The sharp cry of a newborn echoed through the dimly lit room. The air was filled with anticipation, the tension breaking only when a voice announced, "Young Miss Rivanka, it's a healthy boy."
Rivanka, exhausted yet radiant, let out a long breath of relief. Her delicate fingers gripped the edge of the sheet as she slowly turned her head toward the small, swaddled bundle in the nurse's arms. Her eyes sparkled with emotion, her lips parting to form a gentle smile. "Tell Williams…" she murmured, her voice soft, almost a whisper, but resolute. "Tell him his son has arrived."
Far from the room, high above the clouds, a private jet streaked across the dark sky, its engines humming softly through the endless night. Inside its luxurious cabin, a man dressed in a sharp, tailored suit sat alone, surrounded by polished walnut paneling and soft leather upholstery. His gaze was fixed on the city lights below, eyes like steel—cold, calculating, and unreadable.
The chime of a private communicator broke the stillness. A quiet beep echoed, followed by a calm, composed voice. "The young master has been born."
The man's expression shifted slightly. A rare, faint smile tugged at the corner of Williams' lips. He leaned back into his seat, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. "Turn the plane around. We're going home."
The pilot didn't question it. With practiced ease, the aircraft shifted course, banking smoothly. As they neared their destination, the instruments flickered—systems recalibrating to detect a cloaked location hidden from the world's eyes. An invisible threshold was crossed, and the aircraft pierced through veiled airspace.
Below them, a vast island revealed itself, like a secret whispered between gods. An isolated bastion of power. High-tech towers rose from the earth, cloaked in mist, their dark surfaces reflecting the moonlight. Automated turrets and radar towers lined the coasts. Elite soldiers moved in precision patrols, their armor sleek and matte-black, faces masked, weapons advanced.
At the heart of this domain stood a sprawling estate—a fortress that blended beauty and brutality. It radiated control, wealth, and legacy.
The aircraft descended into VTOL mode, its turbines rotating with a low, resonant hum. Touchdown was seamless. A fleet of armored vehicles stood at attention, awaiting their master. As the door opened, Williams stepped out. He carried an aura of command that bent the air around him.
No words were needed. The men saluted with sharp, synchronized movements before forming a silent escort. The convoy rolled forward, headlights cutting through the early dawn mist.
Inside the estate, attendants bowed as Williams entered. He moved with purpose, the scent of lavender and mahogany trailing him as he passed through the lavish corridors. He pushed open a set of grand doors and raised a hand to dismiss the staff.
Rivanka sat upright on the bed, her gaze locked on the door as he entered. The child lay in her arms, asleep, unaware of the magnitude of the world he'd been born into.
Williams approached with reverence. His hands reached out, and she gently passed the child to him. The infant stirred but didn't cry—his tiny fingers wrapping around one of his father's.
For a long moment, Williams said nothing. And then, a rare chuckle escaped his lips—a deep, amused sound that echoed with something few would ever associate with the Ironhart patriarch: joy.
-------------------------------------------------
Alexander stirred under the weight of fading visions, eyes fluttering open as the lingering echoes of the dream dissolved into silence. He blinked slowly, the haze of sleep thick in his mind, but the images from the dream were etched into his consciousness—vivid, haunting, familiar.
He sat up with a jolt, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead, a chill creeping down his spine. The dream again. That same dream. The island. The crying baby. The estate. Williams.
He drew in a deep breath, brushing a hand through his tousled hair as he glanced at the clock.
5:00 AM.
"Perfect start," he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed.
The room was still dark, curtains blocking out the first whispers of dawn. He stretched his limbs, bones popping in protest, then stood and shuffled toward the bathroom. The light flicked on with a buzz, and he squinted against the brightness as he twisted the faucet.
Cold water met his face with a sharp jolt, chasing away the remnants of sleep. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—his hair a mess, dark circles faint under his eyes, his expression unreadable.
"Same damn dream," he murmured.
He brushed his teeth methodically, his motions precise, habitual. The soft hum of the electric toothbrush filled the room, accompanied by the muted rustle of wind brushing against the windows. He splashed his face once more and toweled off, running his fingers through damp hair.
After changing into a black t-shirt and joggers, he grabbed his phone, slipped on his battered running shoes, and stepped outside.
The early morning air bit against his skin, cool and fresh. The suburb was still wrapped in sleep—houses quiet, roads empty, only the faint hum of distant traffic present. A soft hue of pink and orange colored the horizon, teasing the arrival of the sun.
He began his jog at a steady pace, each footfall rhythmic against the concrete. Trees lined the sidewalks, leaves whispering secrets as a breeze passed through. The streetlamps blinked off one by one as daylight slowly spread across the neighborhood.
He passed Mr. Bennett's yard—always pristine, grass trimmed to perfection—and offered a silent nod to the old man sipping tea on the porch. A few houses down, the Patel twins were just loading into their family car, likely heading to their weekend tennis lessons.
Alexander jogged past the local bakery, the smell of rising dough and cinnamon rolls spilling into the street. He took a deep breath, letting the scent warm him. He circled the community park, watching as the first rays of light caught the dew on the swing set.
It was peaceful. Familiar. Just what he needed.
By the time he returned to his street, his shirt clung to him with sweat and his breaths came in soft huffs. The neighborhood was waking up now—garage doors opening, coffee brewing, sprinklers activating in front lawns.
He stepped inside, kicked off his shoes, and headed straight for the shower. The hot water hit his skin, relaxing his muscles and washing away the chill from the outside air.
Wrapped in a towel, he returned to his room and slipped into clean clothes—a light blue button-up, dark jeans, and socks that actually matched for once. He ironed the shirt quickly in the hallway, careful not to leave a single wrinkle.
With a sigh, he turned to his desk, picked up the speech printout, and stood before the mirror.
"Breathe. Speak slow. Smile once in a while," he said to himself.
He rehearsed again, this time focusing on tone and posture, making sure he could deliver without hesitation. After twenty minutes, he gave himself a small nod of approval.
"Good enough."
He checked the time. 6:45 AM.
Plenty of time.
His stomach growled in protest, reminding him that he hadn't eaten. Not in the mood to cook, he decided to visit Sam's Corner Café, the local diner that had become his go-to breakfast spot.
The morning streets were alive now—neighbors waving hello, dogs barking, delivery vans humming by. Mrs. Langston was already tending to her roses, and a group of kids waited near the stop sign, chattering excitedly about something.
He walked past them all, offering polite nods, and entered the diner.
"Morning, Alex," the waitress called from behind the counter.
"Morning," he replied, sliding into his usual seat by the window.
"Same as always?"
"Yeah. Make it quick if you can."
"Got it."
He glanced outside as he waited—watching the life of Boston bloom around him. The distant sound of church bells chimed through the streets. The smell of maple syrup and roasted coffee beans filled the air.
His food arrived—crispy toast, scrambled eggs with chives, and a hot cup of black coffee.
He ate slowly, savoring the meal. It grounded him, helped settle the restless thoughts swirling from the dream.
By the time he finished and stepped back onto the sidewalk, it was 7:30.
He rolled his shoulders, adjusted the strap of his bag, and began walking toward the university.
It was a new day. The first day.
Whatever came next—he'd be ready. or so he thought.