THE ANALYST

Broccoli.

The mere mention of the word has never reminded me of vegetables. It reminds me of science.

I'd always believed broccoli to be one of those crops humanity had meticulously engineered into something superior to its natural predecessor—denser in nutrients, richer in flavour, and, to the delight of my admittedly indolent self, succulent enough that cooking it required little more than a gentle simmer instead of the constant ritual of replenishing the pot with water.

Whether that belief was scientifically accurate had never concerned me.

It simply made perfect sense.

Perhaps that was why I found myself scrutinizing the broccoli.

One head, however, immediately distinguished itself. It wasn't green. It wore an unmistakable shade of pumpkin orange—a rich, almost Tuscan Sunset hue that defied everything I knew about the vegetable, compelling me to question whether my eyes—or nature itself—had deluded me.

I turned it over in my hands, searching for an ordinary explanation, yet none presented itself. Every floret bore the same improbable colour, as though the laws of nature had been quietly revised while the rest of us remained blissfully unaware.

"Excuse me," I called to the vendor. "What kind of broccoli is this?"

The elderly man shifted his gaze from me to the vegetable.

For the briefest of moments, his expression faltered.

The genial smile that had welcomed every customer before me dissolved into an uneasy silence.

Before he could utter a single word—

Bang!!

An overwhelming force collided with the back of my head.

The impact propelled me forward while the deafening clang of metal reverberated throughout the market.

Disoriented, I turned just in time to watch a dented trash can tumble across the pavement.

Whoever had swung it had bent the steel upon impact.

My vision swam.

Then a familiar voice pierced through the confusion.

"Samuel!"

My aunt.

I'd have recognized that voice anywhere.

She hurried toward me, but the instant her eyes settled on the man behind me, she came to an abrupt halt.

The colour drained from her face.

"Savage..." she breathed.

"What are you doing?"

I followed her gaze.

The man towered over the crowd, broad-shouldered and imposing, his hand still wrapped around what remained of the battered trash can.

Until that moment, I had never laid eyes on him.

Yet the surname echoed in my mind.

Savage.

It was an exceptionally rare family name—one so uncommon that only a single household I knew bore it.

The realization settled over me with unsettling clarity.

He wasn't a stranger.

He was my step-uncle.

Instinctively, I raised my prosthetic hand, though I knew it offered little advantage against a man of his stature.

Instead, I retreated beneath a nearby vegetable stall, hoping the wooden frame would provide at least the illusion of protection.

His eyes never abandoned me.

There was no hesitation within them.

Only unrelenting rancour.

At the time, I couldn't fathom its origin.

I would soon learn that, in his eyes, I was no longer family.

I was the analyst whose economic assessment had precipitated a cascade of panic.

Corporations had frozen expansion.

Businesses had terminated leases.

Employers had begun dismissing workers before the anticipated downturn could tighten its grip.

Whether my analysis had merely foreseen the crisis or had inadvertently accelerated people's fear was, to him, an irrelevant distinction.

As far as Savage was concerned...

I had become the architect of his downfall.