The Bullied Prodigy

CHAPTER SIX

The car door remained open, silent as the rain peppered the pavement. I stared at the black leather interior, unsure if I was hallucinating. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. Maybe Jordan had punched me straight into a fever dream.

But the car was real.

And someone was waiting.

I hesitated. I could still turn around, go home, lick my wounds, try to explain to my grandma why I’d been suspended and didn’t fight harder to stay in school. But my legs didn’t listen. They moved on their own.

I slid into the backseat, soaked hoodie dripping onto the plush carpeted floor.

The door closed automatically behind me with a soft hiss. Inside, the air smelled like expensive cologne and leather polish. The divider between the driver and the back was up, blacked out. But I wasn’t alone.

A man sat across from me in the wide backseat, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than everything I owned. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a hard face, graying temples, and eyes that didn’t blink often.

He studied me in silence, then gave a single nod. “Mr. Turner. You’re punctual.”

“I wasn’t exactly invited,” I muttered.

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And yet, here you are. That says something about your instincts.”

I leaned back, arms crossed. “Who are you? And why are you stalking me?”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver case. He flipped it open, revealing a single sterile syringe and a capped vial.

“What the hell is that?”

“I need a blood sample,” he said calmly.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I believe you’re aware your father was not just a mechanic from Southbridge, as you were told.”

I looked at the man and I knew he knows too well about me. My grandmother had always told me stories about my father but wasn't interested in some mechanic who didn't leave me with anything but just some junk bicycle which I used in cycling myself down to school everyday.

My entire body went still. “You knew my father?”

He nodded. “Intimately. And, more importantly, I know the truth about his legacy. About the system you’ve tapped into. But before we talk about that, I need to confirm you are, in fact, his son. Having a DNA sample will prove you are what we believed you to be.”

He held out the vial, expectant.

I stared at it like it might bite me. “You can’t just… you can’t just ask someone for their blood.”

“I could take it without asking. But that would be rude.” He tilted his head. “Consider this a courtesy. If you refuse, this conversation ends here. And the opportunity your father left behind? Gone.”

I swallowed.

The air was a bit stuffy and my breathing was harder than usual. A simple drop of my blood could change everything.

" Of course you can walk away with the initial money in your bank account. That was just a formality by the way. You are not the first stray kid we will be picking up."

I didn’t trust him. But the system—the messages, the task, the approval—none of it made sense. And this man? He seemed to know exactly what it all meant.

I extended my arm. “Fine. Make it quick.”

He worked with practiced efficiency, swabbing my skin and drawing a small sample. He sealed the vial and tucked it back into the silver case, then placed it inside a hidden compartment beside his seat.

I rubbed the spot on my arm and glared at him. “Now talk.”

“Your father, Nathaniel Turner, was part of a program—one far beyond the scope of this city, this country even. He wasn’t a mechanic. He was a designer. A creator. What you’ve experienced—the tasks, the messages—it’s called the Legacy Protocol.”

“Legacy…?”

“It activates for direct bloodline descendants. It chooses those it deems worthy, those who show initiative.”

I froze. “That was the word. From the message.”

He nodded again. “Because you passed the first test. The smallest of them.”

“What happens now?”

He leaned in slightly. “Now you begin the real trials. If you survive them, the Turner legacy will be yours. Wealth. Power. Influence beyond anything you’ve imagined.”

“And if I fail?”

His expression hardened. “You’ll be forgotten. And someone else will inherit what was meant for you.”

My stomach twisted, but before I could say another word, a call came in through the car’s internal system.

The man pressed a button, and a woman’s voice filtered through.

“Sir, I have an update from Crestwood Academy.”

He raised a brow and glanced at me. “Speak.”

“There’s been an incident. Eli Turner’s grandmother appeared at the school unexpectedly. She demanded to speak to the dean—insisted her grandson would never lay a hand on anyone unless provoked.”

My heart skipped.

“She refused to leave until she was allowed to meet with Mr. Collings and Jordan’s parents. There was a scene, sir. She… she told them off in front of the entire administrative staff.”

I blinked, stunned.

“She said, and I quote, ‘My Eli may not be born into money, but he’s got more decency in his pinky finger than your whole lot combined.’”

The video boomed out with Jordan's voice loud and clear. " Why don't you bend the knee old woman. I bet I am going to make it all disappear if you will just knee and beg for mercy.

" No,no. Don't mother!" I shouted as I yanked the car door opened.

I looked back as I ran fast, my breath etched. The ground was bit slippery. I fell and got up each time, racing.

" Do you want us to go after him?" The chauffeur said looking at me as I kept running.

" No, we have what we came for. If he is the one then we would interfere. For now, this is not our battle."