Chapter 46: Family.

Cian Fitzgerald sat in the interrogation room, his fist having hit the chain of his backpack while punching someone, scraping off a patch of skin the size of a coin. The wound had stopped bleeding, but a thick scab of dark red blood now crusted over it.

The clerk typed on the keyboard, clearly frustrated. "Judging by your uniform, you’re still a secondary-school student, right? This matter has to be reported to your parents..."

"I said, I don’t have any parents."

Cian interrupted, his tone stiff. His hair looked like it hadn’t been cut in a while, hanging down and partially covering his eyes. His eyes locked on the clerk, his expression unreadably dark.

"Alright, then I can only process the holding-cell paperwork..."

The clerk sighed, typing up the report in front of Cian. Neither of them spoke. The cramped interrogation room fell silent, save for the sound of fingers tapping on the keyboard.

Click-clack, click-clack.

Cian tapped his foot restlessly, feeling increasingly agitated. He didn’t know what this person was writing—whether it said he bullied classmates or broke the law, or that he was disobedient and stubborn. Either way, it wasn’t going to be flattering.

The clerk typed mechanically. After what felt like forever, the typing paused as the clerk double-clicked the screen, seemingly confirming something.

Cian rubbed his trousers absentmindedly, then got up with a shrug. "Done? Where are you taking me?"

He’d rather go straight to a cell than endure those pitying stares.

"No, wait a moment," the clerk said. "Someone’s here to bail you out."

"Someone?" Cian sneered, sitting back down. "Your system’s wrong. I don’t have any parents."

Unexpectedly, the clerk tapped the keys again. "No, really, there is. You can go out; someone paid your fine and is waiting for you in the lobby."

Cian thought to himself—who’s playing a joke here? Maybe someone with the same name got mixed up. He stood up. "Who bailed me out?"

The clerk lightly tapped the screen. "Let me see... Oh, it’s Eoin Brennan."

Cian met Eoin Brennan in the Garda station lobby.

*

When he came out, this man, whose name sounded pleasant, was flipping through the bail documents. He wore a suit, with old-fashioned silver-framed glasses, his face noble and gentle. He looked out of place in the noisy station hall, more like a scholar from another era, reading poetry in a courtyard shaded by trees.

Cian didn’t know such a person. His secondary-school life felt like a sewer, murky and stagnant, and he had nothing in common with the suited man before him.

Cian thought: It must be a mistake.

He picked up his backpack, ready to head back and set the clerk straight. He didn’t recognise this Eoin Brennan, and the other person wasn’t there for him. He just wanted to get the detention procedures done—he wasn’t in the mood to drag this out.

But Eoin had already noticed him.

The moment Eoin saw Cian, his eyes lit up with an intensity that took Cian by surprise, like a mix of joy and nostalgia. He traced Cian’s outline with his gaze, greedily, like a traveller in the desert finally finding water.

Cian felt extremely awkward.

Subtly, he glanced at himself. His uniform was old, faded, and frayed, loosely draped over his body. Bloodstains covered his hands and backpack, marking him as a delinquent.

If they met on the street, Eoin would probably want to steer clear of him.

The boy’s pride was instantly stung. He plopped down cross-legged across from Eoin, deliberately slamming his backpack onto the nearby chair with a loud thud, and then spoke nonchalantly, "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

Eoin’s eyes had been fixed on the wound on the back of his hand. Then he pushed up his glasses and smiled gently. "Your father has some things to take care of and has asked me to look after you for a while. Don’t go home for the next couple of days; stay with me."

As he spoke, he slid over a phone recording. A drunk man was swaying on the bed, mumbling like he was in a dream: "Eoin Brennan... it’s you, a distant cousin, recently in Dublin, I’ve asked him to look after you."

Cian nearly burst out laughing.

For a moment, he couldn’t decide if it was some stroke of luck from his distant ancestors that produced a figure like Eoin, who was either rich or well-connected, or if his thoroughly rotten father had lost his mind and, even while drunk, remembered to find him a temporary caretaker. Which of these two was more ridiculous?

Eoin said, "If you don’t believe me, go ahead and call your father. It really was him who asked me to look after you."

Though he had to pull some strings.

Cian didn’t feel like talking to his father and picked up his backpack. "Fine, where are we headed?"

He eyed Eoin, drawing out the last syllable. "Cousin?"

Eoin hesitated mid-turn.

