Whitley knocked and promptly received a muffled, "Enter," in response. He opened the door and stepped into the office.

"You wished to see me, Father?" he said with a prepubescent voice.

"Sit." Their father sat behind his desk with a large portrait of his younger self on the wall behind him, different from the one that hung there in the present day—he used to commission a new one every few years.

Whitley obeyed.

"I've just finished speaking with the academy. Your advancement has been approved. You will be attending high school come the end of summer."

"As expected."

"Indeed. You will be enrolled in honors classes for all core subjects, and opportunities for dual credit will begin in your sophomore year. I expect your grades to remain absolutely perfect."

"Of course, Father."

"Class begins on the thirty-first of August, but you will be attending orientation the day before with the rest of your peers-to-be."

"And Weiss as well?"

"No," he said as he laced his fingers together, his elbows resting on the desk. "It does not seem that that will be the case."

There was a delay in Whitley's response. "Why is that?"

"Your sister has chosen to attend public school going forward."

Again, it took a few seconds before Whitley spoke. "It's because of her semblance, isn't it?"

"That is one of the excuses she gave, yes."

Weiss, watching this through her brother's eyes, felt . . . betrayed? No. That emotion wasn't hers—it was Whitley's.

"I had thought we'd be equals," her brother said, his tone lower than before.

"You are not equals," their father asserted. "You having now skipped three grades while she only skipped one does not change that. As much as she wastes her potential, there is a reason why she is set to take my seat in the company and not you—and it is not simply because she is older. You still have a ways to go before you prove yourself more deserving of that honor."

Whitley shifted his gaze to the floor. "I would never wish to steal it from her."

"Look at me."

Whitley, after a moment, did as he was ordered.

"That is precisely why you do not yet have what it takes to do what I do."

The window vanished, and Weiss was left standing alone among the trees of the Emerald Forest. That was the second memory she'd come across. She'd come in here prepared to find their mother's first episode sooner or later, and lo and behold, it had showed up immediately. She didn't watch it.

Weiss set off in search of the third window, her rapier sheathed at her side. She wasn't expecting to run into any Grimm. She believed Whitley when he said he wasn't mentally ill, but that alone didn't absolve him. A mental illness isn't requisite to be a bad person; you don't have to be a sociopath to take someone's life. As far as Weiss had been able to see, Roman Torchwick had been completely sane, though it was also possible she just hadn't spent enough time in his mindscape to see proof of the contrary. Regardless, it'd take something far more concrete to prove her brother's innocence.

The memory she'd just seen didn't contribute toward that goal, but still her mind lingered on it. Her father had painted her in an unexpected light, no doubt to foster a sense of competitiveness in Whitley. He'd done the same thing to Weiss, often insinuating that he'd rather have Whitley take over as CEO than her if she didn't improve. She'd never thought to doubt it until now, because of course Whitley would make a better successor in their father's eyes.

The two siblings had both spent much of their lives striving to meet their father's impossible expectations. Where they differed is that Whitley had done it for him, and Weiss had done it in spite of him—it was her pride in the family name, her grandfather, and the company her grandfather created that caused her to submit to their father's control so willingly. She'd always thought that distinction created a great disparity between their individual upbringings. Now she knew that wasn't true. Whitley had gone through the exact same things she had—maybe even worse, considering how much more susceptible he'd been to their father's manipulation.

Sooner than expected, another window appeared before her. It showed a view even lower to the ground than the last. Whitley was entering the dining hall and taking his seat at the table beside their father.

"You're late," the man said.

Whitley turned his head to glance at the clock, which showed he had arrived not even thirty seconds past six o'clock.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said. He didn't sound any older than eight. "It would seem I'm not the only one."

"No, you are," their father said. "Your mother is resting off a migraine, and your sisters will not be joining us for the next three days."

"Why not?"

"They've gone to Mistral. There's a new opera playing over there that Winter wished to attend, so she requested to make a full trip of it to show Weiss around the city. Your mother insisted it'd be good for them, so I allowed it."

