The rain hadn't stopped since morning. Gray clouds pressed down on the city like a bad omen, turning windows into smudged mirrors and alleys into murky rivers. Ethan Alden sat at the far end of the café, hunched over his chipped laptop, trying to stretch the last 15% of battery before it died—just like his will to keep pushing résumés into the void.
He adjusted the sleeves of his worn-out hoodie, its edges fraying like his patience. Another rejection email flashed on screen, the subject line blunt and predictable: "We're moving forward with other candidates."
Ethan snorted and closed the tab. "Of course you are," he muttered under his breath.
Three months since he lost his part-time data analyst job. Two weeks since his last decent meal. His landlord had left a final notice under the door yesterday, written in all caps and duct-taped like a threat.
He glanced out the window, half-hoping the rain would wash away the reality he lived in.
"Ethan Alden?"
The voice didn't belong in this neighborhood. Deep, precise, and unhurried—like someone who never waited in line for anything.
Ethan looked up, his instincts already on edge. Debt collectors didn't usually know his name. They called him "sir" before demanding payment.
Standing by his table was a man dressed in a tailored black overcoat that looked straight off a runway. No umbrella. No water on him. Not a drop.
"You've got the wrong guy," Ethan replied, sizing him up.
The man's expression didn't waver. He reached into his coat and slid a sleek black card across the table.
Cassian Roarke
Executive Liaison – Alden Holdings
Ethan frowned, eyebrows knitting. "Alden Holdings? Never heard of it."
"You should have," Cassian said, his voice level. "It bears your name."
Ethan blinked. "You're saying we're... related?"
"I'm saying your father, Marcus Alden, passed away last week. You are his only living heir."
Silence settled like a sudden fog.
Ethan laughed dryly. "You've made a mistake. My father died when I was five. Car crash. I went to the funeral."
Cassian didn't blink. "That's what you were told."
Ethan stared at him. No trace of irony. No flinch. Just that cold, steady gaze.
He felt something shift—deep, quiet, unnerving. Like the room tilted a few degrees off balance.
Cassian placed a black keycard and a sealed envelope on the table. The card was metallic, branded with a silver emblem: a falcon clutching a crown.
"I don't have time for games," Ethan said, voice lower now.
"This is not a game, Mr. Alden. Your father ran a multi-billion-dollar empire. For reasons he never disclosed, he kept your existence hidden from the Board. Now, with his passing, everything transfers to you."
Ethan's hand hovered over the envelope. His fingers didn't touch it.
"I live in a shoebox apartment and eat dollar ramen. You're telling me I'm heir to a throne I never saw?"
Cassian offered the faintest ghost of a smile. "Power often prefers shadows."
Ethan picked up the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter—short, elegant cursive. No signature. Just two lines:
If you're reading this, I'm gone. The truth was never safe. But now, neither are you. —M
He looked up. "What the hell does this mean?"
"It means," Cassian said, "that everything your father built is under threat. And so are you."
Thunder cracked outside. The café lights flickered.
Cassian stood. "We leave at 6 a.m. Pack light. No electronics."
He walked out, blending into the rain like smoke into air.
Ethan sat still, staring at the door. His heart thudded like a war drum, echoing louder than the storm outside. His whole life—an illusion?
A knock on the café window made him jump.
It was the barista, waving the "closing soon" sign.
Ethan nodded absently and grabbed the envelope and keycard.
He didn't sleep that night.