Page 98 of I See You

She nodded as the memory clicked. “For your father, right?”

Hassan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his jaw tightening slightly. “It wasn’t for him, though.”

There was a sharpness in his voice now, like just saying the words pulled something buried too close to the surface. Sevyn stayed silent, listening.

“It wasn’t for money. Wasn’t for status. Sure as hell wasn’t to make my father proud.” His voice tightened on that last part, his fingers twitching around the blunt before he brought it to his lips. He took a deep pull before resting his forearm on his knee, his gaze locked on the smoke curling between them.

Sevyn caught the shift in his energy. It wasn’t just an explanation— this was something deeper.

“I did it outta spite.”

The confession sat between them, heavy and unfiltered. He looked at her then, searching for judgment, waiting for the usual reaction he got when he told people the truth. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She just looked at him, eyes warm and steady, giving him the space to continue.

Hassan flicked the blunt into the ashtray, watching the embers die before leaning back against the couch.

“My pops was a gambler. Not the ‘every now and then’ type. Nah. That motherfucka’ bet on everything. Cards, dice, sports—you name it, he lost money on it. I used to watch him come home, pockets empty, smelling like whiskey and regret. Watched my mom cry herself to sleep while he swore ‘this time’ was different.”

His voice was sharper now, edged with something darker. Anger. Resentment. Memories that still cut too deep.

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Youknow what the worst part was? He wasn’t even tryna win. He just… couldn’t stop. It was like losing was his addiction. Like throwing away everything we had made him feel alive.”

Sevynfeltsomethingtighteninherchest,butshedidn’tspeak.

This wasn’t about her. This was his pain.

"I watched my fucking parents die at six years old because of that nigga and his gambling problem."

Hassan’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap, but what caught Sevyn off guard wasn’t his words—it was the way his voice cracked, the slightest fracture in the mask he always wore. His face stayed emotionless, but that crack in his voice told a story his expression refused to show.

Sevyn’s breath hitched, eyes widening at the revelation, but she didn’t interrupt. She let him talk.

“My pops was an accountant. Smart as hell, but dumb as fuck at the same time.” Hassan exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his hands flexing against his knees. “He worked for a powerful man—the type that don’t call the cops when money goes missing. The type that don’t let anybody steal from him and walk away.”

Sevyn caught it then. The way his hands trembled slightly before he curled them into fists. The way he flicked the blunt into the ashtray, like he suddenly didn’t need it. His voice, though—steady. Too steady. Like this wasn’t pain, just another fact.

“Thought he was smarter than the house, smarter than the odds. Thought he could take a little, flip it, put it back before anybody noticed.” Hassan scoffed bitterly, his head tilting slightly as if he could still hear his father justifying his choices. “But the only thing he flipped was his own fucking fate.”

The tension rolling off him was thick, suffocating, pressing into the space between them. Sevyn didn’t move, didn’t say anything—just watched as he disappeared into the memory.

She could see it now, playing in his head, burned into his mind like a scar that never faded.

“A hitman came for him at night.” His voice was quieter now, darker. A haunting calm. “I remember it was raining, ‘cause I could hear it hitting the window when he kicked the door in.”

Hassan’s fingers twitched slightly. Sevyn wondered if he noticed. “I was on the floor. In the corner. Small enough that they barelypaid me any attention.” His voice was eerily calm, like he was reading the weather report instead of describing the worst night of his life.

Then, he paused. His eyes darkened, his breathing slowed—like he was there again, six years old, helpless and scared.

“But I saw everything.”

Sevyn’s stomach twisted, but she didn’t dare interrupt. She could feel the weight of his memory pressing into the room, heavy and suffocating.

Hassan leaned back against the couch, running his tongue over his teeth, like he was tasting the past. Bitterness settled deep in his expression,hisfeaturessharpening,hisbodylanguagetenseyet eerily composed.

“He made him beg first.” His voice was still steady, too steady. “Told him he had a choice—him or my mother.”

His eyes found Sevyn’s, but she knew he wasn’t really looking at her. He was looking through her, past her, into the darkness of that night.

Sevyn swallowed hard, a slow, aching dread curling inside her. She already knew what happened next. She could see it in the way his entire body braced, in the way his jaw flexed and his fingers curled into fists. But it wasn’t just the story itself—it was the way he told it. Like it was just another fact. Like it was nothing at all.

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