2025-08-11 01:53:13The city looked different at night, Redington stepped off the last bus with nothing but a duffel bag, a burned image of a photograph in his mind, and a name that might not even be his.
The streets of Graybridge were slick with rain. Neon signs buzzed above shuttered storefronts. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed. But to Redington, the chaos of the city was liberating. At least here, no one knew who he was. Or who he wasn’t.
He pulled the hood of his coat over his head and walked two blocks until he found the place: St. Marian's Orphanage.
The gates were rusted, the garden overgrown. It had been abandoned for years. But it was where his records started, the place the Everharts said they pulled him from, He pressed a hand against the gate.
Locked.
Redington climbed it instead, Inside, the orphanage was a graveyard of broken beds and peeling paint. Dust hung in the air like fog. But Redington moved with purpose.
He found the old records room in the back, half-collapsed. Metal cabinets were rusted shut, paper files turned to mulch from water damage.
He coughed as he forced one drawer open. A file labeled “G.W.” sat near the back, His fingers trembled as he pulled it out. Inside were three things: A birth certificate with most of the details blurred by mold
A crumpled letter, written in rushed, trembling handwriting, A photo, creased and faded, He unfolded the letter. “To whoever finds him: His name is Grayson Wynthorpe. Please keep him safe. They’re coming. I can’t protect him anymore…”
No signature. No date, Just fear in ink. Redington’s heart thudded so loud it echoed in the hollow building, Grayson, That name again. His name? He looked at the photo. It was the same woman. The same child, But in this one, there was blood on her sleeve.
He left before dawn, ducking into a 24-hour diner on Eastwick Avenue. Inside, he ordered the cheapest coffee and sat in the far corner, The waitress didn’t ask questions. Just refilled his cup every time it emptied.
Redington sat there for hours, going over everything. If this was true If he really was Grayson Wynthorpe, the missing heir to Wynthorpe International, Then why was there no one looking for him all these years? And who were “they”?
The letter mentioned danger. A threat, Could that be why his mother gave him up?
He was still thinking when a man slid into the booth across from him, Sharp suit. Cold eyes. “Redington, is it?”
Redington stiffened. “Do I know you?”
The man smiled. “No. But someone wants to meet you.”
He slid a small envelope across the table, Inside: an address, No name. No note. Just a date and time, tonight. “Who sent this?”
The man stood. “Someone who knows who you really are.”
He walked out without another word, Redington stared at the envelope, A trap? Or an answer?
He finished his coffee, left cash on the table, and walked out, The streets had warmed by noon, but Redington felt cold. Paranoia clung to his skin. Every shadow felt like a watcher.
By evening, he stood in front of a high-rise overlooking the city. The building was all glass and steel, far too upscale for a former housekeeper with nothing but broken memories.
He took the elevator to the 51st floor, The door opened into silence, A single man sat in a dark room, staring out the window with an oxygen tank beside him.
Redington stepped forward, The man turned, Alaric Wynthorpe. The dying billionaire himself. Their eyes locked. Something passed between them, unspoken and electric.
“You have her eyes,” Alaric said hoarsely. “But I need more than eyes.”
Redington’s throat was dry. “Is it true?”
Alaric didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded to a man in the corner. A quiet, thin doctor emerged from the shadows, holding a small device. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The test took minutes. Swab. Scan. Silence, The doctor’s face turned pale. “It’s him,” he said quietly. “He’s the match.”
Alaric exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for thirty years. “You’re Grayson.”
Redington staggered back, but the wall caught him. “Why… why didn’t you find me?”
Alaric’s expression darkened. “Because they didn’t want you found.”
The story came out slowly, painfully, like digging up bones from the past.
Redington or Grayson, now, was born during the bloodiest chapter of Alaric Wynthorpe’s life. His empire had just been attacked by enemies disguised as allies. His wife, Grayson’s mother had uncovered a plot within the board of directors. Before she could speak, she was murdered.
Grayson vanished that same night. “I thought you were dead,” Alaric rasped. “But she saved you. She ran. Gave you up to keep you alive.”
Grayson felt sick, His whole life mopping floors, bowing to the rich, sleeping in linen closets was built on a stolen legacy. “You’re my son,” Alaric said. “And they’ll come for you now.”
“Who?”
“The ones running my empire like it’s theirs. The ones who buried you.”
He stood, shakily, gripping his cane. “You don’t just inherit my money, Grayson. You inherit my enemies.”
By midnight, Grayson was back in a hotel, staring at the ceiling, He couldn’t sleep, The past wasn’t gone. It was just waiting in the dark, A knock at the door shattered the stillness. He opened it.
Emmett. Soaked in rain. Eyes red. “They’re coming after you,” he said. “Lucien knows. He found out everything.”
Grayson blinked. “How did you find me?”
“I followed you. I had to make sure you were okay.”
Grayson stared at him. The only decent Everhart. “I can’t stay here,” Grayson said.
Emmett nodded. “Then let’s go.”
Grayson hesitated. “…You’re not afraid?”
“I am,” Emmett said. “But I think the world should be afraid of you.”
