The Pherros Town Airport shimmered under the relentless midday sun, its glass-and-steel facade warping the horizon like a desert mirage. The structure, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, seemed to absorb the heat and radiate it back tenfold, creating a visible haze that danced above the tarmac. A lone figure emerged from the climate-controlled terminal, the automatic sliding doors hissing shut behind him with finality.
Jake Kirby stood motionless for a long moment, his leather boots planted firmly on the sun-baked concrete, squinting against the sudden assault of light after the dim interior. The transition was jarring - from artificial coolness to oppressive heat, from sterile airport air to the salty tang of the nearby sea mixed with jet fuel. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, feeling the sun's rays press against his skin like the unwelcome attention of a stranger. The duffel bag slung over his shoulder suddenly felt heavier, the strap digging into his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Across the bustling pickup lane, where taxis and shuttles jockeyed for position, a sleek black sedan idled illegally at the curb. The car's polished surface reflected distorted images of passing travelers, its tinted windows giving nothing away. Just as Jake took his first step forward, the car's horn blared - sharp, abrupt, cutting through the airport's ambient noise like a gunshot.
He turned instinctively, his free hand coming up to further block the sun, and recognized the vehicle as his father's Mercedes-Maybach. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. Some things never changed.
With deliberate strides, Jake crossed the pickup lane, dodging a luggage cart pushed by an harried-looking attendant. He reached for the rear door handle, fingers brushing the cool metal - only for the car to lurch forward precisely three feet, just enough to leave him grasping at air.
Jake froze, his outstretched hand hovering in empty space. The sedan stopped again, taunting him.
He approached once more, this time with measured steps, watching the car's brake lights like a hawk. Again, as if controlled by some cruel puppeteer, the vehicle crept forward just as his fingers were about to make contact.
A third attempt yielded identical results. The car would advance, stop, wait for him to nearly reach it, then tease him forward again like some absurd automotive shell game. His jaw tightened, the muscle along his mandible jumping visibly beneath freshly tanned skin. Without another glance at the offending vehicle, he turned sharply on his heel and raised his arm in the universal gesture for hailing a cab.
At this, the sedan's engine roared to life with a throaty growl, reversing swiftly to pull alongside him with the precision of a predator cornering its prey. The darkly tinted rear window descended with an electric hum, revealing Mr. Kirby's grinning face, his teeth white against his sun-weathered complexion.
"Seriously, Dad?" Jake scoffed, his voice dripping with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant amusement. He yanked open the door with more force than necessary, tossing his duffel bag onto the plush leather seats where it landed with a thud. "You haven't seen me in three months, and this is your idea of a reunion?" He slid into the passenger seat, the door slamming shut behind him with satisfying finality. "Where's Kuldeep? Should've just sent the driver like a normal person."
Mr. Kirby's laughter filled the cabin, rich and unrepentant, the sound bouncing off the hand-stitched leather interior. "Oh, dear son," he managed between chuckles, wiping at the corners of his eyes where laughter tears had gathered, "welcome back to Pherros! How's that for a homecoming?" He took a steadying breath, still grinning. "Kuldeep's visiting family in Mumbai. Thought you'd appreciate your old man coming to get you personally."
Jake buckled his seatbelt with a sharp click that seemed to punctuate his irritation. "Thrilled," he deadpanned, staring straight ahead as the car pulled away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of airport traffic.
The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Mr. Kirby glanced sideways at his son, his amusement fading slightly at Jake's stony profile. The boy - no, the man now - had changed in their time apart. There was a new hardness to his jawline, a different set to his shoulders. Even the way he held himself spoke of some fundamental shift.
"So," Mr. Kirby ventured, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel, "how was it?"
Jake kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery - the blur of palm trees and storefronts, the familiar landmarks of Pherros sliding by outside his window. His reflection in the glass showed eyes that had seen more than their share of challenges.
