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MidReal Story
The Billionaire Reborn
Scenario:Shane Weber has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a more richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Shane inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to the only multi-googolaire family in the world. He endures constant criticism and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. How will he use his new-found wealth to shape those around him, as he reclaims his life?. With a new-found sense of responsibility, Shane will get revenge on those who mistreated him? Will he succeed?
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Shane Weber
He is a former orphan who was raised in foster care, discovering he is the heir to a multibilliondollar fortune. He is resilient, sarcastic, and determined. Shane faced a life of hardship and judgment but never gave up. His exgirlfriend left him for someone wealthier, reinforcing his low selfworth. After inheriting the fortune, he seeks revenge on those who mistreated him and strives to reclaim his dignity, building a life where he stands equal with others.
Grandfather
He is Shane's paternal grandfather who anonymously raised him in foster care due to Shane's parents' deaths. He is compassionate, unjudging, and supportive. Grandfather secretly took care of Shane, providing for his education and wellbeing without revealing his grandchild's presence to the rest of the family. His unconditional love and sacrifice shape Shane into the resilient person he becomes after discovering his inheritance.
Penelope
She is Shane's exgirlfriend who left him for another man due to financial reasons. She is selfish, shallow, and dismissive. Penelope valued Shane's wealth over their relationship, failing to see his worth beyond material possessions. Her departure hurt Shane deeply, contributing to his low selfesteem. Although she often criticizes Shane's past and present lifestyle, her flaws highlight her inability to truly care for him.
I was an orphan, a foster kid living with a family that hated me, and to make things worse, my girlfriend left me for another guy who had a better prospect in life.
She said I was a failure and would never amount to anything.
Well, I didn't blame her for leaving me; I blamed her for staying with me for so long.
I had always known I wasn't the best fit for her.
She deserved someone who could take care of her better, someone who was richer and more established.
I wasn't bitter about it.
I just accepted my fate and moved on with my life.
But little did I know, fate had other plans for me.
My life was about to change dramatically in ways I never thought possible.
I was going to inherit a huge sum of money, a fortune that would make me one of the richest people in the world.
And all of this was thanks to my grandfather, who made sure I had the best education and upbringing even when he kept his identity hidden from me.
My grandfather was a good man; he never judged me or made me feel lesser compared to his other grandkids.
He loved me just as much as he loved them, but he couldn't let the rest of the family know about me because they were against it.
I was sitting in my small studio apartment, eating cold noodles that I had cooked the night before.
My phone buzzed on the table, and I looked at the screen.
It was an unknown number.
I almost ignored it, but something compelled me to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Weber. My name is Mr. Harrison, and I am calling from Sterling & Associates Law Firm."
The voice on the other end was formal and professional.
I didn't recognize the name of the law firm or the person who was calling me.
"Yes? How can I help you?"
"I am calling to inform you that you have been named as a beneficiary in a will. The deceased was your grandfather, Mr. Henry Weber."
My heart started racing as I heard my grandfather's name.
I dropped my chopsticks on the table, and they fell to the floor with a loud clatter.
The noodles splattered all over my jeans, leaving a stain on my lap.
I didn't care about the mess; all I could think about was what this man was saying to me.
"I'm sorry? What did you say?"
"You are entitled to inherit a significant amount of money and property from your grandfather's estate. We would like to schedule a meeting with you as soon as possible to discuss the details of his will."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
My grandfather had left me his fortune?
But why?
He had other grandkids who were more deserving of his wealth than me. "I...I don't understand," I stammered.
"I'm afraid there is no time for explanations over the phone, Mr. Anderson. We need to meet in person to discuss this further. Would you be available tomorrow morning at 10 am?"
I nodded even though he couldn't see me.
"Yes, yes, of course. I'll be there."
"Excellent. Please arrive at our office by 9:45 am sharp. We will provide you with all the necessary documents and information."
"Okay, thank you," I said, still trying to process what was happening.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added before hanging up.
"The preliminary amount of your inheritance is $500 googol."
My heart stopped beating for a moment, and I felt like I was going to pass out.
Did he just say $500 googol?
There was no way that could be right.
I must have misheard him.
"Excuse me? Can you repeat that?"
"Yes, of course," he replied patiently.
"The preliminary amount of your inheritance is indeed $500 googol, Mr. Weber."
I sat there in stunned silence before finally managing to say, "This must be some kind of mistake. Are you sure it's me?"
"Absolutely certain," Mr. Harrison confirmed, his voice unwavering. "Your grandfather was very specific about his wishes."
I stare at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror, my hands shaking as I try to knot my only tie - a wrinkled blue strip I bought at a thrift store two years ago.
