Bad Dream

In a grand hall lined with ancient-looking bookshelves and adorned with luxurious decor, two figures stood opposite each other. One of them, a man clad in a dark, expensively tailored suit, radiated an aura of sternness and cold arrogance. His slightly wrinkled but sharp facial features lined by dark brown hair and accompanied by matching deep, dark eyes added to this impression as he focused on the 18-year-old man before him, seemingly gazing down at him despite their similar height.

"What did you say to me, Renato?"

His monotone voice echoed through the large room, causing his counterpart to tense up involuntarily as if cut by an invisible knife.

Despite his reaction, the newly turned 18-year-old replied, his voice shaky and quiet in comparison. "I will leave… father. I… I won't tolerate your abuse any longer," he stammered.

The man in the dark suit clicked his tongue in disdain. "What did you say? I still couldn't hear you properly, son," he said, leaning in slightly, his eyes narrowing.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

Renato struggled to keep his composure under his father's intense gaze. The tension in the room was palpable, each second stretching like an eternity. After a while, the man's wrinkled facial features slowly twisted into a triumphant grimace.

"Now then," he began, his voice dripping with condescension, but his son's voice suddenly interrupted him, catching him off guard.

"You heard me! I am done with you!"

Though still shaky, Renato's voice was now loud and clear, reverberating off the bookshelves. 

The sudden outburst hung in the air, heavy and defiant.

It took his father a moment to process what had just happened. But as he did, disgust and restrained rage crept over his features, and he raised his voice snarled once more.

"I see how it is. Finally grew a spine, huh?"

He inhaled loudly, making his voice sound even louder than before, almost booming in an attempt to make his now visible hate toward his youngest son clearly apparent.

"Now that we are on the same page … I can say it. You are a disgrace of a son. I can't believe Jen died just to give birth to someone like you. A wasted death."

Renato, who had just summoned all his courage to stand up to his tyrannical father, was taken aback. More so, he was shaken to his core by those words, his body frozen, unable to move, unable to hold eye contact.

"Tsk. Abuse, you say? I only disciplined you, tried to mold you into a real man," his father continued, his tone dripping with contempt.

"And now look at you—look at what all my efforts over the years have led to. Nothing. All in vain. My own son has turned against me after all I have done for him, despite what you did to my wife. I gave you a chance!"

Each word pierced deeply into Renato's psyche. It felt as if his past scars, both mental and physical, were opened again, flooding him with pain. His father didn't seem to care.

The man took a step forward, and Renato nearly flinched at the sound of his heels tapping on the floor. "You are not worthy to be my son. You are not worth Jen's sacrifice. Even less are you worthy of the family name Schneeberg, or our legacy, our business."

He paused, perhaps to relish in his son's internal suffering, before finishing his speech. "I really had hopes for you, but they are now gone. You said you wanted to leave? Well then, get out of my sight! I don't want to see you here ever again!"

**Beep! Beep! Beep!**

The harsh sound of the alarm clock shattered Reno's dream, dragging him abruptly into consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he nearly jumped out of bed, his body drenched in cold sweat, hands trembling. 

It took him a few moments to orient himself, the familiar surroundings of his bedroom slowly grounding him. He reached over and silenced the persistent beeping, the metallic box's noise adding to his distress. Swiping his hand across his forehead, he felt the dampness of sweat on his palm.

This nightmare, this recurring torment, was more than a bad dream. It was a haunting replay of a real conversation that had taken place almost seven years ago, just days after his 18th birthday. A memory he wished he could erase: the day his father, Greg Schneeberg, head of the Schneeberg Oil Corporation, had cast him out.

Throughout his childhood, Renato Schneeberg—though he preferred Reno—had been the target of relentless physical and mental abuse from his father. The scars that marked his body were a testament to the former, while his traumatic memories and tendencies bore witness to the latter. Out of fear of vulnerability and a lack of funds, he had never sought therapy. Therapists were costly, and he certainly wasn't going to get any money from his family. His burdens were compounded by the weight of student loans, always looming over him. Though he had finished his medical doctorate and worked as an assisting doctor at a local hospital, the pay was modest at best. It would take years to clear his debt, but at least he found some solace in his work.

Reno was the only one of his siblings who had endured such torment. His two older brothers hadn't had an easy childhood either, but Greg's treatment of them, though strict and cold, hadn't reached the same level of cruelty. Reno knew why his father resented him so deeply: his mother, Jen, had died giving birth to him. 

This burden had weighed on him from the moment he was old enough to understand, a silent accusation that others never voiced but always implied—except for his father, who had made it brutally clear seven years ago.

For a while, Reno just sat in his bed, the sweat slowly drying as the morning sun streamed through the half-open window. Eventually, he calmed down.

It was time to get ready for work. He glanced at the alarm clock.

5:30 AM—his shift started at 7 AM and would last until 7 AM the next day, possibly longer if there was an emergency.

A tired sigh escaped his mouth. His expression was gloomy but determined. This path, difficult as it was, was better than the hell he had escaped. That's what he told himself every time old memories resurfaced.

He pushed back the blanket, exposing his bare skin, only covered by boxer shorts. His upper body, legs, and arms bore numerous scars, marks of his father's cruelty. The objects used had varied—from broken wine bottles to bare knuckles, and once even a kitchen knife.

Reno didn't spare them a glance, refusing to let them dampen his mood.

He wandered through his sparsely furnished bedroom. Aside from a work desk with a stool, the room was filled with seemingly random piles of manuscripts and books scattered across the floor. The hallway he moved into was narrow, made tighter by the massive bookshelves on each side.

As he walked through, various items caught the eye—old paintings, ancient artifacts, and miniature models of the most random things were placed haphazardly. Despite his hatred and fear of his father, Reno shared his love for mysterious treasures and history, a passion that didn't extend to his brothers and probably the only thing his father had liked about him until he had cast him out. There was one more aspect of course, one that had made his dad set high expectations for him; his high intellect. An intellect his brothers couldn't match either.

But that didn't matter anymore. Reno had chosen his own path.

He stopped in the bathroom, inspecting himself in the mirror. The scars were even more visible here, but he managed to ignore them like he usually did. 

What he saw was a roughly 5'11" tall, extremely frail but still somewhat athletic 25-year-old with almost sickly pale skin, chaotic mid-length black hair, and sharp facial features similar to his dad's. His light green eyes contrasted with his father's dark brown ones though. A visual difference that Reno welcomed very much. His hair was also very different to his father's. At last there was a stubble beard which grew along his upper lip and jawline.

"Looking not too bad, Dr. Schneeberg," he muttered to himself, giving off a slight chuckle. 

After that he got started.

His morning routine took about 30 minutes. By 6:05 AM, he was ready to leave for work.

With a swift, practiced motion, he donned a dark gray coat and stepped outside. A cold breeze caressed his skin, banishing the last remnants of tiredness.

Reno, as usual, took public transport—a bus—to get to his workplace. He arrived on time, standing in front of the hospital gate at 6:45 AM, a half-eaten bagel in hand he had bought along the way.

He looked at the gray silhouette of the building complex. The sun had already risen above the horizontal line. Another day was about to start. 

Little did he know, this day held an unexpected event that would soon be uncovered, marking the beginning of a significant change in his life.

With a measured pace he stepped through the entrance.