash inside. Her eyes widened in shock. She shook her head and pushed it back.

"No, Emmett," she said weakly. "You need this. You need to buy things for yourself. You need to fit in with the other staff."

Emmett picked up the envelope. He gently forced it into her cold hands. He folded her fingers over the paper.

"The manor pays for everything," Emmett lied smoothly. His voice was calm and reassuring. "I get free food. Free uniforms. I don't spend a dime. Keep it. Buy medicine."

Elspeth stood by the kitchen counter. She stared at the stack of bills. She bit her bottom lip. She looked at Emmett and whispered, "Thank you."

Emmett stood up. He walked to the kitchen sink. He picked up a wrench from the counter. He tightened the leaking pipe under the faucet with three sharp, efficient twists. The dripping stopped instantly.

He wiped the grease off his hands with a paper towel. He looked at the broken clock on the wall.

"I have to go back," Emmett said. "Curfew."

He walked to the front door. He stopped and crouched down in front of Elspeth. He looked directly into her eyes. His expression turned deadly serious.

"Listen to me," Emmett said. His voice was low. "No matter what happens, never trust people who drive expensive cars. Never trust the rich. Do you understand?"

Elspeth frowned. She looked confused by the sudden warning. But she saw the intense, dark look in his eyes. She nodded slowly.

Emmett stood up. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. As he walked down the stairs, he heard Maeve and Tobin cheering as they opened the chocolate. A small, genuine smile touched his lips.

When he stepped outside, the sky had turned dark gray. The wind whipped his thin jacket around his waist.

He walked fast toward the tram stop.

A sleek, black motorcar sped down the street. Its tires hit a deep pothole filled with dirty water. A massive wave of muddy water splashed toward the sidewalk.

Emmett reacted instantly. He jumped backward, his boots hitting the brick wall. The water missed his legs by an inch.

He stood still. He stared at the glowing red taillights of the motorcar as it disappeared down the street. His eyes were cold.

The tram arrived. It rattled and shook. Emmett climbed aboard. He sat in the back, surrounded by the smell of bleach and despair.

The tram drove back toward the wealthy suburbs. The sky turned completely black. In the distance, the lights of Patterson Manor glowed like a massive fortress on the hill.

Emmett got off at the back service entrance. He walked to the security checkpoint.

A large security guard patted him down roughly. The guard's hands checked his pockets and his waist. It was a humiliating process.

"Didn't even go get a drink on your day off?" the guard mocked. "Boring."

Emmett gave him a blank, stupid smile. He didn't say a word. The guard waved him through.

Emmett walked into the servant corridors. The air felt thick and heavy. A group of maids stood in the corner, whispering frantically.

Emmett's ears picked up the words "Master Alistair" and "screaming." His heart rate picked up, beating in a steady, controlled rhythm.

He walked into the men's locker room. He pulled off his jacket.

Rory leaned against the next locker. He looked around nervously.

"Master Alistair is playing in a massive polo match tomorrow," Rory whispered. "He's betting a fortune."

Emmett's hand froze on the metal door of his locker. The metal clinked softly.

Tomorrow. The polo match. The memory rushed into his brain. The horse getting spooked. Alistair flying through the air. The sickening crunch of his neck breaking on the grass.

"I hope he wins," Rory babbled. "If he wins, he usually throws a hundred-dollar bill at whoever brings him his boots."

Emmett turned his head. He looked at Rory's hopeful, greedy face.

"Don't get your hopes up," Emmett said. His voice was flat and hollow. "Accidents happen very fast."

Rory frowned. "You're always ruining the mood." Rory turned and walked away.

Emmett stood alone in the locker room. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror taped to the door. There was no pity in his eyes. Only cold, calculating anticipation.

He closed the locker. He walked down the hall to the head butler's office. He looked at the corkboard on the wall. He scanned the duty roster for tomorrow.

His finger traced the lines. There it was. Tomorrow afternoon. Emmett: Stables cleanup duty.

It was the perfect position. The stables were the communication hub when the accident happened. He would be right in the middle of the chaos.

Emmett smoothed the curled edge of the paper with his thumb. He turned and walked into the dark corridor.

Outside, a loud crack of thunder shook the manor. The storm was coming. And the clock was ticking down to zero.