"Son," Mr. Kirby sighed after another mile of silence, "don't tell me you're actually sore over a little joke."
"A little joke?" Jake finally turned, his voice dangerously low. The intensity in his gaze made his father's fingers still on the wheel. "Someone comes back from a three-month odyssey, and your idea of a proper greeting is to make him play fetch with a two-ton Mercedes in hundred-degree heat?"
Mr. Kirby's grip on the wheel loosened slightly. "Woah. Okay." He had the decency to look chastened. "Point taken. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."
For a long beat, Jake held his glare - then suddenly, unexpectedly, burst out laughing. The sound was rich and genuine, transforming his face completely, erasing years of tension in an instant.
Mr. Kirby blinked. "What? You were just-"
"That was the joke," Jake managed between laughs, wiping at his eyes where genuine mirth had brought tears. "Your face... priceless."
"You-" Mr. Kirby's mouth fell open in mock outrage. "You got me." He groaned, shaking his head as he merged onto the highway. "Damn. Should've known better than to think I could out-prank you."
Jake wiped at his eyes, still grinning. "Been too long since we messed with each other."
"Right," Mr. Kirby said softly, the humor fading from his voice. "Not since your mom's..."
Jake's smile didn't fade exactly, but something in his eyes shifted, the laughter lines smoothing into something more neutral. He nodded once, a barely perceptible dip of his chin, but said nothing. The mention of his mother hung between them, a specter at this reunion.
Mr. Kirby studied his son from the corner of his eye as he drove. "You've changed," he observed quietly. "Time was, mentioning your mother when you were sober would've made you..." He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
Jake turned his face back to the window, watching the landscape blur past. "Three months is enough to become a different person," he said simply.
His father exhaled, a quiet sound of approval and something like relief. "Yeah," he agreed. "You have. A little."
---
The Kirby Estate
The car turned off the main highway, passing through ornate wrought-iron gates that swung open automatically as they approached. The family crest - a sheaf of wheat crossed with a quill - was worked into the intricate metalwork, catching the sunlight as the gates parted.
The driveway unfurled before them like a ribbon of pale imported stone, flanked by towering oaks whose ancient branches formed a verdant cathedral overhead. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting ever-shifting patterns across the hood of the car as they made their stately progress toward the house. The air here was different - cleaner, scented with freshly cut grass and the faint floral perfume of the gardens hidden beyond the tree line.
The Kirby mansion emerged gradually from the landscape, a testament to generations of shrewd farming and even sharper investments. A sprawling colonial-style structure, its whitewashed walls stood in stark contrast to the deep green ivy that crept artfully up its sides, as if the house itself was slowly being reclaimed by nature. Wide verandas wrapped around the ground floor, their ceilings painted the traditional haint blue - a ward against evil spirits, or so Jake's grandmother had always claimed. The many windows gleamed like observant eyes, reflecting the afternoon sun in brief, dazzling flashes.
To the left, a manicured lawn sloped gently downward toward a glittering infinity pool, its turquoise waters so still they might have been glass. Beyond it lay the true heart of the estate - acres upon acres of farmland stretching to the horizon in a patchwork of emerald and gold, the neat rows of crops forming geometric patterns only visible from this elevation. A lone tractor moved slowly in the distance, looking like a child's toy from this far away.
Mr. Kirby guided the car into the shaded garage, its interior cool and smelling faintly of motor oil and polished concrete. The engine's purr died with a twist of the key, leaving sudden silence in its wake.
Jake hauled his bag from the backseat, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing noticeably beneath his shirt.
"Damn," his father muttered, circling the car to get a better look at his son. "Didn't notice at the airport, but you've..." He gestured vaguely at Jake's frame. "Grown. You look like you doubled in size."
Jake smirked, rolling his shoulders in a shrug that made the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his back. "Not twice. But three months of hard training does things." His voice carried a note of satisfaction.