"But . . ." Whitley started to say, trailing off.

"Speak in complete sentences, boy."

Whitley cleared his throat. "Yes, Father."

A silence lingered until their father spoke again. "You're wondering why you didn't get to go with them."

Whitley hesitated. "Yes, Father."

"The reason is that they didn't want you." He spoke with feigned disinterest, but Weiss knew he'd taken great care in choosing his words. "Winter planned the entire excursion, and thus it was up to her to invite you."

"But that's not fair," Whitley said, his voice starting to rise ever so slightly. "Why does she always seem to favor Weiss over—?"

"Watch your tone," their father snapped. "Losing one's temper is not becoming. Now enough discussion. It's time to eat."

Whitley, his fists clenched, didn't dare disobey. "Yes, Father."

As the window faded, Weiss thought back on that trip. It didn't sound right to her. When Winter had first brought up the idea, she'd spoken as if all three of them would be going, but it had been Weiss—a younger, more selfish Weiss—who expressed disappointment that it wouldn't just be her and Winter. Their father had latched onto that and said it was just as well since he needed Whitley at home regardless, despite Winter's attempts to persuade him otherwise.

Winter had never willfully favored Weiss over Whitley. She'd tried repeatedly to reach out to him, and he'd rebuffed her every single time. This was the reason why. There had never been a chance for him to have a relationship with either of them because their father had been actively working against it.

Briefly, Weiss wondered why he would do that, but the answer came easily. It was strictly because they had each other that Weiss and Winter were who they were today—that they could be true to themselves and not become what their father tried to shape them into. She imagined a world where she'd never had Winter to go to, to lean on, to receive encouragement and tough but genuine love from. She'd have stayed in private school. She wouldn't have given up on her business degree. She never would have left Atlas. She never would have learned how to form meaningful bonds like the one she'd once had with Blake and the one she now had with Ruby. She'd have been a perfect, sycophantic child.

If not for Winter, she would have been just like Whitley.

The next memory showed their father on the other side of a window wearing plain beige clothes. Whitley sat across from him and grabbed the corded phone off the wall. A prolonged silence hung over the scene before the older man picked up the one on his side.

"Hello, Father," Whitley said.

The man, his expression unreadable, said nothing.

"They've . . ." Whitley swallowed. "They've re—"

"Speak in complete sentences, boy." Their father's voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable hint of suppressed rage within it.

"They've resolved to liquidate the company."

A long delay preceded their father's response. "I see."

"There was nothing I could do. With your position vacant along with those of half the board, it didn't take long to reach a unanimous decision. Nothing would have changed even if I had a vote."

"Nothing you could do, is that right?" Another pause, and when he spoke again, the hint of anger was more pronounced. "Interesting, really, how you're the last of my children to come see me."

Weiss felt the words cut her brother.

"I've been scrambling to pick up the pieces," Whitley said. "They're attempting to strip us of everything we have left. It's taken all my effort to save what little I can. I was the only one present throughout the entire legal process."

"For all the good that did."

Hypocrite, Weiss thought.

"There's still the appeal," said Whitley.

With a noise that barely came through on the phone, their father slammed his fist down on the table, and then his tone was just below shouting. "There is no appeal. Do you understand that? You already know the result as well as I. Things like this don't happen to people like me!"

You mean accountability? Weiss thought, failing to not let the man rile her up.

"There are other entrepreneurs who've done much the same or worse as I," their father continued, "and the most they'll ever see is a fine or a slap on the wrist, because that's how the system works. That's how capitalism works. I was good at it, and now I'm here, having to hear from you about how they're destroying my greatest achievements as we speak."

"Achievements?" Weiss said aloud in disbelief, too affronted to hold it back. His negligence and callous exploitation ruined countless lives all around the world, and he called those achievements?

"You're saying this was orchestrated," Whitley said, oblivious to Weiss's outburst.

