Levi had been in a confrontation with the guards at the Oakland mail services main officewhen the supervisor came and insisted that he should be thrown out.
The towering black gates of the Oakland Mail Services Main Office gleamed under the morning sun, guarded on either side by two thick-shouldered men in navy uniforms and dark sunglasses. The security station beside them buzzed faintly, and an air of elite exclusivity radiated from the polished marble walls that stretched beyond the gates. The sidewalk outside was alive with professionals in sharp suits, heels clicking like measured percussion, the scent of money and power palpable in the air.
Then there was Levi.
He stood out like a coal smear on satin. His faded jeans clung loosely to his narrow frame, patched over the knees, frayed at the seams. His sneakers—once white—were now scuffed, with the sole of one slightly peeling. A gray sweatshirt clung to him, sleeves stretched and worn, and a dull backpack sagged off one shoulder. Wind tangled his hair, and a small scratch peeked from the side of his cheek—leftover from brushing past a sharp fence earlier that morning.
The moment he stepped forward, the taller guard raised a hand.
"Hold it," the man barked, his voice deep and dismissive. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I… I'm here to pick up a parcel," Levi replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Here?" the shorter one echoed, eyes wide. "At Oakland? What, did someone mail you a golden sandwich?"
The two chuckled.
"I was told there's a package for me," Levi explained calmly. "I got a call—"
"Oh, I bet you did," the taller guard sneered. "Probably from your imaginary secretary."
A small crowd began to form behind him. Murmurs rose.
"Who is he?"
"Looks homeless."
"Maybe he's lost?"
"Did you see his shoes?"
Levi's shoulders tensed. He hated being watched—especially like this. But he stood his ground. "I'm not here to cause problems. I just need to collect something. I was told it's under my name."
"And what's your name, miracle boy?" the short guard asked sarcastically.
"Levi Smith."
The guards broke into fresh laughter.
"Smith. Of course. Next you'll say Martin Hale himself is waiting for you upstairs."
Levi hesitated. "Actually… I was told—"
"Oh man, you are delusional!" the tall one shouted, holding his stomach as he laughed. "You hear that, folks? He thinks Martin Hale is waiting for him!"
A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd.
People began pulling out their phones.
Some started recording.
Others whispered louder:
"Is this some TikTok prank?"
"Maybe he's an actor?"
"Why doesn't he just leave? He's embarrassing himself."
A few younger men jeered from behind: "Hey buddy, I think the soup kitchen's down the street!"
Just as the tall guard stepped forward to shove Levi back, a new voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"What's going on here?"
Silence fell.
The crowd parted slightly. A man approached, his presence alone quieting the air.
Martin Hale.
Mid-fifties. Regal. Towering. His black pinstripe suit was cut flawlessly to his tall, athletic build, the Italian fabric shimmering ever so slightly in the sunlight. A silver tie, tucked with a platinum pin, shimmered against his crisp white shirt. His shoes—mirror-polished oxfords—clacked softly against the pavement with each step. His hair, perfectly groomed, was a silver mane that framed a hard-set, intelligent face. His eyes were a piercing steel-blue, clear and cold.
The guards stiffened like statues.
"S-Sir," the taller one stammered. "It's nothing. Just a nobody—says he's got a delivery—using your name."
Hale's brow twitched. "Using my name?"
"Yes, sir. Said he's Levi… something."
Martin turned slowly, his eyes locking on the young man in tattered clothing standing amidst the whispers and ridicule.
"You," he said firmly. "What's your name?"
Levi straightened slightly, unsure now. "Levi."
Martin's eyes sharpened. "Last name."
"…Smith."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Then Martin took a single step back, as if struck by some invisible force. His breath caught.
The crowd was puzzled. Phones were still up, but nobody was laughing anymore.
The manager turned to the guards. His tone was cold and deliberate.
"Apologize."
"Sir?"
"I said apologize to Mr. Smith."
The shorter guard looked like he'd swallowed a brick. "Wait—what?"
Levi blinked, confused. "I—"
"Get down," Martin ordered, louder this time.
Then came the most surreal sight of the morning: the guards, big men in bulletproof vests, slowly dropped to their knees on the pavement before Levi.
The crowd gasped.
"Is this… real?"
"What is happening?"
"Why are they kneeling to him?"
"Wait—is he someone important?"
The supervisor rushed in, alarmed. "Sir, forgive me—but this must be a mistake. Look at him! He's clearly not—"
"You're fired," Martin snapped. "Effective immediately."
"Sir, please! He's nobody! He's just—look at him!"
"You dare question me?" Martin's voice boomed. "You should be begging Mr. Smith to spare your job, your future… your life!"
The murmurs had grown to stunned silence.
Everyone's phones dropped. No one dared whisper now.
The guards, already kneeling, turned pale.
"Please…" one of them choked. "We didn't know."
The other muttered, "We thought you were just some—some kid."
"I am," Levi said, still stunned, "just a kid."
Martin turned to him and bowed slightly. A respectful dip of the head.
That did it.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"He bowed."
"He bowed to him!"
"Martin Hale has never bowed to anyone."
"Who is this Levi Smith?!"
"Is he a secret heir or something?"
Levi could barely breathe. His thoughts were racing, his heart beating heavily against his ribs.
What was this?
Why was this happening?
"I don't want anything," Levi said finally. "Just let me go. I didn't mean for this."
Martin nodded. "Then let it be. But let it also be known—this man is never to be disrespected again. Not in this building. Not in this city."
He turned to Levi with a new look—half awe, half concern.
"Please, Mr. Smith. Follow me to my office."
Levi hesitated, then followed him, passing the crowd that now parted silently, eyes wide and heads bowed.
The cameras were off now.
The laughter had died.
All that remained was one impossible question echoing through every mind in that crowd:
"Who the hell is Levi Smith?"
In levi's mind passed tons of questions.
"What really was going on," he wondered.