I've never had much use for it, but today, it's essential.
The phone call from yesterday still feels like a dream, a surreal moment that I'm waiting to wake up from.
Five hundred googol dollars.
The number doesn't even feel real.
My mind keeps circling back to it, trying to comprehend the magnitude of such wealth.
It's not just life-changing; it's world-altering.
I glance at my phone: 7:15 AM.
The law office opens at 8:00, and my appointment is set for 10:00 AM sharp.
My rusty Civic probably won't make it across town that quickly, but I can't risk being late.
I splash some water on my face, hoping it'll calm the nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
My suit jacket is a second-hand find from Goodwill, and it hangs a bit too loose around my shoulders. I take one final look at the small apartment that has been my home for the past few years.
It's shabby and cramped, but it's been mine.
Whatever happens next will change everything about my life.
I grab my worn leather wallet and the letter the lawyer sent me yesterday, confirming the meeting.
I shove them into my jacket pocket and head for the door.
The lock sticks a bit, requiring an extra shove to click into place.
The hallway is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Mrs. Chen from next door peers out of her doorway as I pass, a look of concern etched on her face.
I'm usually at work by now, so my presence this early in the morning must be unusual.
"Good morning," I say with a nod, trying to reassure her that everything is fine.
She returns my greeting with a tight smile before retreating back into her apartment.
I make my way down the four flights of stairs, avoiding the broken elevator that has been out of commission for months.
Outside, my car is parked between a dented pickup truck and a Mercedes with a "Student Driver" sign plastered on its rear window. The engine coughs twice before finally roaring to life.
I pull out of the parking lot and onto the street, merging into morning traffic.
The downtown skyscrapers rise like giants in my windshield as I inch closer to my destination.
As I navigate through the traffic, my phone rings again, and I answer it through the car's speaker.
"Hey, it's me, Alex," my best friend says, his voice crackling slightly over the line.
"Alex, you won't believe this," I reply, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
"Try me," he says, his tone light.
I take a deep breath, my palms growing sweaty on the wheel.
"I...I got this call yesterday."
"A call? From who?"
I hesitate, unsure of how to break the news.
"From a lawyer's office," I finally say.
"What? Did you get into some kind of trouble?"
"No, no, it's not that. It's about an inheritance."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I wonder if the call dropped.
"An inheritance? From who?"
I swallow hard.
"My grandfather."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Your grandfather? You mean the one you've never met?"
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"Yeah, that one."
"And why would you inherit anything from him?"
I take a deep breath before blurting it out.
"Five hundred googol dollars."
There's silence on the other end of the line for what feels like an eternity.
Then Alex bursts into laughter.
"Five hundred googol? Dude, are you serious?"
I can hear his amusement through the phone.
"No way. That's insane. You're messing with me, right?" "No, Alex, I'm not joking. That's what they told me."
He laughs again, this time harder.
"Oh man, that's a good one. You really had me there for a second."
I sigh, realizing he doesn't believe me.
"Alex, I'm serious. That's what they said."
He stops laughing abruptly.
"Wait, you're not joking?"
"No," I reply firmly.
There's another pause before he speaks again.
"Holy shit. Are you sure?"
"Yes," I say confidently.
He lets out a low whistle over the phone.
"Well damn. That changes everything."
I pull into the parking garage of the law firm's building and start searching for an open spot.
The Civic looks out of place among the luxury cars that fill most of the spaces.
As I maneuver through the crowded garage, Alex continues to process the information I've just given him. "So what are you going to do now?" he asks after a few moments of silence.
"I have no idea," I admit honestly.
"This is all so surreal."
"I bet," he says with a chuckle.
"Well, whatever happens next, it'll definitely be interesting."
I finally find an empty spot between a Bentley and a Tesla and pull into it carefully.
"Listen, if this is real, you need to be careful," Alex advises, his tone suddenly serious.
"What do you mean?" I ask, turning off the engine and sitting back in my seat.
"With that kind of money, people might come out of the woodwork trying to take advantage of you."
"I'll be fine," I assure him, though his words send a shiver down my spine.
I exit the car and carefully fold the lawyer's letter before tucking it into my jacket pocket.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker as I make my way toward the elevator.
My shoes make a soft echo against the concrete floor of the garage.
A Rolls Royce pulls in next to me, and the driver gives me a quick glance before stepping out and heading toward the elevators.
I follow behind him, checking the building directory on the wall.
Sterling & Associates occupies the top five floors.
My palms are clammy as I press the elevator button, and I can't help but notice my reflection in the polished doors.
The thrift store suit looks even shabbier than I remembered.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step inside next to the Rolls Royce driver.
