Edward was only 17, born to rich parents, but destiny kept him apart from a life of wealth and luxury. He lived in a constricted one-room apartment, its walls decorated with flaky paint and its furnishings frayed with time. Situated at a corner was a battered icebox that hummed louder than the blaring horns of vehicles, forcing their way down the road, filling the vacuum of loneliness with its endless chatter. From its lopsided door came the damp, sour breeze of spoiled food. Edward rarely ate at home—who would give him food or the money to buy it? He had no one to call his own except this icebox, gifted long ago by an unknown woman who had taken pity on him on a forgotten birthday. It stood now as both an antique and a memo. Each night, Edward stood by the window. The frame was adorned with fragments of broken glass, all set to fall apart, but a laundry wire he had constructed kept it from collapsing. That same wire also bore the burden of his torn clothes. Everyone in the neighbou

The Diego Circus Arena was bathed in lights, glittering like a wonder kingdom. Golden light bulbs outlined each tent and scaffolding, their glow reflected in the shiny railings and brass hardware. Currents of faces flowed into the entrance, a tide of expectation and hilarity flowing into the evening. Laughter and euphoric chatter rang off the walls. Drums pulsed in time, their beat resonating through the air, drawing the crowd into the heartbeat of the show. Each step into the arena was a step into another realm.Edward remained outside. His red shirt clung to him with sweat, a patchwork of dampness from the relentless sun and toil of lifting cages earlier in the day. His hands throbbed from the labour of lifting rough metal, from pushing and pulling and securing creatures who reeked of hay, sweat, and musk. Around him, performers sparkled in vibrant attire—sequins catching light, feathers caressing shoulders, costumes embroidered with care. He could not mingle. Why should he? He was

Ring, ring. Edward’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. He was fast asleep, but the call jolted him awake.It was Mr Marcus.Why would he be calling me so early? Edward thought, rubbing his eyes.He picked up.“Edward!” Mr Marcus barked through the phone. “Report to my office. Now.”The line went dead.Edward rushed through his morning routine, barely pulling himself together before running outside. Clara stood by her scooter.“Hello there,” she greeted.“Hi Clara, would you mind taking me by your scooter? I have somewhere urgent to go.”“I’m headed to the circus,” he said slowly. " But why are you in such a hurry?"Clara hesitated, biting her lip.“Just take me there!” Edward snapped, more desperate than angry.She had no option but to let him on, though she kept wondering why Edward was in such a rush.Sooner or later, they arrived at the circus. Edward jumped off before the scooter stopped and sped off toward Marcus’s office.He stood outside the wooden door for a moment. His pal

Clara hadn’t slept. She was in front of the map-clipped and note-adorned board that the detectives operated from, her head replaying Angelo’s men setting them up to observe the wrong trap. The warehouse silence echoed in her heart — too empty, too empty. The more that played through her head, the more distinct it became: this was not a hiding ground, this was a platform. Clara wrung her hands, her voice low. “Why do I feel as if we are in the wrong place?” The detective raised his head from the notebook. “What are you saying?” She swallowed. “Edward’s not in here. We’ve spent all night sitting watch over this warehouse. There are no guards. Nobody moves. Not even a sound. Angelo is not irresponsible. If Edward was in here, we’d know.” The room got very still. None of them had ever laid eyes on the sponsor in operation till her calm presence walked into the room. She did not dismiss Clara as a trembling child like the others. She motioned silently to one of her men without ever lo