Instead of actively looking for a place to stay, Allen walked around the streets aimlessly, his mind a turbulent storm. He knew he had said too much—that he had burned down the bridges to his family home with a flamethrower—but he also felt a deep, unshakable conviction that it wasn't right to continue harboring a senseless hatred toward innocent offspring who were merely born from their parents' past sins.
When he was young, about Neon's age, Allen had stumbled across several dusty, leather-bound photo albums in their expansive attic, where everything the Morgans deemed obsolete or unnecessary was sent to gather dust. Flipping through the yellowed pages, he had found a series of old family pictures. With just a single glance, he could tell it was his mother's side of the family. He easily recognized his young aunties and his grandparents, but his eyes kept snagging on a cheerful little boy sitting dead center in the portraits.
