Before noon, the sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the college, but Ken had already retreated into the shadows of the west wing. He headed for the Art Club, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway.
The room was a sanctuary of silence, occupied by no more than a dozen students lost in their own worlds. It was a labyrinth of canvases—paintings leaned against every wall, showcasing a chaotic spectrum of styles from jagged abstracts to hauntingly realistic landscapes. To Ken, the room felt like a dream world, a place where the suffocating drama of his life was reduced to mere pigments and brushstrokes.
He approached Jennifer, the president of the club. She was a vibrant contrast to the dusty room, her ginger hair catching the light as she leaned over a sketchbook. She wore a crisp white top and a black printed skirt, with a black-and-white striped sweater draped over her shoulders, the sleeves tied loosely across her chest.
"Good morning," Ken said, his voice warm and genuinely hopeful. "I'm Ken McCall. I'd like to register for the club... are you still accepting new members?"
Jennifer looked up, and her expression immediately brightened into a dazzling smile. "Yeah, sure! I'm Jennifer Harrison. You're more than welcome to join us." She stood up, offering a firm, paint-smudged handshake.
She sat back down and handed him a heavy cardstock application. "So, Ken, tell me—are you a beginner, an expert, or somewhere in the middle?"
Ken tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I wouldn't call myself an expert yet, but I have a steady hand. I'd say... somewhere above the middle."
"Oh, that's great," she said, her eyes twinkling. "That means I don't have to explain what a palette knife is. Follow me."
She led him to a vacant corner of the hall where a 16" x 20" drawing board sat waiting on a sturdy wooden easel. She turned to him, her hands on her hips. "Okay, let's see what you've got. Draw anything you want. It's just an informal evaluation so I know which projects to assign you."
Ken sat on the stool, staring at the blank, textured surface. Anything? The faces of Lucien and Mikael immediately flashed in his mind like unwanted ghosts. He slapped his cheeks with both hands, the sharp thwack making a nearby student jump.
"Focus, Ken. Focus!" he muttered.
He shook his head and scanned the room for inspiration. His eyes landed on Jennifer, who was currently leaning over another student, her brow furrowed in concentration as she corrected a line of perspective. She was untainted by his past—no connection to the Newmans, no connection to the "Crimson Vault."
"Perfect," he whispered.
He began to draw. His hand moved with a frantic, fluid grace he hadn't felt in four years. Despite her constant movement, he captured the essence of her—the way her hair fell, the specific tension in her shoulders, even the way the wind from a nearby fan caught the hem of her skirt.
The piece was a masterpiece of motion. When Jennifer returned thirty minutes later to check his progress, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw literally dropped.
"You... you drew me?" she whispered, her voice laced with awe. It was the first time someone had captured her likeness without her having to pose or pay for the privilege. "It's beautiful, Ken. You're incredibly talented. How did you manage this when I was moving the whole time?"
"I don't know," Ken said, feeling a flush of heat in his cheeks. "I just remembered how you looked."
"The detail is insane," Jennifer said, leaning in so close her nose almost touched the paper. "This is genius-level work. You're a genius, Ken."
"I don't think it deserves nuclear praise like that," Ken laughed. "I can do better."
"Better? Damn, your hands are gifted," she said, finally looking at him. "Can I buy this from you? Seriously."
Ken smiled gently, feeling a rare spark of pride. "Don't worry about it. Take it as a first-day gift."
Jennifer beamed, but then her eyes narrowed with a sudden idea. "Wait. You said you could do better. Can you do a full portrait of me? A proper painting? I won't move an inch. I'll pay you three hundred dollars for it. Please, Ken! I need this for my portfolio."
Ken checked his phone. He had thirty minutes before his next lecture, but his grades were high enough that he could afford to skip. Between the class and lunch, he had a three-hour window.
"You know it will take a while, right?" Ken asked. "At least three hours. No breaks."
