Arthur made his way home from school, carrying his graduation gown folded under one arm and gripping the diploma as if it were a worthless trophy. The sun had completely set, and the streetlights flickered on, casting orange pools of light onto the cracked sidewalks. He paused before a shabby two-story building. A laundromat took up the ground floor, while a narrow staircase above it led to his home on the second floor. With heavy steps, Arthur climbed the stairs to his floor, dragging his legs. He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The apartment was very small. It consists of one bedroom, a living room that also served as storage, and a kitchen the size of a closet. The walls were thin and the paint was peeling, but Arthur kept the place clean. "I am home," he called out, his voice hollow. He walked to the bedroom. On a twin bed pushed against the wall, his mother lay with a thin blanket drawn up to her waist. Although Eleanor was 32 years old, s

Royal Elite Academy sat on a hill overlooking the bustling city. The main gate was flanked by two guard booths resembling military checkpoints. Arthur pulled the truck up to the academy's service delivery gate. A guard dressed in a black uniform approached. "Delivery for Veronica Stephens," Arthur announced, holding up his work order. The guard scanned the barcode on the paper, glanced at a tablet, and then waved him through. "Park at Delivery Zone Three. Someone will escort you to the reception courtyard." Arthur parked the truck and stepped out. The atmosphere here carried a unique fragrance. It was cleaner and more expensive. A girl in a blue academy blazer walked over to him. "You must be the delivery boy," she said without waiting for a reply. "Follow me." Arthur carried the crate containing the single handbag and followed her across the courtyard to a designated waiting area near the main fountain. She paused at the entrance. "Wait here. The client will come to you." Th

Eleanor laid still under a thin white sheet, her face looking as pale as old paper. Her breathing was shallow and uneven as her chest rose and fell. Tubes ran from her arms into bags of clear fluid hanging on a metal pole. A heart monitor beeped slowly and steadily beside her. Arthur stood at the foot of the bed, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He stared at his grandfather with bloodshot eyes as he entered the room. William Lanchester stood to the side of Eleanor's bed, staring at her for the longest time, like a man watching something precious slowly slip away. He reached for her, his fingers just barely touching her hand before he hesitated and pulled back. Arthur spoke, his voice breaking the silence like shards of glass: "So, you're the so-called family friend my mother has been writing to for years." William turned. Arthur thought he looked a bit like the actor Charles Dance. Their resemblance was so uncanny—they both had the same aristocratic cheekbones, tha

Arthur’s hands trembled as he stared at the balance displayed on the phone screen, searching desperately for some kind of mistake. But there was none. Everything was real. His breathing slowly became uneven. The amount he saw was large enough to erase the nightmare he had lived in for years. He could finally clear his debt and live a normal life. Arthur looked up at William, his mouth hanging open, unable to process what was happening. "I–I don't know what to say," he stuttered. "You don't have to say a word," William placed a hand on his shoulder. "I respect your choice to deal with this all on your own. But if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to call me." He reached into his chest pocket and handed Arthur a small platinum business card. Arthur accepted it carefully. The card felt heavier in his hand than it actually looked. "We have much to discuss after you settle your affairs with the bank," William continued, taking a step back. "But that can wait. For the time b

The days that followed felt like a dream Arthur was afraid to wake from. Word spread quickly through the banking and logistics sectors. The debt that had choked Moore and Son Logistics for years had vanished overnight like smoke in the wind. Arthur dedicated himself to restructuring operations, removing corrupt managers, and recruiting competent people who truly cared about the business. Contracts were renewed, and investors who had previously abandoned Moore & Son suddenly returned, sensing a shift in power. As for Cross and his assistant Priscilla, Bruce chose not to fire them. Instead, he punished them by demoting both to delivery truck drivers for a period of five years. All of these events occurred within a week. On a Tuesday afternoon the following week, Arthur arrived at the private suite on the top floor of St. Nicholas Medical Center. The room looked more like a luxury five-star hotel than a hospital. Eleanor lay back in a large bed, surrounded by state-of-the-art me