The shiny black car's surface reflected the tall billboards and bright neon lights as it drove through the city's streets. Bruce sat in the rear seat and gazed at his image in the dark glass. He had a well-fitting suit, polished shoes, and a watch on his wrist that was more expensive than the tiny apartment he once occupied. His chest felt heavy despite all of these indications of wealth and power.
James, who was seated in the front, raised his voice. "Are you certain you want to return there, sir? It may not be secure. There, the Richardsons still hold sway."
Bruce continued to gaze out the window. Silently, he declared, "I'm not going there to fight." "I'll remember."
As they moved into the old neighborhood, the car slowed. Rusty metal and broken concrete replaced the tall buildings and upscale stores. Weak flickering street lights created more dark patches than light. Smoke and the stench of trash filled the air. In the winding streets, children played barefoot, their laughter blending oddly with the melancholy that shrouded this area like a shroud.
At last, the vehicle came to a stop in front of the Richardson Estate. The building arose in the night, its windows shattered, its walls cracked, the entire structure creaking from years of neglect. Bruce stepped outside, his gleaming shoes making contact with the grimy sidewalk. He was suddenly struck by memories of his father's chilly evenings, his cruel neighbors, and the debilitating burden of poverty.
He simply stood there for a moment, the boy he once was meeting the man he had become.
Whispers began to emerge from the darkness. People were aware of his identity. While some mumbled curses, others gasped in awe. He was no longer the hungry, frail cleaner in their eyes. The man who had made it out was Bruce Baron.
A woman whispered, "Is that really him?" "The boy who used to beg for bread?"
A man spat on the floor. "Don't trust it. Now he's just another wealthy bully. He lost track of his origins.
Bruce's expression was calm but difficult to read as he turned toward the voices. He approached the courtyard, the site of countless memories, at a leisurely pace. Big-eyed children gazed at him, some tugging at their mothers' clothing. Elderly men shook their heads and muttered curses or prayers.
Then an elderly woman with a hunched back and keen eyes from years of adversity stepped forward. "You left us," she angrily uttered. "You left and didn't turn around."
Bruce gave her a look. "I stayed. I was ejected. But I came back, not to make fun of you, not to show off what I have, but to remember what was taken from all of us."
Her eyes remained hard, but her lips trembled.
A twelve-year-old boy fled the crowd. His clothes were ripped, and his face was thin. He came to a halt before Bruce, his fists clenched. "You were once like us, according to my father. Alas. feeble. I'm hungry. However, you now drive cars and wear pricey suits. Do you no longer give a damn about us?
Bruce was deeply hurt by the question. In order to meet the boy's eyes, he knelt down. "I care," he said emphatically. "More than you realize. Since I also experienced your pain, it runs in my family. The days of shame and the nights without food are things I will always remember. I returned because I wanted to remind myself of the fire that gave me strength. And I swear to you, I won't abuse my position of authority to bully people like us. I'll combat those who do with it."
The boy's fists relaxed, but his eyes remained doubtful.
A mean laugh came from the balcony above. A voice that was familiar came next. "Well, let's see who it is. "The miracle boy himself."
When Vincent Richardson showed up with a glass of wine in his dark suit, Bruce's chest constricted. His eyes gleamed with hatred, and his smile was full of pride. "I must admit that you enjoy creating a scene, Baron. How kind of you to return here and flaunt your wealth to these people."
Bruce got to his feet while maintaining eye contact with Vincent. "You're not the reason I came here."
Vincent gave a nasty smile. You'll always find me, though. Because you will always be connected to me, regardless of how high you get. Remember how embarrassed you were here? And that embarrassment is mine."
Tension increased as the crowd became restless. Bruce held up a small hand, requesting composure. "Vincent, I came here to confront my past. Don't be fooled, though; if you stand in my way once more, I'll destroy your entire empire in addition to your pride."
Like a knife, the words sliced through the night. For a moment, Vincent's smile vanished, and then he mockingly raised his glass. "Baron, exercise caution. Men who have power are brave, but they are also foolish."
Only the sound of his laughter remained as he returned inside the building.
Bruce turned back to the crowd, whose faces simultaneously displayed doubt, hope, and fear. He saw them as reminders of his former self rather than as strangers. He spoke across the courtyard, "I was one of you." "I understand your suffering, hunger, and despair. And I swear to you that I will remember this. The chains securing this place will eventually break, releasing you. Keep that day in mind."
First there was silence, followed by muttering and clapping. Hope had been sown, but some people still harbored doubts and hatred.
Bruce's resolve burned brighter as he walked back to the car, his chest heavy. With a worried expression on his face, James opened the door. "Sir, did you find what you were looking for?"
Bruce paused and climbed in, his gaze remaining fixed on the dilapidated mansion. "No," he muttered. "However, I discovered what I must keep in mind."
Bruce took a final glance back as the car sped off. The estate was in ruins, but the fire of his past was still there. And he would create a future strong enough to shatter every chain that was used against him from that fire.