"Of course it was orchestrated!'' their father said. "It took you this long to figure it out?"

"I'll find them, Father," Whitley promised. "Whomever they may be. I won't let them get away with this."

"You already have! My word. After all this time, after everything that's happened—still, you have not the gall to speak for yourself or to take power into your own hands. Still, you come to me—as I'm in here—and behave so obsequiously." He let the words hang in the air for several moments, then added, "You're a bigger disappointment than your sisters."

Weiss suspected that the emotions she sensed from these memories were only a portion of what Whitley had actually felt. So if the hurt and betrayal she was feeling were this overwhelming, she could only imagine just how wounded her brother had truly been in this moment.

"I've skipped several grades of school," Whitley said, his voice more vulnerable than Weiss had ever known him to be capable of. "I got perfect scores on every test. I have a master's degree in both software engineering and business, and I'm only twenty. I've lived my entire life, striving in every moment to be exactly who you wanted me to be." Whitley waited for some sort of change in their father's expression, but there was none. "None of us could have ever been good enough for you, could we? There isn't a single universe where you're satisfied with any of the children that you raised."

"You think I wanted children?" Jacques said. "I courted your mother because of who her father was. I impregnated her because having an heir would cement my eventual position as CEO of Nicholas's company. In an ideal universe, none of you would have ever existed."

A tense stillness ensued. For a while, all Whitley could do was sit and stare. Then, with an eerie calmness, he replaced the phone onto its holder, stood, and walked away.

As the window vanished, Weiss slowly slumped into a sitting position. She felt numb. Deep down, nothing new was learned. But still, to hear it all said aloud by him, so coldly and brazenly . . . It forced her to accept a truth long buried—that she never truly had a father and never could have. That missing piece Weiss had spent so long searching for didn't exist. There was no changing him. This hole in her heart would never be filled.

Weiss hugged her arms to her chest, taking slow, shaky breaths. She struggled to process this wave of emotions, unable to tell which were hers and which were Whitley's. And on top of that, a new fear was starting to form. None of these memories exonerated her brother—if anything, they just established motive. She wasn't sure she could handle having hope dangled in front of her and then ripped away once more.

Before she was ready for it, another memory appeared before her. Whitley was looking over a railing at a gorgeous canyon with a sparkling river snaking through it far, far below. It was noon with clear skies, allowing the sunlight to sparkle off the surface of the water. The lack of wind lent to an enduring tranquility, only hindered by the sound of passing vehicles behind him that suggested he was on a bridge. The landscape didn't look like anything in Remnant, which meant this must have taken place after the previous memory during his time abroad.

For a few minutes, that was all there was. Whitley said nothing, hardly moved, and soaked in the view. Weiss couldn't help but appreciate it along with him. There was no rush in here, after all.

"I promise it won't look as nice on your way down," a lightly accented voice eventually said.

Whitley looked to his right to see a man approaching, mid-twenties at the oldest. He had a laid-back demeanor to him and was somewhat handsome, but his cheap and loose-fitting attire was holding him back.

"I have no intention of finding out," Whitley said, returning his gaze to the canyon.

"You sure about that?" The stranger leaned against the railing right beside him. "'Cause you've got this real . . . heavy aura about you."

"I'm certain."

"Then what brings you around? You don't look like you're from here, but you don't seem the tourist type, either."

Whitley didn't answer, and the stranger didn't push him to. The wind picked up a little bit as the lull in the conversation persisted.

"And why, pray tell, are you here?" Whitley eventually asked.

The stranger turned around so he was almost sitting on the railing, his back to the canyon. "Well it's a nice day, yeah? I missed the sun. My little sister died a few months ago, so I switched to night shifts for the lighter workload. Good to spend my day off taking a long, midday walk now and again."

"That's quite a forthcoming answer."

"It helps, you know. You tend to feel a lot lighter when you don't keep as much bottled up inside."

"Even with someone you're not acquainted with?"