She nodded vigorously. "I'll put Nathan in charge of the newbies. I'm all yours."
For the next two hours and fifty-eight minutes, Ken disappeared into the canvas. He blended oils with a precision that felt like magic, capturing the light as it danced across Jennifer's features. When he finally stepped back, his fingers were stained with sienna and cobalt, but the painting was alive.
"It's... it's perfect," Jennifer said, her voice thick with emotion.
Ken sat back, exhausted but satisfied. It had been years since he had picked up a brush, but it seemed his talent hadn't died—it had just been waiting for the silence to return.
After school, Ken stood outside the college gates. He pulled out the three crisp hundred-dollar bills Jennifer had insisted on paying him.
Three hundred dollars for a single afternoon, he thought, amazed. That's more than a week of shifts at the restaurant. But it's inconsistent. I can't survive on art alone... yet. He tucked the money into his pocket and began the walk toward the restaurant, unaware that his world would soon take a new turn.
[LUTHER CORP HEADQUARTERS]
A sleek, black SUV pulled up to the glass-and-steel monolith of Luther Corp. The security detail moved with military precision, opening the door for the Newmans.
Sara Newman stepped out first, her presence a curated display of wealth. She wore a shimmering black gown that caught the afternoon sun, a heavy pearl necklace draped around her throat. Her blonde hair was styled in a sharp, side-swept bob, and her oversized sunglasses hid her calculating eyes. She clutched a white Louis Vuitton bag that matched her pearls perfectly. She looked like a queen visiting a rival kingdom.
Leonard followed, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke suit. He made sure his Hublot Big Bang watch was visible—a loud signal that the Newmans were still players in the game.
But as they entered the lobby, the atmosphere changed. Luther Corp didn't scream wealth; it whispered it. Everything from the vaulted ceilings to the silent, marble floors radiated "Old Money"—the kind of generational power that made the Newmans' fortune look like pocket change.
They were escorted to the top floor, into the office of the acting CEO, Lance Luther.
The office was a cavernous space filled with the scent of old paper and expensive leather. Bookshelves lined the walls, and the furniture looked like it had been hand-carved over a century ago. After a round of formal handshakes, the Newmans took their seats across from Lance, who sat behind a desk made of dark, ancient oak.
"Mr. and Mrs. Newman," Lance began, his voice smooth and corporate. "We have reviewed the contract you submitted for the upcoming launch. I must say, it was outstanding."
"Thank you, Lance," Leonard replied, his chest swelling with pride. "My team put in significant hours. A partner like Luther Corp deserves nothing less than our absolute best."
"As expected," Lance said, leaning back in his chair. "However... there have been some slight changes in the global strategy."
The pride in Leonard's face instantly curdled into panic. Sara's hand tightened on her bag. They couldn't afford a change—not now, with a billion dollars on the line.
"Changes?" Leonard asked, his voice wavering. "Like what? If there's an issue with the logistics, we can fix it."
"Oh, it's nothing to worry about," Lance said, a thin, professional smile appearing on his face. "In fact, the solution is entirely within your power. You see, Luther Corp sponsors elite students to represent our interests in foreign markets. We require high-achieving individuals to act as the face of our collaborative ventures abroad."
"And what part do we play in this?" Sara asked, her voice sharp.
"We need a representative from your end to go to England," Lance explained. "They will work alongside our selected team in London. It's a way to solidify the bond between our companies—a 'stamp on the seal,' if you will. The position is prestigious, fully funded, and mandatory for the deal to proceed."
The Newmans exchanged a wary glance. "Finding a student of that caliber would take months," Leonard argued. "We don't have time to vet—"
"Oh, don't worry about the search," Lance interrupted, his smile widening. "We've already found the perfect candidate within your own family."
The room went cold. Leonard leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And who would that be?"
Lance leaned his head on his hands, looking at them with an expression of calm, terrifying certainty.
"Your son. Mikael."