He doesn't acknowledge me as we ascend, each floor number lighting up above us.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a pristine marble lobby with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the city.
My shoes squeak against the polished floor as I make my way toward the reception desk.
The receptionist, a young woman in a tailored blazer, looks up as I approach.
Her gaze travels from my worn shoes to my thrift store suit, and her expression changes from indifference to barely concealed disdain.
"Can I help you?" she asks coolly.
I pull the wrinkled letter from my pocket and place it on the desk in front of her.
"I'm here for an appointment," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady.
She glances at the letter and then back at me, her eyes widening slightly as recognition dawns on her face.
"Oh, Mr. Weber," she says, her tone shifting from contempt to surprise.
"Please, have a seat. The partners are expecting you."
She stands up quickly, smoothing her skirt before gesturing toward a large conference room behind her.
"Right this way, please."
As we walk down the hallway, I notice other employees stopping to stare at me.
Their whispers follow us like a trail of curiosity.
We reach the heavy wooden door of the conference room, and she opens it with a soft click. The room is dimly lit, with only a few overhead lights illuminating the long table where three attorneys sit huddled over documents.
They look up as we enter, their expressions unreadable.
The receptionist steps aside and motions for me to take a seat at the far end of the table.
I do so awkwardly, feeling out of place in this sterile environment.
The attorneys exchange glances before one of them speaks up.
"Mr. Weber," he says, his voice firm but polite.
"We've been expecting you. My name is Mr. Sterling."
He extends his hand across the table, and I shake it tentatively.
"Thank you for coming," he continues.
"We have some important matters to discuss regarding your inheritance."
I nod, bracing myself for the weight of the unknown that lies ahead.
I sit stiffly in the leather chair, my hands gripping the armrests as Mr. Sterling opens a thick folder and begins to spread out documents on the polished table.
The other two attorneys take notes on their tablets, their eyes darting between the papers and me.
Mr. Sterling clears his throat before speaking.
"Mr. Weber, as you are aware, your grandfather, Henry Weber, was a man of immense wealth and influence."
He gestures to a large map that has been unfolded on the table, revealing a sprawling network of companies and investments.
"As you can see, his business empire spans across six continents. He owns hundreds of companies, ranging from real estate and technology to finance and healthcare."
My eyes widen as I take in the sheer scope of his holdings.
"And this is just a fraction of his total assets," Mr. Sterling continues, sliding another document toward me.
"This portfolio includes properties around the world, from luxury estates to private islands."
I feel my heart rate quicken as I scan the list of locations.
Private islands?
How could one person own so much?
"And then there are his investment portfolios," Mr. Sterling says, handing me another stack of papers.
"These include stocks, bonds, and other financial instruments worth billions of dollars." My mind reels as I try to comprehend the magnitude of what I'm seeing.
It's too much to process all at once.
Mr. Sterling pauses, studying my reaction before continuing.
"And finally, there are his personal assets," he says, sliding one last document toward me.
I open it slowly, expecting another list or spreadsheet.
But instead, I find myself staring at a photograph.
It's an image of a man standing in front of a sleek skyscraper with "Weber Tower" emblazoned across the top in bold letters.
I've never seen him before, but there's something familiar about his eyes.
"That's your grandfather," Mr. Sterling says, noticing my confusion.
"He built that tower as the crown jewel of his empire."
I stare at the photo, trying to reconcile this stranger with the legacy he's left me.
Mr. Sterling adjusts his glasses and slides another folder across the table toward me.
"This is your copy of the will," he explains.
"As of this moment, you have full access to all of your grandfather's personal accounts."
He opens the folder, revealing a stack of papers and a small blue credit card.
"This is your new credit card," he says, pointing to the card.
"It has no spending limit, and you can use it for anything you need."
I stare at the card, noticing my name already embossed on it.
"Your grandfather wanted you to have everything he had," Mr. Sterling continues.
"He believed in you, even if you never met him."
The other two attorneys stand up and begin handing me more documents.
"These are the deeds to three properties that have been transferred into your name immediately," one of them explains.
"There's a penthouse in Manhattan, a villa in Monaco, and a ranch in Colorado."
My hands tremble as I sign the papers, feeling the weight of responsibility settling onto my shoulders.
When I'm finished, Mr. Sterling hands me a set of keys.
"These are for the penthouse," he says with a smile.
"I think you'll find it quite comfortable."
I take the keys from him, feeling the cool metal against my palm.
For the first time since receiving that letter, this all feels real. I stand up from my chair, smoothing out my thrift store suit.
It suddenly feels like a costume I can shed now that I've discovered my true identity.
Mr. Sterling extends his hand once again, this time with a genuine smile on his face.
"Welcome to your new life, Mr. Weber," he says warmly.