"Especially with people you don't know. Secrets don't mean much to those you'll never see again."

After a pause, Whitley asked, "How did she die?"

The stranger met his eyes, then turned his head to cast a grim glance over the edge of the bridge.

"My sympathies," Whitley said.

"Last thing I ever said to her, I called her a coward. I guess she wanted to prove me wrong." The stranger let out a deep sigh. "But you can't change the past—only learn to accept it."

"Did you?"

The stranger gave a smile that didn't meet his eyes. "Of course not."

Whitley's attention was now fully on the man, more fascinated by him than the canyon below. He watched as the stranger pulled out a pack of cigarettes and proceeded to place one between his lips before lighting it.

"Want one?" the stranger said after a long drag.

"I'll decline," said Whitley.

"To each their own. So what is it, then? What beguiles you?" the stranger said in a light jab at Whitley's manner of speaking.

"I don't believe you know what that word means."

"You lose someone too?"

Whitley hesitated. "No, not quite."

"Daddy issues, then?"

Whitley didn't say anything, but his reaction seemed to give away the answer.

The stranger shrugged. "Fifty-fifty guess. Pretty rich boy out seeing the world, sad and alone, hair dyed despite the fancy suit. Gotta be some sort of crisis at home."

"My hair isn't dyed."

The man cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh no? White, that's your natural color?"

"It's a rare genetic mutation passed on from my great-grandfather. He's actually from here."

Whether the stranger believed him or not, he didn't push the subject any further. "Well, if you do want to spill your woes after all, I'm not going nowhere."

Whitley returned his eyes to the view. By the time he finally spoke, the stranger had finished his cigarette, stamped it out, and placed the butt into his pocket—he didn't even wrap it in anything.

"My father isn't who I thought he was," Whitley said. Then, after a pause, "No. That's a lie. I always knew who he was. I respected his ruthlessness, his cunning, his power. I was loyal despite the way he treated us, unlike my sisters, because I sought to be like him. I'm now coming to realize that I never had it in me, to be that kind of person. He knew it as well. So when everything fell to pieces, he had no reason to continue treating me any differently to how he treated everyone else."

"So be better than him," the stranger said. "This guy sounds like a real dickhole to me. Is that really what you want to be? A dickhole?"

"Maybe not in such crude terms, but yes, I suppose, once upon a time. It's requisite to succeed like he did and hold the level of power he held. I'm not certain you'd be able to understand. Your laws and economy are different here. Remnant is an oligarchy in all but name."

"I get it. Can't be a big shot without stomping all over the tiny people. And that's what you wanted?"

"It was the path laid out for me since before I was born. My grandfather founded the company, and my elder sisters and I would eventually hold executive positions within it. I dedicated myself wholeheartedly to that goal, without question. I chose to ignore the darker realities of what my father had turned the company into—accept them, even. It gave me purpose, a path in life. Now the company is gone, and I'm here on a bridge in another country having a more open conversation with a man I've never met before than I can remember ever having with any of my family members." Whitley momentarily closed his eyes as he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I don't know where to go from here."

"Life isn't easy. It's not supposed to be."

"But it always has been. And now it isn't."

"That's okay. Boo-hoo. You don't get to ride the nepotism train to an easy life with all the answers handed to you. But now you've got the chance to be a person—to make your own choices, find your own identity, and forge your own path."

"I don't know how to do that."

"That's kind of the point. Most of us don't have our shit figured out. But we keep pushing forward because we have hope we'll find the right answers sooner or later. Sorry if I'm getting too cheesy here but, like—you've got to actually live in order to live, my friend."

"How erudite," Whitley commented with a hint of sarcasm.

Despite this, Weiss felt a blossoming sense of hope as the window faded. Most of it was Whitley's, but some of it was her own.