Mr. Kirby clapped him on the shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath his palm. "I like the new you," he declared, then grinned. "Even if you did just trick your old man with that fake anger routine."
"You played a prank on the 'new me,'" Jake countered, hefting his bag. "Some love."
"Alright, alright," Mr. Kirby laughed, steering him toward the interior door. "Enough reminiscing about my failed attempt at humor. So-" He paused as they stepped into the blessedly cool interior of the house. "-tell me about this show."
Inside, the air was cool, scented with lemon polish and something baking—Mrs. Kirby's influence, though she was conspicuously absent. They settled at the dining table, its mahogany surface gleaming under the chandelier's soft glow.
Jake leaned back in his chair. "It wasn't a show like you're thinking. No cameras, no audience. Just thirty of us, handpicked, dropped into an estate they called Diamond."
Mr. Kirby frowned. "Thirty mansions?"
"Thirty small mansions," Jake corrected. "Each assigned by lottery. Before we moved in, they gathered us in this hall—marble floors, gold trim, the works. Introduced us to the mentors: CEOs, investors, even a former hedge fund manager." His fingers drummed the table. "Then they laid out the rules."
A server appeared, setting down plates of seared scallops drizzled with truffle oil, followed by a main course of herb-crusted lamb, its juices pooling around a bed of roasted vegetables. The aroma was rich, intoxicating.
Mr. Kirby speared a scallop. "Which were?"
Jake waited until the server withdrew before answering. "Live like kings for six months. After that? Back to our old lives. Everything bought for us—cars, clothes, gadgets—gone. Unless we created something marketable in that time. If we did, they'd buy it from us at value. Let us keep the lifestyle."
His father chewed slowly, considering. "Sounds like a colossal waste of money. Sponsoring a bunch of kids to play rich?"
Jake smirked. "That's what I thought. Until I saw the numbers." He leaned in. "Three years ago, they spent 250 million on one round. Got two billionaires and a dozen millionaires out of it. Their investments in those winners' companies? Netted them five billion."
Mr. Kirby's fork clattered against his plate. "What?"
"Desperation is a hell of a motivator, Dad." Jake's voice was quiet. "Take someone from nothing, give them everything, then tell them they'll lose it unless they fight? You'd be shocked what people can do."
His father exhaled sharply. "Not everyone made it, though."
"No," Jake admitted. "Out of 180 past contestants, maybe 80 truly succeeded. The rest?" He shrugged. "Some got by. Most crashed hard. Partied too much, blew their chances on stupid risks. One of my mentors called it 'the frivolity of youth.'"
Mr. Kirby wiped his mouth with a napkin. "If it's this profitable, why keep it private? Go public, get more contestants—"
"And ruin the entire model," Jake cut in. "The selection process is everything. They don't want people who just want a free ride. They want fighters. Publicize it, and you'd get ten thousand applicants who just want to live large for six months and vanish."
His father nodded slowly. "Smart. Very smart." Then he grinned. "So? How'd you passed?"
Jake feigned surprise. "How do you know I passed?"
"Please." Mr. Kirby rolled his eyes. "You're my son. I've seen you outthink men twice your age since you were ten. So? What place?"
Jake reached into his jacket, sliding a cream-colored envelope across the table. "Not to brag," he said, deadpan, "but I won."
Mr. Kirby nearly choked on his wine. "What?"
"Won. Best of the group. They even offered me a sponsorship deal." Jake tapped the envelope. "Letter's in there. Photo too. Rest of my stuff arrives next week."
His father snatched the envelope, scanning its contents with widening eyes. "I knew you were sharp, but this..." He looked up, something like awe in his expression. "How?"
Jake grinned. "First—where's your wife?"
Mr. Kirby scowled. "Business trip with her brother. Now quit stalling."
Jake sighed dramatically. "Stuck with an old man for company. Tragic."
"Jake."
Laughing, Jake leaned back. "Fine. But it's a long story..."