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Father's POV – 99978
When he stepped inside my house, my knees almost gave way.
The guards filled every corner, hands on rifles, eyes sharp. But he waved them back.
Chris Blackwood sat. At my son's small wooden table.
The King of the Empire on a stool that creaked under his weight.
He handed the boy the gift himself — a small mechanical soldier, crafted in black steel, its eyes glowing faint red.
"A soldier that never runs," Chris said.
My son's smile could have lit the fortresses.
The other children dared not breathe. Then, slowly, one by one, they laughed, touched the toy, played.
The King did not stop them. He only watched.
At one point, my wife moved with trembling hands to serve food. He took the plate from her, nodded.
"Good meal," he said.
Her tears fell before she could hide them.
The silence of fear turned into strange, awkward joy. Children forgot titles. Adults forced themselves to join.
But me — Citizen 99978 — I never forgot who sat at my table.
The man who commanded numbers. Who executed kings. Who could burn my name and family from existence with a single word.
Yet here he was. Eating cake with my son.
I realized something that night:
For us, he was terror.
But for himself… perhaps he longed for the simple weight of being just a man.
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