Tension gripped the park like a vice. The officers froze, their hands hovering uncertainly, while Francis stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed. A hush fell over the crowd—merchants, passersby, even children—all staring in disbelief. Who, in their right mind, would order the arrest of a child?
It was Angel's voice that shattered the silence.
"Daddy! He was the one who brought me back when I got lost!" she blurted, her tone urgent and defensive.
The tall man—Alexander—paused, his hand halfway extended. With a sharp exhale, he slid it into his pocket, his shoulders stiff, chin tilted high. His face held the same proud, almost arrogant composure, though his narrowed eyes flickered with surprise.
"Really," Alexander muttered, voice clipped as he gestured for the officers to stand down. They exchanged uncertain looks, then quietly dispersed. He stepped closer to Francis, his gaze raking over the boy from head to toe, as though sizing up a beggar. His lip curled ever so slightly.
"Tell me, boy—what do you want? You look like someone who needs help." His tone dripped with disdain.
Francis swallowed, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. His chest rose and fell quickly, but his voice came out firm.
"I don't need anything."
Alexander raised a brow, smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.
"Really? Suit yourself, then." He turned his back dismissively and strode toward his wife, Alice, who stood silently by their car. Angel, unwilling, gave Francis one last wave, her hand faltering as she climbed inside.
The engine roared to life, and just like that, they were gone.
Francis exhaled sharply, his legs finally moving. He bolted, weaving through the dimly lit streets. The setting sun painted the sky a bruised orange, merchants shouted as they pushed carts, and the clatter of stalls closing filled the air. His heart pounded—not just from the run, but from the fear of facing Gabriel.
By the time he reached the door, his chest tightened at the sight within. Gabriel was already awake, propped weakly on the bed. His eyes, clouded with exhaustion, still burned with worry. The frailty of his body—the way his arms trembled just to rest against the sheets—was a painful truth Francis could barely stand to witness.
Francis hesitated at the threshold, clutching his bag tightly. He thought:
I have a good reason… so why am I afraid?
"Come inside," Gabriel commanded, his voice hoarse but steady. He had sensed Francis's presence long before the boy revealed himself.
Francis stepped forward, shoulders hunched, eyes cast down. His bag dangled heavily from his grip.
"Where are you coming from?" Gabriel's narrowed gaze pinned him in place.
Francis's voice wavered at first but steadied as he forced himself to meet his uncle's eyes.
"I went to the library… to gather some writing materials for my story."
Gabriel's brows drew together.
"And why didn't you inform me?" His tone carried both reproach and concern.
Francis shifted on his feet, lips pressing into a thin line.
"I didn't want to disturb your sleep."
Gabriel studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing further.
"Then why are you late? The library isn't that far from here."
Francis hesitated, then spoke quickly, almost in a rush.
"I met a girl on the way… she was lost near the park. I helped her find her parents."
Silence stretched before Gabriel gave a faint nod, the tension in his face easing slightly.
"I see… but don't let this repeat itself. Don't leave without telling me again."
"Okay," Francis murmured, finally setting his bag down on the small wooden table.
Gabriel closed his eyes, fatigue dragging at his features.
"Go and cook something," he muttered.
Francis nodded.
"Okay."
It was absurd, almost heartbreaking, that a ten-year-old had learned to cook. But Francis was no ordinary boy. He had picked up the skill at his mother's side, watching her stir pots and chop vegetables with patient care. Later, Gabriel—young but already burdened—had taught him more. Together, those lessons had shaped a child who carried responsibilities far beyond his years.
Meanwhile, inside the sleek black car, silence hung heavy. The hum of the engine was the only sound as Angel sat between her parents, her small frame pressed against her mother's side. Her normally bright eyes were dulled with sadness, her lips curved in a faint pout. Alice, elegant even in her dishevelment, wrapped her arms around her daughter protectively. Long strands of her black hair fell loosely across her face, and though she tried to smile, her trembling hands betrayed her fear.
She had nearly lost Angel. The thought alone made her chest tighten.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Alice's soft voice broke through.
"How did you get lost, Angel?" she asked, her tone tinged with guilt and concern.
Angel lifted her head slowly, her blonde curls brushing against her mother's cheek. Her eyes—wide, innocent, yet full of mischief—studied Alice for a moment before she replied bluntly.
"I told you I wanted ice cream, but you didn't answer. You were too busy on your phone."
Alice's breath caught. A guilty flush colored her cheeks. Before she could respond, Alexander's head snapped toward her. His eyes—sharp, cold, commanding—narrowed into a glare that made Alice turn her face away instantly, like a child caught in a mistake.
Alexander leaned back against the leather seat, his deep voice cutting into the silence.
"Where did you pass the night? And where exactly did that boy find you?" His expression shifted with calculated interest, the stern lines of his face momentarily softening into a mask of concern.