As she stood and set off once again through the forest, she wondered why Whitley's emotions were coming through so clearly to her. Memories took the form of floating windows, allowing her to see through the owner of the mind's eyes. But when she was in Neo's and Tyrian's minds, she was somehow able to sense when they'd smiled, and even vaguely feel Tyrian's pain when Salem had cut him with his own knife. What was happening now wasn't all too different from that. So why was it so much more potent now than it had been in the past?

She didn't think it was another evolution of her semblance. No, this aspect had always been there. She'd never been just watching memories—she was, on some level, experiencing them. Was it due to her having a much clearer understanding of her brother that she was able to better interpret what he was feeling? They'd always been distant, but there was still a familiarity and minimal bond there that she hadn't had with Neo, Torchwick, Tyrian, or even Ruby at the time Weiss had gone into her mind. If that was the case, did it confirm that Whitley actually was who Weiss always believed him to be after all?

Next came another memory from when Whitley was a lot younger, this one catching Weiss off guard. In it, her mother was smiling—she was happy. It drew Weiss in like a siren's call, and it took all her willpower to tear her eyes away from it. Once she did, looking back became the most undesirable thing in the world. It was painful. But it was her. Weiss got to see her again, whole, for the first time in years. But it reminded her of what she'd lost.

Weiss reached for the inhibitor in her pocket for comfort, but it wasn't there; she didn't even have pockets in here. She recalled what Ruby had said about why she chose to sleep some nights but not others. Sometimes the thought of possibly having to experience the same nightmare of her mother's murder was too much for Ruby to bear. At others, she wanted the nightmare—she wanted the chance to see her mother again, even if it meant watching her die. Weiss hadn't understood it then, but she did now.

Another window materialized in her path, this one taking them back to the manor. Whitley was in Jacques's office, sitting behind his desk with documents laid out in front of him. The family lawyer sat across from him, reading glasses perched on the tip of their nose as they withdrew even more papers from a briefcase.

"And here I have the revised contract with your requested addition," they said. "This should fully satisfy your investors' concerns and also acknowledges Weiss's acceptance of the shares you're so generously offering her, should she sign it and you get it notarized, of course."

Whitley accepted the document from them and took a bit of time to read it over. "Yes, this is perfect. Thank you."

"Everything else here is in order and should be good enough to be getting started with, however, I would like to bring up the topic of Willow's estate once again."

Whitely sighed. "I would implore you not to."

"This warrants discussion. Leaving so much in her name despite—"

"My mother is alive. Her condition is temporary. Any talks about her claims to family assets will be had when she's able to partake in them herself."

They had a pitying look on their face. "Professionals still report no signs of improvement in Willow's mental state. Her condition has been stagnant for years. It's overdue that—"

"No," Whitley said firmly. "She will recover, no matter how long it takes. I have complete faith in Weiss."

Weiss turned and walked away from the window. She didn't need to see the rest of it—she didn't need to see any others. Whitley didn't know she had the ability to see memories. Even if he did, there was no way for him to manipulate what she saw. If there was proof in here of him being Partridge, she would have seen it by now. This wasn't the mind of the person who'd spoken to her in Schnee Tower. These weren't the recollections of someone who didn't care. This was a place she had no right to continue intruding in.

Weiss returned to the real world, and Whitley's hand was still in hers. This time, when she looked into his eyes, she knew exactly what she saw. She saw the pain of a victim who'd gone through just as much as she had. She saw regret, equal to hers, in regard to circumstances outside their control. She saw fear that certain parts of the past could never be fixed. And, most importantly of all, she saw hope that it wasn't too late to build a better tomorrow, together.

Weiss let his hand fall from hers. She hesitated, then took a step forward and tightly embraced her brother. "I'm sorry," she said, the words coming out as a whispered sob.

Whitley tensed and, after a moment of confusion, awkwardly hugged her back. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"No. There isn't." She pulled away and wiped the tears from her eyes. "It was him. It was always him."

"Partridge?"

Weiss shook her head. "Fa— Jacques. Everything we blamed each other for came from him—all of it."