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CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE HUNTED BLOODLINE
They moved before sunrise... Grayson led the group through the twisting backroads of the Santa Sierra highlands, his mother cloaked in a hooded shawl, Emmett covering the rear, every step echoing with urgency. The chapel was gone, their sanctuary reduced to ash and silence.Grayson didn’t speak, His mind was running cold and fast, tracking wind shifts, footfalls, even the unnatural stillness of the trees. Something hunted them, Not soldiers, Not drones, Something worse.They reached an abandoned mining tunnel by mid-morning. It stretched for miles beneath the mountain, carved during a war generations ago. Grayson lit the lantern. “We rest here,” he said.His mother sat slowly, clutching her rosary. “They won’t stop, will they?”Grayson crouched beside her. “Not until I end this.”Emmett passed him a flask. “So how do you plan to do that? You’re good, but Clive has a private army, half the global media, and a genetically enhanced killer you couldn’t even stop with a blade to the ribs.”
CHAPTER TEN: THE MOTHER MAP
The photo lay on the desk between them, A grainy image of a woman with sad eyes and windblown hair, standing in front of what looked like a remote chapel, stone walls, no signage, surrounded by pine trees.Grayson stared at it for a long time, barely breathing. “This isn’t possible,” he muttered. “She died.”Emmett leaned in, frowning. “That’s what you were told. And that’s exactly what Clive wanted you to believe.”“But this… this can’t be recent.” Grayson turned the photo over. A handwritten date scrawled on the back: "August 3rd. Santa Sierra."“That’s yesterday,” Emmett said.Grayson stood so fast his chair tipped over. “We’re leaving.”Six hours later, they were on a Wynthorpe-owned private jet soaring across the Atlantic. Destination: Santa Sierra, a remote village nestled in the Andean mountains, forgotten by time and government.Grayson sat still, back straight, the photo in his hands like a sacred object, Emmett watched him from across the cabin. “You believe it’s her,” he sa
CHAPTER NINE: THE ONE WHO NEVER SLEEPS
The plane ride back to Graybridge was quiet. Too quiet, Grayson sat alone in the rear of the jet, staring at the deep cut across his shoulder, stitched up and wrapped, but still burning. Not from pain… from memory.Wren Dax, Silent, Precise, Focused, She could have killed him. She didn’t, She was testing him. But why?Across from him, Emmett finally broke the silence. “You haven’t said a word since takeoff.”Grayson didn’t look away from the window. “There’s another one like me out there.”“Alpha-One.”Grayson’s jaw tightened. “Stronger. Smarter. Unstable.”“And Clive’s next weapon,” Emmett added grimly. “He’s going to unleash him.”Grayson nodded. “And when he does, I need to be ready.”Back in Graybridge, Clive Everhart moved through his underground vault, a compound buried deep beneath the city, untouched by law or loyalty, Steel doors opened to a dark chamber.Behind triple-reinforced glass, Alpha-One stood, shirtless, hooked to IV drips and sensors. His body was covered in scars.
CHAPTER EIGHT: TARGET IN TRANSIT
The private jet roared through the clouds, slicing a path from Graybridge to Singapore under the cloak of darkness. Onboard, Grayson sat in the leather seat, eyes locked on a screen displaying dossier images of Margot Vale, the woman who had helped alter his life before he could speak his first word.“Former Ravel Corporation bioengineer,” Emmett read aloud. “Disappeared two years after the project ended. Last public appearance was a biotech conference in Geneva. Since then? Ghost.”Grayson leaned forward. “She has answers. Maybe the only person alive who knows what they did to me—what else they left inside me.”“Assuming she’s still alive,” Emmett added.“Then we’ll dig her up.”Unknown to them, Protocol Umbra had already activated, Back in Graybridge, Clive Everhart stood in his private war room, watching a digital map highlight the jet’s trajectory. “Phase One in motion,” his aide said. “The moment they touch down, she’ll be waiting.”“She?” Lucien asked, stepping into the room.Cl
CHAPTER SEVEN: SHADOWS OF THE PAST
Grayson Wynthorpe sat alone in his father’s old office, bathed in the dim light of a desk lamp. The echoes of the boardroom still rang in his ears, the shocked faces, the murmurs, the vote. Eight to three.He had won, But the victory tasted like iron. On the desk before him lay a thin, unmarked manila folder. Alaric had left it for him with a single instruction: “When the crown is yours, open it. You’ll understand why they tried to keep you hidden.”His fingers hovered over the tab, He hesitated, Then he opened it, Inside were surveillance photos, grainy black-and-white stills from thirty years ago. One showed a woman, his mother, no doubt, sneaking out the back of a building with a baby in her arms.Another showed a van, its license plate scratched out, parked outside an orphanage. The next image struck like a blade: a photo of Clive Everhart, standing beside a much younger version of Alaric, shaking hands.A scribbled note under the photo: “The contract was signed. The child was gon
CHAPTER SIX: BOARDROOM BLOOD
The storm came on the morning of the vote, Not just the one in the sky, but the kind that brews behind closed doors, between fortunes and fangs.Inside the towering glass walls of Wynthorpe International HQ, the top floor had been transformed into a fortress. Security swarmed every hallway. Snipers watched from rooftops. The entire city buzzed, knowing today wasn’t just business. It was war.The board of directors, eleven men and women, each worth more than small nations, were gathering for the Legacy Succession Vote, the meeting that would determine who inherited the empire upon Alaric’s death.And Grayson Wynthorpe was walking into it scarred, wounded, but no longer hiding, Downstairs, Grayson adjusted his cufflinks with shaking fingers. He wore a charcoal suit, freshly tailored, every inch of him polished for war.But beneath it all, his ribs still ached from the taser hits, and his lip carried a fresh cut from the warehouse escape. “Still time to back out,” Emmett said beside him.
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