Name’s Elias Ryker. 27. CEO of AstraForma Industries—the company that made Mars green again. They call me a visionary, a genius, a philanthropic force of nature. Titles never meant much to me. You know what does? Legacy. Not the kind written in Forbes or carved into the side of a corporate headquarters. I mean real legacy. The kind that holds your hand at night and calls you “Dad.”

We’ve terraformed planets, healed ecosystems, ended famines with artificial rain. But nothing… nothing feels as big as today.

I didn’t grow up with much. My parents were kind, but the world wasn’t. I clawed my way out of dirt and code to become a name people can’t ignore. And now I want to be the man who gives someone else a shot. A real shot—not just food and shelter, but love, stability, family.

That’s why we’re here—in this barely-funded, rarely-visited orphanage nestled in the kind of neighborhood politicians pretend doesn’t exist. I picked it on purpose. If fate buried the treasure here, I’m not leaving without finding it.

And beside me… is the calm in my storm.

Amara. My wife. A woman who insists on working 12-hour shifts at St. Jude’s even though her last name could buy the hospital. She’s kind like morning light—quiet, warm, constant. Watching her with children is like watching a song be written in real time.

She squeezes my hand as the doors open.

⸻

Scene Opens

Hardwood creaks beneath our feet as we step into the narrow hallway of St. Isidore’s Home for Children. The scent of old books, oatmeal, and something vaguely medicinal hangs in the air. The kind of place that’s been patched over more times than it’s been properly fixed.

A woman in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, greets us. Sister Margaret. She’s got that look—tired eyes, strong spine. The kind of woman who’s carried more than her fair share of broken hearts and still smiles like tomorrow might be better.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ryker,” she says, nodding respectfully but without the kind of awe I’m used to. I like her already.

Amara smiles first. Of course she does.

“We’re honored to be here,” she says, voice soft as ever.

I nod, running my hand through my hair—nervous tick. No boardroom ever made me feel this exposed.

Sister Margaret begins the tour. “We house about thirty children here, ages ranging from infants to seventeen. We don’t see many adoptions. Most prefer the larger, flashier places upstate. But the kids here… they’re good kids. They just need someone to see them.”

God, that hits me harder than I expect.

Someone to see them.

I glance at Amara. Her eyes are already scanning the walls, the photos, the drawings taped to peeling paint. I can tell—we’re both doing the same thing.

Searching.

For them.

The one.