Angel's lips curved into a small smile as she swung her legs lightly, her innocence disarming.
"I slept in an old library. That boy… I met him on the way. He's nice, isn't he?" she said, her tone carrying admiration.
Alice quickly nodded, brushing her daughter's hair back with trembling fingers.
"Yes, he is." She offered her daughter a gentle smile, patting her head affectionately. But her attempt at comfort was cut short when Alexander's piercing gaze flicked to her again. Alice's smile faltered. She turned her face away a second time, unable to withstand the weight of his glare.
Alexander exhaled through his nose, his mouth twisting in disdain. He reached over, brushing Angel's hair with the tips of his fingers. His voice dropped into a tone both smooth and dismissive.
"Don't mind your mom. She's careless. I'll take care of you instead."
Angel scrunched her nose, rolling her eyes in playful defiance.
"No, you won't, Daddy. You're always busy with work. You never have time like Mom does." She chuckled softly, her laughter light and airy.
Alice smirked triumphantly, stealing a sideways glance at her husband. For once, their daughter's words had cut him down.
Alexander jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist on his thigh before he forced a strained smile.
"Then tell me, sweetheart. What can I do to make it up to you? Do you want new clothes? Toys? Teddy bears? Candy—"
He didn't finish. Angel leaned forward, her voice bubbling with excitement.
"I want to go to the Writer's Academy!"
The air inside the car shifted instantly. Both Alexander and Alice stared at their daughter, stunned into silence.
"What did you just say?" Alexander asked, his voice low and incredulous.
Alice blinked rapidly, her lips parting in disbelief.
Angel tilted her head, widening her eyes in exaggerated innocence.
"The Writer's Academy. I heard about it. Will you let me join?" she asked, her tone playful yet insistent. She clasped her hands together and flashed her father a bright, pleading smile.
Alexander blinked twice, clearly caught off guard.
"How did you even hear about that? Do you even know how to write?" He rattled off his questions rapidly, as though interrogating her.
Angel giggled, shaking her head.
"Too many questions, Daddy! Just answer me. Will you let me join?" Her mischievous grin deepened.
Alexander leaned back, releasing a low chuckle of his own. Slowly, a smile stretched across his face—rare, genuine, yet edged with pride.
"Anything you want, dear."
From the driver's seat, Alexander's personal assistant cleared his throat. The man was young but sharp, his posture impeccable as he guided the wheel steadily. His voice was calm, informative, almost rehearsed.
"If I may, sir—the Writer's Academy was recently established by Mr. Townsend, a renowned author known for his passionate works. His purpose in creating the academy was to uncover hidden talent among teens."
He continued without pause.
"However, there are requirements. Candidates must be at least sixteen years old. They must also submit an unpublished story. Given Miss Angel's age, she will need to wait six years before she can apply. And she will need to write a story herself."
Alexander tapped his chin thoughtfully, a calculating gleam in his eyes.
"Getting someone to help her write a book won't be a problem, will it?" His words came with the faintest sneer.
The assistant glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, his expression composed.
"It won't, sir. But I strongly suggest Miss Angel writes the story herself. It will give her an advantage."
Alice finally spoke, her voice laced with doubt.
"But… she doesn't know how to write."
The assistant replied smoothly, his confidence unwavering.
"There are many writing tutors available. With six years ahead, she has more than enough time to learn—and to craft her story."
Alexander's lips curved into a slow smile. His eyes gleamed with ambition as he leaned back comfortably against the seat.
"Very well. Get me all the information you can on Mr. Townsend. I'll inform him personally that Aurora's little miss intends to join his academy." His sneer deepened, his pride as CEO of Aurora Entertainment Group evident.
Aurora was one of the most powerful industries in Solmera. With Alexander at its helm and a five-star assistant by his side, he was nearly unstoppable—recruiting talents across the city, expanding his empire, crushing rivals without hesitation.
But across town, a different scene unfolded.
In the dimly lit room of a modest home, Francis sat at his small wooden table. The remnants of their meal still lingered in the air, but his focus was elsewhere. His uncle Gabriel lay resting on the worn bed, his breathing heavy and uneven. Francis glanced at him briefly, then turned back to the blank sheets spread before him.
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the pen. He stared at the paper, his reflection mirrored faintly in the ink's sheen. His chest tightened, but not from fear—this was determination, raw and unyielding.
This is it, he thought. This is where it begins.
His eyes sparkled with quiet resolve as he lowered the pen. On the first page, he wrote carefully, each letter pressed with purpose:
"THE ALPHA AND HIS AUTHORESS"
"A world full of betrayal and deceit"
By Francis Charles.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly, a sense of weight and destiny settling over him. This story—his story—would not just be ink on paper. It would be the weapon he needed, the path to uncovering the truth behind his parents' death.
And so, under the faint glow of a flickering lamp, Francis began to write.