Karvel stood in front of his mother’s bed, his tall figure filling the small room. The peace in the room felt weak, like thin glass. One wrong word could shatter it.“I’m sorry it took me so long to come and visit,” Karvel said.His voice was calm and respectful. But there was no warmth in it. No softness. His mother noticed at once She sat against the pillows on the bed. Her body looked small under the thick blanket, thinner than before. Her hair was fully covered with a light scarf, neatly tied as always. She had always cared about looking proper, even now, even when sickness had taken away much of her strength.Her eyes, however, were still sharp. Strong. They watched Karvel closely, missing nothing.Karvel stepped closer to the bed. His footsteps were slow and careful, as if the floor itself might break under him. Beside the bed was a small wooden table, old but clean. On it sat a cup of water. Untouched.Karvel picked up the cup gently. He held it with both hands, steady, care

Morrison stepped out of the office and walked down the long corridor. The soft morning light filtered through the windows, making the polished floors shine. He was about to head toward the garden when Liza appeared from one of the rooms. She looked worried, but there was determination in her eyes.“Hello,” she said softly, taking a step closer. “I think… I know you.”Morrison stopped in his tracks and studied her. She looked familiar, yet he couldn’t place her at first. “Good morning,” he said politely, extending his hand for a handshake.“Mr. Morrison,” Liza said, her tone cautious but respectful.“Yes, that’s me. What are you doing here?” Morrison asked, trying to hide his curiosity behind calm professionalism.Liza glanced toward the room she had just come out from, then back at Morrison. Her brow furrowed, and she took a small breath. “We brought Grandma here. A fake doctor came to our house to give her an injection… it almost killed her.”Morrison’s eyes widened slightly. He shoo

Morrison lowered his phone and sighed."I tried to call him again," Morrison said to Kavel. His voice was tight, filled with worry.Kavel stood beside the car, his hand gripping the door handle. He pressed his phone screen again and shook his head. "It’s still not going through. What do you think is wrong?" he asked.Morrison frowned. "Maybe the signal is bad. Or maybe someone blocked the call." He paused. "Did you check the message again?"Kavel unlocked his phone and opened the message. He read it slowly, his lips moving as his eyes followed every word.“Kavel, I don’t know why you didn’t pick up the call. I just want to inform you that my life and your wife’s life are in danger. If you don’t come quickly, we might get killed.”Kavel’s face went pale. His jaw tightened as he read the message again. And again. Each time, his chest felt heavier. The words refused to change. The danger felt real.He looked up at Morrison, his eyes full of fear and doubt."Their lives are in danger," Ka

Elena stood still, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Her heart was racing, pounding hard against her chest, but she refused to look weak in front of him. She lifted her head and stared straight at Richard, trying to understand how everything had gone so terribly wrong.“Why are you doing all this?” she asked slowly. Her voice was calm, but the pain inside it was impossible to hide. “You didn’t have to destroy everything. You could have gone to meet Grandma. If you had done that, she would have given the company back to you.”Richard looked at her for a few seconds.Then he laughed.It was not a happy laugh. It was cold and mocking—the kind of laugh that made fear crawl under the skin.“Oh, my dear,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve said this many times before. I warned them again and again. I begged them to listen to me. But none of them did.”He paused and looked straight at her.“Not even you.”He walked slowly across the room, his shoes making soft sounds against the floor.

The young boy stood in front of his parents. He was already dressed in his school uniform. It was clean but simple, the kind worn by children from middle-class homes. The shirt was white, ironed but a little old. His trousers were dark blue, with soft lines at the knees from being worn too many times. His shoes were polished, yet the soles were thin. He looked ready for school, but his face showed no excitement.His father sat across the room, his posture stiff, his expression hard. He was an old man, with grey hair at his temples and deep lines around his mouth. Those lines had come from years of anger, stress, and control. “How many times did I warn you not to be with those useless boys?” the old man said. His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet room.The boy did not flinch. He stood still, his hands at his sides. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said. His voice was calm, almost careless, like the words meant nothing to him.That tone angered the old man even more. He leaned forward