He quickly covered up the brief pause and naturally took the backpack from Cian’s hand. "I drove here; hop in."

Cian’s breath caught, and he yanked the backpack back from Eoin. "I don’t need you to carry it for me!"

He was a secondary-school student, not a primary-school kid, taller than Eoin, so why should a seemingly frail cousin carry his backpack?

Eoin staggered slightly from the pull but stayed silent, only smiling good-naturedly. "Fine, carry it yourself."

Cian was even more annoyed.

This cousin who appeared out of nowhere treated him like a three-year-old, with a mix of helplessness and indulgence, as if he needed coaxing to cooperate.

But one doesn’t hit a smiling face, and with Eoin’s demeanour, Cian couldn’t lash out, only pulling a long face as he watched Eoin open the boot to place his backpack and then walk around to open the passenger door for him.

It felt even more like taking care of a three-year-old.

Cian’s anger flared, and he sat down in a huff. Eoin got in and gently reminded him, "Fasten your seatbelt."

Cian was momentarily speechless.

This feeling was truly strange. In the first few decades of Cian’s life, his father treated him like an enemy, teachers and classmates avoided him, and other relatives were like strangers. Yet this unseen "cousin" spoke kindly, telling him to fasten his seatbelt.

He muttered, "I know, no need to nag," but still obediently fastened it.

Eoin held the steering wheel and drove to a riverside residential area beside the Liffey.

This place was adjacent to a business district, with two prestigious primary schools nearby, and the property prices were sky-high. Cian thought to himself, "Indeed, either rich or well-connected."

Eoin lived in a large riverside apartment. As Cian entered, Eoin pointed to a room. "You’ll stay here from now on."

He led Cian around for a quick tour and smiled apologetically. "Time was tight, couldn’t arrange much, but I bought you some small things—see if you like them."

Cian couldn’t possibly dislike them; Eoin had bought them according to his preferences.

Cian didn’t have many interests; he liked playing video games, so his room had a floor-standing display and matching controllers. He was into riding motorcycles, so there was a limited-edition helmet and motorcycle keys in the room. Even his favourite drinks and snacks, Eoin knew them all.

"..."

Cian glanced around and awkwardly muttered, "Thanks."

He rarely said it, his face stiff and his stance uneasy. Eoin didn’t comment on it and was about to leave to give Cian some private space when something suddenly occurred to him: "Oh, by the way, you’re gearing up for the Leaving Cert, huh?"

He looked at Cian’s school uniform and the name tag on his backpack. "I recall your father mentioning you’re about to enter your final year of secondary school? So you’ll have to cut back on gaming. You can only play after finishing your exam papers."

Cian was already feeling super awkward.

He couldn’t understand why this cousin was so nosy. Handling his living situation was one thing, but now he was even sticking his nose into his studies. Cian hadn’t cracked a book in over a year.

But Eoin was serious.

That night, he actually showed up with exam papers at Cian’s door, asking, "Wanna give it a shot?"

Eoin’s look was earnest, and Cian, feeling grateful and a bit guilty, reluctantly agreed. He found himself at the desk with a pen in hand.

It was a set of science practice papers. Cian began scribbling away, half-asleep. The exam was a good seven or eight pages, and Cian only got less than a page. He dashed through it and was about to stash it when Eoin grabbed the papers.

Eoin began marking.

He sat in the chair, his silver-framed glasses catching the warm glow of the desk lamp. Even the way he held the pen was graceful. Cian, thinking about his terrible answers, lightly curled his fingers.

—Eoin would probably think he was a good-for-nothing.

It was strange. Teachers and classmates all thought he was a good-for-nothing, and Cian prided himself on being one. But now, he suddenly felt a bit sad.

However, Eoin finished marking the papers with a calm expression, made some marks, and then looked up at Cian: "Tired?"

Cian: "...What?"

Eoin: "Want to sit here and listen to my explanation?"

Silence.

Eoin didn’t rush, just sat quietly. Cian, unable to sit still, moved to the chair.

He had encountered so little kindness in his life that a few gentle words from someone made it hard for him to refuse.

Eoin held the pen and began explaining smoothly.

His words were clear, his tone gentle, and his explanations were fluid, hitting the key points and breaking down the knowledge layer by layer. Cian initially didn’t want to learn, but as he listened, he ended up absorbing most of it.

As the clock passed midnight, Eoin closed the pen cap and nudged Cian’s shoulder: "Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up for breakfast tomorrow."