"We're here to help guide you through every step of this journey."
I shake his hand firmly, feeling a sense of determination wash over me.
"I won't let my grandfather down," I promise him.
"I'll make sure his legacy lives on."
The attorneys nod in agreement before gathering their papers and leaving the conference room.
As they exit, I remain seated for a moment longer, taking in the enormity of what has just happened.
The door swings open again, and the receptionist peeks her head inside.
"Mr. Weber, there's someone here to see you," she announces, her tone suddenly cautious.
A woman steps in, her eyes locking onto mine with a mix of recognition and urgency.
I rise slowly from the leather chair, my thrift store suit creasing awkwardly as I face the doorway.
The woman's designer heels click against the marble floor as she approaches, her tailored blazer and pearl necklace screaming old money.
But it's her face that strikes me the most.
She has my grandfather's eyes and sharp jawline.
My heart pounds in my chest as I realize she must be family, someone who grew up in the wealth I've just inherited.
She stops at the edge of the conference table, her manicured hand resting on its polished surface.
"Hello, cousin," she says, her voice steady and full of intent.
I gesture to the leather chair across from me, my hand trembling slightly as I try to appear composed.
She slides into it gracefully, her posture perfect against the high back.
The Cartier bracelet on her wrist catches the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, sending shards of light dancing across the walls.
The conference room suddenly feels smaller, the contrast between her and me more pronounced than ever.
She places a leather portfolio on the table between us, then opens it with a fluid motion.
Old photographs spill out, their edges yellowed with age.
I lean forward, my curiosity piqued.
She begins to speak, her voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and determination.
"Our family has a legacy," she says, pointing to a younger version of my grandfather standing beside a small boy who looks uncannily like me.
I lean forward in my leather chair, pointing at the faded photograph of the young boy.
"Who is he?"
My cousin's manicured fingers trace the edge of the image while she studies my face intently.
The conference room feels smaller as she explains that the boy is my father at age twelve, standing outside the original Weber factory.
She pulls out more yellowed photos, spreading them across the polished table.
My father growing up, graduating college, marrying my mother.
Each image reveals a life I never knew, a history kept secret from me.
Her eyes meet mine, and with a quiet resolve, she whispers, "It's time you learn the truth about our family's past."
My cousin pulls out a worn leather journal from her portfolio, its cover embossed with my family's crest.
She opens it delicately, revealing yellowed pages filled with handwritten entries.
"This belonged to your father," she explains, her voice filled with a mix of sadness and determination.
She begins to read aloud, her words painting a picture of a complex web of alliances and betrayals within the Weber family.
As she reads, I grip the armrests of my chair tightly, my mind racing with the implications of what she's telling me.
The room feels smaller, the air thickening as the weight of my family's history settles upon me.
My cousin's voice is steady, but there's a hint of vulnerability beneath her polished demeanor.
She speaks of my parents' love and their desire to protect me from the dark underbelly of the family business.
As she reads on, I learn that their decision to leave everything behind was not an abandonment but a desperate attempt to shield me from those who would exploit me for their own gain. My heart races as I listen, piecing together the fragments of my past.
The ordinary life I thought I had was actually a carefully constructed web of protection.
Tears well up in my eyes as I realize how much my parents sacrificed for me.
My cousin's voice drops to a whisper as she reaches an entry about a secret vault hidden deep within Weber Tower.
Her eyes flicker towards the door as if she fears being overheard.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my thrift store suit, my hands still trembling from the revelations.
The conference room falls into an uncomfortable silence as I type out a message to Alex.
"It's real. Just signed the papers. $500 googol, properties worldwide, and a family I never knew existed."
I attach a photo of the penthouse keys and limitless credit card lying on the mahogany table in front of me.
Before hitting send, I add, "Need to talk. Meet me at Weber Tower tonight."
My cousin's eyes widen as she notices my phone.
"You're not planning to go there alone, are you?" she asks, her voice laced with concern.
I nod slowly, determination hardening my resolve.
I rise from the conference room chair, my thrift store suit jacket pulling tight across my shoulders.
The weight of the new credit card and penthouse keys in my pocket feels heavy as I make my way to the door.
My cousin calls out, her voice tinged with urgency, "Wait!"
But I don't stop.
The marble floors echo beneath the squeak of my shoes as I pass by the receptionist, who now looks at me with a mixture of awe and fear.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a polished reflection of myself.
I may still look shabby on the outside, but something about my posture has changed.
As I step out into the parking garage, the dim lights cast long shadows across the rows of luxury cars.
My old Civic seems out of place among them, but for once, I don't feel like I don't belong here.
I reach into my pocket for the keys and unlock the car door.