He studied her for several seconds. "So you've made progress, then? Toward bettering your understanding of your semblance's full capabilities?"

Weiss was momentarily taken aback by his perspicacity, though she knew she shouldn't be. "I wouldn't say that. It evolved. I can see people's memories now."

"I see. And whatever it showed you of my past convinced you of my honesty?"

"Yes. I believe you . . . And I am sorry for hitting you."

There was a tension in his shoulders and an air of nervousness that revealed themselves only as they went away. "I'm grateful, truly . . . And I apologize for attempting to deceive you. Though there are still two falsehoods I have yet to admit to, as you may have seen. I'm not actually acquainted with the Protector of Vale, of course. The rootkit I put on the hard drive of STC data you requested, plus seeing the man I handed it to appear on the news, was enough for me to piece it together. I never took you for a vigilante."

Weiss didn't know what a 'rootkit' was, but she felt very stupid for not considering that he might pull something like that. It had been suspicious how little he'd questioned her motives. Also—

"I am not a vig—" she started to say.

"And the game may not have been as rigged as I led you to believe," Whitley said, cutting her off.

The meaning of his words slowly sunk in, and Weiss's eyes narrowed.

Ruby, who'd been lingering at the edge of the room and trying not to intrude on the siblings' moment, suddenly piped up. "What does that mean?"

"It means that I communicated what I needed to in order to get you here," Whitley said. "I don't truly believe that Partridge's aim was to have you convicted as my accomplices. My theory is that they merely wanted you out of the way, to stop you from interfering. They wanted you arrested on suspicion of aiding me, but as soon as you were cleared, your testimony would have greatly furthered their goal of framing me. That's why they didn't use enough explosives to completely demolish the tower—they wanted you to survive, convinced that I was them."

Weiss crossed her arms. "So you're saying that we didn't have to commit a potential felony to prove our own innocence?"

"Technically, the charge for escaping from custody is equivalent to the charges you were arrested for. Assuming said charges are dropped, your escape won't amount to a felony if you're prosecuted for it at all, which is possible albeit not guaranteed. But yes—I will admit that my decision to break you out was a selfish one. Though had I not done so, it's very likely that Partridge would get away with everything, and there's nothing to say that you two won't be loose ends for them to tie up once their plans for me have concluded."

"Why do you think that we'll be able to make any sort of difference?" Ruby asked. "You said Partridge is beating you, and aren't you supposed to be some sort of super-genius or something?"

Whitley raised an eyebrow at Weiss. "Did my sister give you that impression?"

Weiss shot Ruby a look. "Absolutely not. She's exaggerating."

"Nevertheless, I've already stated my reasoning," Whitley said, a subtle smirk at the corner of his mouth as he responded to Ruby's question. "You have the ability to be less predictable than I am. Partridge didn't even know you existed when they formulated their plans, and thus were unable to account for your semblance and your technological capabilities."

Ruby frowned. "Uhh . . ."

"And you, dear sister," Whitley continued, "do not have an accurate public image. As far as anyone who doesn't personally know you is concerned, you're just the middle child that dropped out of business school and disappeared from the limelight to pursue psychology. Partridge underestimates you."

"You're giving me too much credit," Weiss said, the mistakes she made in Vale fighting their way to the forefront of her mind.

"I have faith that I am not. You were the only one who ever saw through my childish schemes when we were younger . . . I want us to move forward as equals." His lips parted as if to say something else, but then he closed them.

"Okay," Weiss agreed, able to guess what he'd left unsaid. "Equals."

He smiled. "So do you two agree, then, to aid me in this endeavor?"

"If Weiss trusts you," Ruby said readily, "then so do I."

"I do," Weiss said. "And I don't think we have much of a choice at this point."

"Then let's leave," said Whitley. "It's not wise to stay in one place for too long, as wanted as I am. We can discuss strategy in the van."

A/N: Credit to my beta readers: Bardothren and I Write Big. They're great writers who are a huge help with making this story as good as it can be.