***Outside the Milton Estate, 10:00 p.m.*** Steven, pulling his jacket tighter, muttered sternly, “That’s it… no more. I’m done with this family, they can now have fun, useless!” “Sir, it’s late.” One of the Milton guards uttered. Steven glares at him and sneered; “Don’t you dare call me ‘sir.’ I’m no one here.” After those words, he began walking, putting one foot in front of the other. The gates creaked shut behind him. A faint wind howled through the tall hedges. He was fed up with everything they put him through over the years, his stomach grumbled from hunger, but he didn't care. He shoved his hands into his suit pockets. His fingers brushed the $300 in crumpled bills. He didn't know how Helen didn't feel the cash earlier while she was searching, so she could accuse him of stealing. That 300 dollar was from his past menial jobs, over the years, not theirs. He glanced back once, just enough to see the grand windows glowing in the distance. “Not even if Go

THE NEXT MORNING The city awoke to a storm—one born not of wind or rain, but of words. It was in the air, in the restless shuffle of morning commuters, the eager whispers that were quickly going round in coffee shops and restaurants. Everyone was talking about the Miltons. The headlines screamed from newsstands like a public verdict: "THE MILTON CRUELTY—EVEN TO THEIR OWN BLOOD!" "MOTHER REJECTS SON, EMBRACES ADOPTED HEIR!" "DISGRACE IN THE HOUSE OF POWER!" By breakfast, the entire city was devouring the scandal like a feast. News anchors recited the details with barely concealed relish, reporters positioned outside the Milton estate like vultures awaiting the next fall of flesh. The public’s outrage was a living, breathing thing. On social media, the outrage boiled into vicious, unfiltered attacks, the Miltons are in on it now! Comments filled every social media handles: “I am glad I was there to watch it all live and direct. These people are nothing to wri

Her posture was composed, her expression unreadable, but her eyes were fixed not on him, but on the object now clasped tightly in his hand. Luisa leaned forward, her voice gentle but laced with curiosity. “You are in a hospital, as you can see,” she said, her gaze flicking to the strange emblem he held. “What is that you’re holding, and where did you get it from? Did you… steal it?” Her tone wasn’t hostile, but the precision in her words carried weight. She wasn’t asking out of idle interest, she was asking with precision and purpose. Steven blinked slowly, the fog of unconsciousness still clearing. His throat was dry, but he managed to speak. “My name is Steven… Do I know you?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How did I get here?” He wasn’t going to answer her question just yet, not before he understood who this striking, self-assured woman was and why she seemed so intent on that object. Luisa’s lips pressed into a thin line. She was used to people answering her direct

The afternoon sunlight shines through the wide hospital windows, spilling over the spotless floor tiles and glinting off the polished chrome rails. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and well, the nurses had been trying to make the ward smell less… clinical. Steven sat on the edge of his bed, one arm resting casually on his knee. He had been pacing earlier, forcing himself to move, testing how far he could go without showing a grimace. The pain was there—sharp, like invisible knives under his ribs. But years in prison had taught him that weakness was an invitation for predators. He wouldn’t give anyone that invitation, not then and definitely not now! The metallic click of the door handle turning made him pause. He straightened instinctively, and then she walked in. Luisa Payne! Dressed in an immaculate cream suit, gold watch on her wrist, heels clicking against the floor with authority. She looked as though she’d just stepped out of an important board meeting to co

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her voice like velvet over a blade. "Then I will be the one to erase you, but I can't do that, you are trusted by Elias Smith and until he is found, you are to take his place as the president of the entire secret organisation!" Steven turned the insignia over in his palm, feeling the weight of it—not just the metal, but the meaning. Luisa’s words still echoed in his head. “You’re either a weapon… or a corpse.” He knew what she wasn’t saying outright: this wasn’t a welcome, it was a test. The Black Ledger Circle didn’t hand out power—they made you earn it, alone, in the shadows. "The insignia is your key," she had told him before stepping away, her tone unreadable. "But a key is useless unless you know the lock." He stared at the etched patterns on its surface. They weren’t random. He knew enough to recognize cipher markings, deliberately disguised as artistic curves. A passkey. Somewhere in those lines lay the door into the