Episode 35

The polished mahogany of Douglas Michael’s desk gleamed under the soft lamp, reflecting the icy glint in his eyes. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clinking a brittle counterpoint to the churning within him. His gaze drifted to the framed photograph on the corner of the desk – a younger, leaner version of himself, crisp in his Navy uniform, a defiant swagger in his posture. The Vietnam War felt like another lifetime, a crucible that had forged a man he no longer recognized, or perhaps, a man who had always lurked beneath the surface, waiting for his moment.

He thought of Saco, of the coastal mist that clung to the town like a shroud, a constant reminder of the life he’d built, brick by avaricious brick. His son, a volatile echo of his own darker impulses, was a constant source of anxiety, a living testament to the rot that had taken root. The inheritance, once a promise of security, had become a foundation for a kingdom built on stolen hopes and shattered trust. He remembered the sting of his parents' disapproval, the subtle jabs about his choices, the burning of that flag a desperate, misguided cry for attention. But it was the memory of his sister, the one they all called "little," that truly gnawed at him. The white sheep, they’d called her, the one who never strayed, who cared for their ailing parents with a devotion that bordered on the fanatical. He’d always resented her quiet strength, her unwavering goodness, a stark contrast to the chaos that defined his own existence. It was a jealousy that had festered, growing into a monstrous thing that demanded to be fed.

Across town, Kim Yhom, a man whose financial empire was as vast as his capacity for resentment, stared out at the manicured lawns of his estate. The sisters' trust fund, the bedrock of his success, was a constant, acrid reminder of the family he’d left behind, the sister he’d never truly forgiven. Her quiet resilience, her refusal to be broken by their parents' cruelty, had always irked him. He saw in her a reflection of their shared past, a past he desperately wanted to outrun, yet was forever tethered to. He couldn't comprehend her ability to endure, to remain unblemished by the same darkness that had consumed him. His own inability to let go of the past, to forgive the transgressions of their parents, seemed to be a burden she had somehow shed, and that, more than anything, fueled his simmering anger.