Cresthill didn't sleep—it brooded. Every corner of the city pulsed with a restlessness that never quite stilled. The air reeked of oil, ambition, and old blood—remnants of promises made and broken beneath flickering streetlights.
Aiden Cross moved through it like smoke, unseen but everywhere.
He adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack as he stepped out of Kane's Auto Shop, the garage door rattling closed behind him. Grease streaked his forearm, and the scent of gasoline clung to his hoodie like a second skin. Another 10-hour shift done. Another day closer to nowhere.
The city hummed with rainclouds that hadn't yet opened up, casting everything in a heavy silver gloom. It was the kind of evening that made you wonder if something was about to happen—or already had, and you just hadn't caught up yet.
His phone buzzed, the cracked screen flashing a reminder:
Night shift: Rocco's Diner – 8:00 PM.
Aiden sighed, rubbed his temples, and ducked into a familiar alley. It was a narrow shortcut between decaying buildings, one he'd taken a thousand times. But tonight, something about it felt…off. Like the shadows were watching. Listening.
Behind him, a soft echo of footsteps.
He didn't stop. Didn't look back. Not because he wasn't curious, but because in Cresthill, you learned that curiosity could get you killed.
A cat darted across the path. A trash bin toppled somewhere behind him.
Still, Aiden kept walking.
By the time he reached his neighborhood—the slums of Nolan Avenue—the feeling had passed, like a whisper swallowed by the wind. But unease had settled into his chest, just beneath the surface, like a splinter he couldn't dig out.
*****
The bungalow he called home leaned to the left, the foundation sinking with the same tiredness that plagued everyone who lived on that block. A porch light flickered like it couldn't decide whether life was worth staying awake for.
Mrs. Rina sat on the front steps, wrapped in her usual floral robe, a cigarette glowing between her fingers. Her thinning hair was tied up with a plastic clip, and her sandals were mismatched. She didn't look at him when he approached.
"Late," she muttered.
"Garage ran long," Aiden replied, digging into his back pocket. He handed her a folded twenty.
She took it without a word, tucking it into her bra like it was owed. Maybe it was.
"You eat today?" she asked after a moment.
"Does it matter?" he asked back.
She laughed dryly. "No. I guess not."
*****
His room was barely wider than a prison cell, but he'd made it his. On one wall hung a corkboard filled with diagrams, torn pages from engineering manuals, and sticky notes scribbled with code. On the other sat an old laptop he'd built from scraps, humming softly with age.
Aiden collapsed into the cracked desk chair, the back groaning in protest. He booted up the laptop and connected to the diner's scheduling portal to confirm his shift. It was still there—same hours, same pay, same dead-end routine.
Except one email stood out in his inbox.
No subject. No sender. Time-stamped 7:41 PM.
He clicked it warily.
"Mr. Aiden Cross,
You have been selected for the Sinclair Horizon Program.
This opportunity is extended by invitation only to exceptional candidates across the nation.
Your attendance is expected at Sinclair Tower, 43rd floor, this Friday at 9:00 AM sharp.
Present this invitation at the lobby desk.
—Elara Blake
Program Director
Sinclair Industries"
He stared at the screen. Once. Twice.
His chest tightened.
Sinclair?
Sinclair Industries was the holy grail of Cresthill. The Sinclair name was spoken with the kind of reverence people usually reserved for royalty—or for monsters. Reginald Sinclair, the billionaire patriarch, was as mysterious as he was powerful. Some said he'd built his empire on brilliance. Others said blood.
Aiden had never applied to any program. He couldn't even afford the application fee for most internships. So how did they—of all people—know his name?
He checked the email headers. Official. Verified domain. No signs of a scam.
His gaze dropped to the foot of his bed.
A dusty shoebox lay there, half-buried beneath old clothes. He hadn't opened it in years. Not since the last time he asked himself the question that haunted his dreams.
With trembling fingers, he pulled the box out, pried open the lid, and stared at the contents:
A gold-stitched baby blanket, too fine for the slums.
A silver bracelet, sized for a newborn, with an engraved crest he'd never been able to trace.
And a folded note, brittle with age.
"To the boy with my name. I pray the world is kinder to you than I was."
There was no signature. Only the imprint of a wax seal, barely visible now—a lion's head encircled by a crown.
His pulse roared in his ears. He reached under his mattress and pulled out a tattered book where he'd scribbled every theory he'd ever had about who he was. Names. Hospitals. Abandoned orphan records. Nothing had ever stuck.
But now?
Now there was Sinclair.
And the lion crest? It matched the family's emblem—one he'd seen years ago in a business journal.
*****
The floor creaked above him. Rina's footsteps. A drawer slammed. The sound snapped him back to reality.
He closed the box, shoving it under the bed like the truth was something you could hide.
But he knew better.
You couldn't outrun a name—especially not one written in blood.
*****
At 2:00 AM, Aiden sat alone at a booth in Rocco's Diner, still in his grease-stained hoodie, serving stale coffee to cops who didn't tip and drunkards who slurred their way through eggs and lies. The city had teeth. It chewed people like him up and spit them out with numbers instead of names.
But tonight, the name "Sinclair" clung to his ribs like something living.
"You alright, kid?" asked Marcus, the night cook, from behind the counter.
"Yeah," Aiden lied. "Just tired."
Marcus nodded. "You ever wonder what you'd do if someone handed you the world on a silver platter?"
"No," Aiden replied. "Because no one ever does."
The bell above the door rang. A man in a black coat stepped in—mid-50s, eyes sharp, movements deliberate. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. He scanned the room, made brief eye contact with Aiden, and then sat at a booth near the back.
Aiden felt his stomach twist.
Whoever he was, the man didn't order. Didn't look at the menu. Just sat there…watching.
*****
The next morning, Aiden found a white envelope taped to his locker at the garage.
No name. Just a symbol.
A lion's head. Crowned.
He looked around. No one in sight.
His fingers were shaking when he opened it.
Inside:
A plane ticket to New York City.
A security badge labeled: SINCLAIR INDUSTRIES – TEMP CLEARANCE
A note:
Your father owed you a lot more than this. See you Friday.