"You're making a mistake," my cousin calls after me, her voice echoing in the garage.
I pause, turning back to face her, "I have to know what's inside that vault."
She steps closer, her eyes pleading, "Then let me come with you. You shouldn't face this alone."
Standing beside my old Civic in the dim parking garage, I watch my cousin's concerned expression as she dials Alex's number on her designer phone.
She explains the situation to him, her voice urgent and persuasive.
After a moment, she ends the call and turns to me.
"He's on his way," she says, her eyes searching mine.
I nod, still trying to process everything that has happened.
As we wait for Alex to arrive, my cousin pulls out a notepad and begins sketching a rough layout of Weber Tower's security system.
I watch her work, fascinated by the intricate details she includes.
Twenty minutes later, Alex arrives in his beaten-up Toyota, looking startled to see my cousin standing next to me.
We huddle between the cars, keeping our voices low as we discuss the plan.
My cousin hands Alex the notepad with the security layout, pointing out key points of entry and potential risks.
"I used to make deliveries here," Alex says, his eyes scanning the diagram.
"There's a service entrance on the east side that might be our best bet."
I grip the penthouse keys tightly in my pocket, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.
We park our cars two blocks away from Weber Tower, my Civic following behind my cousin's Mercedes and Alex's Toyota.
The street is dimly lit, the only sound coming from the distant hum of evening traffic.
We gather behind a dumpster, my cousin pointing out the blind spots in the security cameras on her sketched layout.
The noise of passing cars covers our whispered conversation.
Alex leads us along the west side of the building, avoiding the main entrance where security guards patrol.
We pass by the loading docks where he used to make deliveries, pausing at each corner to scan for guards.
As we approach the back of the building, Alex points to a maintenance door partially hidden behind stacked pallets.
He tests the handle, slowly turning it with a quiet click.
We crouch in the shadows, our shoulders almost touching as my cousin checks the security feeds on her phone.
The night air feels electric between us.
When a guard's flashlight beam sweeps across the nearby wall, Alex grabs my wrist and pulls me against the building.
"Stay close," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
My heart pounds, but not from fear.
I've never been this physically close to him before.
The maintenance door clicks open, and my cousin waves us forward.
I check my vibrating phone, still crouched behind the maintenance door as Alex's hand grips my wrist.
The text is from an unknown number: "Security system in maintenance shutdown. Cameras disabled."
My cousin checks her tablet, nodding as she sees the feeds go dark and the access points unlock.
"Looks like our friend came through," she whispers, tucking the device into her bag.
Alex glances at his watch, his brow furrowed with concern.
"This feels too easy," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of machinery.
"What if it's a trap?"
I hesitate for a moment, weighing the risks.
But I can't turn back now, not when I'm so close to uncovering the truth about my family and their secrets.
I push forward, testing the door handle.
It clicks open smoothly, revealing a dimly lit service corridor that stretches deep into the heart of Weber Tower.
The air inside is stale and musty, carrying the scent of aged dust and forgotten memories.
I hesitate, my hand still on the door handle, as a figure suddenly emerges from the shadows.
The janitor's face is weathered, his features barely visible in the dim light of the corridor.
His eyes flicker between us, his gaze lingering on Alex's grip on my wrist.
My cousin tenses beside me, her hand instinctively reaching for the pepper spray in her bag.
But I hold up a hand, signaling her to wait.
The janitor's gray uniform bears the Weber Tower logo emblazoned across the chest, and a keycard dangles from a worn lanyard around his neck.
He gestures impatiently toward a narrow passage between two rows of storage shelves.
"Guards patrol this level every fifteen minutes," he whispers urgently, his voice low and gravelly.
"We have to move fast."
As if on cue, we hear heavy footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor.
The janitor's head jerks up, his eyes darting toward the sound.
"No time to debate," he mutters, already turning away from us.
"Wait," Alex calls out, his voice firm but cautious.
The janitor pauses, glancing back with a hint of impatience.
"Why are you helping us?" Alex presses, his grip on my wrist tightening slightly.
The janitor's gaze flicks to my face, a flicker of recognition crossing his features.
"Your grandfather," he says simply, his voice barely above a whisper.
"He saved my family from poverty. Tonight, I repay that debt."
He turns away again, disappearing into the narrow passage between the shelves.
I follow him, my cousin and Alex close behind.
The passage is so narrow that we have to walk single-file, our shoulders brushing against the metal shelves on either side.
The air is thick with dust, and cobwebs cling to the corners of the shelves.
I can feel the weight of years of neglect bearing down on us as we move deeper into the passage.
The shelves are stacked haphazardly with cleaning supplies, old files, and broken machinery.
