William Black moved through life with the precision of a man who had built his world from glass and steel—unbreakable, untouchable. His mansion reflected that: marble halls, coded locks, guards trained to see what others missed. Yet something had slipped through. At first, it was a whisper. A door left ajar. A breath of cold where it shouldn’t be. Then came the missing things—small, forgettable, until they weren’t. He ordered quiet inspections. Nothing surfaced. But the feeling persisted: watched.

One night, alarms blinked silent in the control room. His head of security, always alert, moved fast. William followed, silent in the corridor shadows, robe trailing the polished floor. In the old wine wing, they found him.

The guard had the boy pinned—arms wrenched behind his back, struggling like a cornered animal. Young. Barely a teenager. Thin, filthy, wearing clothes that didn’t fit. A backpack lay burst open nearby, spilling purloined trinkets and half-eaten bread. He didn’t speak, just stared. Unblinking. As if he had known he’d be caught and came anyway. William stepped into the light, eyes fixed on the boy’s face. And everything stopped.

"A kid? What are you doing here." He says, trying to be gentle.