It's clear that this area has been largely forgotten in the gleaming tower's pursuit of modernity. The janitor leads us through the winding passage, his keycard beeping softly as he unlocks hidden doors and secret panels.
We pass through a series of narrow corridors and cramped stairwells, each one leading us deeper into the heart of Weber Tower.
Finally, we reach a small room filled with rows of humming servers and blinking computer screens.
The air is cool and sterile here, a stark contrast to the dusty passage we just left behind.
The janitor stops at a large metal door hidden behind one of the server racks.
He swipes his keycard across a hidden panel, and a keypad slides out from the wall.
His weathered hands shake slightly as he enters a long sequence of numbers. "This is one of the few doors in Weber Tower that isn't linked to the main security system," he explains quietly as he works the keypad.
"It's an old emergency exit, left over from when this building was first constructed."
As he finishes entering the code, there's a soft hiss and the door slides open with a metallic groan.
Beyond it lies another narrow corridor, this one lined with sleek glass panels and polished chrome fixtures.
It's a stark contrast to the dusty service corridors we just navigated.
"This is as far as I can take you," the janitor says quietly, his eyes flicking nervously toward the keypad as if he's worried someone might be watching or listening.
"But I have something for you."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of yellow paper.
"Your grandfather gave this to me years ago," he explains softly as he presses it into my hand.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the server room, I smooth out the crinkled paper with trembling fingers.
It's a hand-drawn map, crude but detailed, showing a layout of the 45th floor of Weber Tower.
A red pen has marked a winding path through the maintenance tunnels and service corridors, ending at a door labeled only with a single asterisk.
Alex peers over my shoulder as my cousin checks her tablet for the guards' positions.
I study the map more closely, my eyes tracing the familiar handwriting in the margins.
It's my grandfather's writing, and it lists specific times: 2:15 AM, 3:45 AM, 5:30 AM.
I glance at my phone, the screen glowing brightly in the dim light of the corridor.
It's 2:13 AM.
We have two minutes to find out what my grandfather wanted us to see.
I grip the map tightly in my hand as we race down the dimly lit corridor, our footsteps echoing off the metal walls.
Alex stays close behind me, his breath hot against my neck.
My cousin follows us, her eyes fixed on her tablet as she checks for guard positions and hidden cameras.
The maintenance tunnel branches into three different paths, and I pause for a moment to study the map.
The markings are faded and hard to read in the dim light, but I recognize the symbol my grandfather used to mark the correct path.
I point to the rightmost passage, and we continue on our way.
My watch reads 2:14 AM.
Sweat trickles down my neck as we round another corner, and I see a junction point marked with a small X on the map.
According to my grandfather's notes, this is where we'll find what he wanted us to see.
A steel door looms before us, its keypad glowing green in the darkness.
I punch in the code from the map, and as the door swings open, a flood of light reveals a secret my grandfather took to his grave.
I step through the steel door and into a small room lined with rows of metal filing cabinets.
Alex and my cousin follow close behind, our shadows stretching across the floor in the bright fluorescent light.
The room is tiny, barely large enough for the three of us to stand side by side.
But it's packed with files, each one carefully labeled with a date and a code number.
I open the nearest drawer, and stacks of manila folders spill out onto the dusty desk in the center of the room.
My hands tremble as I spread them across the desk, revealing surveillance photos of my parents being followed by shadowy figures in dark suits.
There are pictures of secret meetings in parking garages and deserted alleys, documents with the Weber company seal emblazoned on them, and handwritten notes detailing my parents' every move.
A piece of paper slips from between the photos and drifts to the floor.
I pick it up with trembling fingers, recognizing my grandfather's handwriting.
The message is brief, just two sentences scrawled in red ink:
"Trust no one but family. They're watching you."
Alex moves closer to read over my shoulder while my cousin stands near the door, checking her tablet for any sign of guards.
The words make me pause, and I wonder who my grandfather meant by "family."
Is it my cousin, who I've only just met?
Or is it Alex, who has been by my side through everything?
I fold the note into a neat square and tuck it into the pocket of my jacket.
My cousin glances up from her tablet, her eyes following the movement.
The room seems smaller now, more confining.
I slide the drawer shut, my fingers lingering on the cold metal handle.
The surveillance photos of my parents are still spread across the desk, but I can't bring myself to look at them again.
Instead, I shove them into my jacket pocket, next to the note from my grandfather.
My cousin raises an eyebrow as I turn away from the desk, but she doesn't say anything.
Through a narrow doorway, I see another room lined with even more filing cabinets.
"There might be more in there," I whisper to Alex and my cousin.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
I step through the doorway, my footsteps echoing off the metal walls.
My cousin checks her tablet for guard positions while Alex follows close behind me.
I pull open the heavy drawer of the filing cabinet, its metal scraping against the tracks.
The folders inside are labeled with dates and code numbers, just like the ones in the other room.
Some of them have red marks on the labels, matching the handwriting on the note my grandfather left me.
Alex hovers behind me, watching as I lift out the first folder.
My cousin stands by the door, her tablet at the ready in case any guards come this way.
My fingers tremble as I lift out the first folder and place it on top of the filing cabinet.
The contents spill across the dusty surface, revealing more surveillance photos.
But this time, they're not of my parents.
They're of my grandfather, meeting with shadowy figures in dark suits.
There are pictures of him talking to men in business suits, his face twisted into a scowl.
And there are documents detailing secret meetings and clandestine deals. A handwritten note falls from between the photos, drifting to the floor with a soft rustle.
I pick it up, recognizing my grandfather's handwriting once again.
I unfold the letter, my hands still trembling from the discovery.
The paper is worn and yellowed at the edges, as if it's been tucked away for years.
Alex leans in close, reading over my shoulder as I scan the words.
My cousin stands by the door, her tablet casting a pale glow on her worried face.
The letter begins with a simple salutation: "My dear grandson."
The words are written in my grandfather's familiar cursive script, but they seem distant, almost formal.
As I read through the pages, I realize that this is more than just a letter - it's a confession.
My grandfather writes about his business dealings, about the rival companies and ruthless men who sought to bring him down.
He talks about the measures he took to protect himself and our family, about the secrets he kept hidden for so long. The letter ends abruptly, with no signature or farewell.
But as I turn to the final page, something slips from between the sheets of paper and falls to the floor with a soft rustle.
I bend down to pick it up, realizing it's another surveillance photo.
But this time, it's not of my parents or my grandfather.
It's of me.
I'm standing in front of my high school, wearing my baseball uniform and holding a bat in one hand.
My hair is messy and my smile is wide as I look at the camera.
But what catches my attention isn't just the photo itself - it's the date stamped on the back.
It's from years ago, long before I ever met Alex or discovered any of this. As I flip through the pages of my grandfather's letter again, more photos fall out.
They're all of me - at school events, at baseball games, even at my high school graduation ceremony.
Each one shows me smiling and laughing with friends, completely unaware that someone was watching me from afar.
But who?
And why?
"Why would he have these?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Alex looks at me, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and determination. "Maybe he was trying to protect you, or maybe... he knew something we don't."
My cousin steps forward, her expression serious as she lowers her tablet. "We need to find out who else has seen these and why they were taken in the first place."
I stuff the surveillance photos and letter into my jacket pockets while Alex helps gather the scattered documents.
My hands tremble as I pull out the business card my grandfather tucked into his letter.
It has a single phone number printed on it, with no name or address.
I dial the number, my heart pounding in my chest as the line rings three times.
Then, a familiar voice answers on the other end.
"Hello?"
I stand there, frozen in the dimly lit room between the filing cabinets.
The voice on the other end is one I've heard countless times before - it's my father's voice, warm and reassuring.
But now, it feels like a stranger's voice, tainted by years of deception.
"Hello?" he says again, his tone growing slightly impatient.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice.
"Dad," I manage to say, my words barely above a whisper. There's a pause on the other end of the line, as if he's trying to process what he just heard.
Then, he speaks again.
"Who is this?"
My cousin moves closer to me, her tablet forgotten in her hand as she watches me with wide eyes.
Alex stands next to her, his gaze fixed on me with concern etched across his face.
"It's me," I say finally, finding my voice again.
"I need to talk to you."
There's another pause before my father responds.
"Where are you?"
I look at Alex and my cousin, their faces filled with a mix of worry and determination.
"We're in town," I say vaguely.
"I need to see you."
"Okay," he says after a moment of hesitation.
"There's a coffee shop across town. Meet me there in an hour."
He gives me an address before hanging up abruptly. As soon as I end the call, Alex grabs my arm tightly.
"What did he say?"
I take a deep breath before answering.
"He wants to meet at a coffee shop across town."
Alex looks at me skeptically.
"Do you think that's a good idea? We don't know what we're dealing with here." "We have to try," I say firmly, tucking the phone back into my pocket.
I check my watch - 3:15 AM.
"We have to be careful," my cousin interjects, her voice steady but urgent.
Alex nods, his expression serious. "We need a plan in case things go south."
I glance between them, feeling the weight of their concern. "We'll stick together and stay alert; we can't let this slip through our fingers."
I stuff the surveillance photos and letter back into my jacket pockets, my mind racing.
My cousin checks her tablet for any guards nearby, her fingers moving swiftly over the screen.
Alex leads us back through the maintenance tunnels, his hand gripping my shoulder to guide me in the dim light.
At a junction, we hear voices echoing from the right corridor.
My cousin pulls us into an alcove as two security guards pass by, their radios crackling with static.
As soon as they're out of sight, we sprint through the service entrance and into the parking lot.
Rain pelts us as we dash to our cars, agreeing to meet at Midnight Brew Coffee in fifteen minutes.
I pull into the empty parking lot of Midnight Brew Coffee, my windshield wipers fighting against the heavy rain.
Alex's Toyota parks beside me while my cousin takes position across the street in her Mercedes.
I step out into the downpour, but before I can take a step, Alex rushes over with an umbrella.
We huddle close underneath it, walking toward the café's entrance.
When I stumble on a broken piece of pavement, Alex steadies me with his hand on my lower back.
Rain streams down my face as I turn to thank him.
Alex gently brushes rain from my cheek, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
Our eyes lock briefly, and for a second, the world around us fades away.
I stand frozen under the umbrella with Alex, rain drumming against the fabric above us.
His hand remains warm on my back while his other hand lingers on my cheek.
The parking lot lights cast a soft glow on his face as he moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine.
My heart pounds in my chest as I try to process what just happened.
Behind us, my cousin's Mercedes idles, its headlights cutting through the rain.
The coffee shop's neon sign flickers above us, reminding me that my father waits inside.
But I can't move, caught between Alex's intense gaze and the weight of our mission.
Alex breaks the silence first, his voice barely audible over the rain.
"Are you ready for this?"
I nod, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "We have to be."
I push open the café door with trembling hands, Alex right behind me.
Water drips from our clothes onto the scuffed linoleum floor as fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
The night barista barely glances up from his phone, too engrossed in his game to notice our arrival.
Through the steam of coffee machines, I scan the empty tables until I see him - a man in his fifties wearing a navy blazer, his face lined but familiar from the photos.
My father sits alone in the furthest corner, hands wrapped around an untouched mug.
When our eyes meet, he stands slowly.
His expression is unreadable, but the weight of unspoken truths hangs heavy between us.
I walk slowly across the empty café toward him, the surveillance photos crinkling in my jacket pocket.
Alex follows a few steps behind, his presence both comforting and protective.
The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on my father's weathered face.
His eyes dart between me and Alex, uncertainty flickering in them.
He stands awkwardly by his table, coffee growing cold in front of him.
His hands fidget with the button on his blazer, betraying his nervousness.
When I reach the table, I pull out the photos one by one, laying them between us like evidence.
Each image captures a moment from my life - a birthday party, a school play, a graduation ceremony.
My father's eyes widen as he recognizes himself in the background of every picture.
Before he can speak, I lean closer, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I know you've been watching me. I know you never really left."
I lean across the table, my hands pressed against its cold surface.
The fluorescent lights above flicker, casting harsh shadows on his face.
My voice is steady, despite the turmoil inside me.
Alex stands behind my chair, his presence giving me strength.
The café around us is quiet except for the hum of coffee machines and the distant sound of rain against the windows.
My father's eyes drop to the photos, his fingers tracing the rim of his untouched coffee cup.
He doesn't meet my gaze, unable to face the truth head-on.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions and unresolved pasts.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low and strained.
"I didn't mean to intrude. I just wanted to see you grow up."
His words hang in the air like a fragile promise.
I study his face, searching for any sign of deception.
But all I see is a man worn down by regret and longing.
I push the photos closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Then why did you leave? Why did you abandon us?"
His shoulders tense at my words, and he looks away for a moment before meeting my eyes again.
"I was trying to protect you," he says, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and determination. I wait for him to continue, but he remains silent.
The weight of his secrets hangs heavy between us, and I can feel Alex's protective presence behind me.
I glance back at him briefly, seeing the concern etched on his face before turning my attention back to my father.
"Explain," I demand, my voice firm but controlled.
He hesitates before reaching into the pocket of his blazer and pulling out a worn envelope.
It looks old and weathered, as if it has been carried with him for years.
He places it on the table between us, then pushes it toward me gently with a trembling hand.
With trembling fingers, I slide the worn envelope open under the harsh lighting of the café.
Alex leans closer, his shoulder pressed against mine as I carefully unfold the yellowed pages.
The first line hits me hard - "My dearest son, by the time you read this, you'll know I'm alive."
Coffee grows cold on the table while my father watches me read, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
The letter is filled with his cramped handwriting, each word revealing a truth that could shatter everything I thought I knew.
I read of corporate espionage and death threats, of a powerful enemy within our own family who forced my parents into hiding.