As Joe Armstrong's car sped away from Emmett, he took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation that had just transpired. But instead of heading straight to the office, he made a subtle turn back towards the previous location. Once out of sight, Joe pulled over and quickly exited his vehicle. He glanced around cautiously, ensuring no one was observing him.A short distance away, a larger, luxurious gold-colored Venza awaited him. Joe approached the vehicle, his demeanor shifting from casual to serious. He opened the rear door and slipped inside, immediately bowing his head. In the plush back seat, a man dressed in a striking gold suit sat with an air of authority. His presence was commanding, exuding a quiet, menacing power. This was Sullivan, a figure who rarely showed his face but whose influence was deeply felt.Joe greeted him respectfully, "Greetings, Master."Sullivan, without looking up from the tablet he was holding, acknowledged Joe's presence with a slight n
After his bold declaration, Sultan tapped Emmett's back seemingly soothing him to easen his tension then stepped forward, addressing the gathered shareholders, employees, and reporters. His calm demeanor and confident presence commanded attention, and as he began to speak, the room fell silent. He felt the funny and playful side it him - the FOOL, give way for his smart side as Sultan Armstrong, now a Watson. "Ladies and gentlemen," Sultan began, his voice steady and assured, "I understand that there has been a lot of uncertainty and concern regarding the future of the Watson Company. Today, I stand before you to address those concerns and present a vision for our collective future."He paused, letting his words sink in. The shareholders, some skeptical, some hopeful, leaned in, eager to hear more."My vision for the Watson Company is one of innovation, fairness, and family values. We need to embrace new technologies and ideas to stay competitive in this rapidly changing market. Bu
"Greetings and peace be unto here,” a bewitching voice slurred from the entrance.The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically as Sullivan walked in. The cameras, previously focused on Sultan and the Watson family, swung towards the door, capturing every step of the president's son. The reporters, eager for a scoop, rushed forward, their microphones thrust out and voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of questions and praises."Mr President's son! Over here!""Mr. Sullivan, can we get a comment?""How do you feel about the recent developments? And do you have a hand in the help of the Watsons to resolve their issues?""Why are you here today?”Sullivan, dressed in a sharp suit that seemed to glow with authority, acknowledged the cameras with a nod and a charismatic smile. His presence commanded attention, and the room seemed to hold its breath.Mr. and Mrs. Watson, along with Emmet, looked genuinely happy. They exchanged glances, then moved quickly to greet Sullivan and his ent
The morning sun poured gently through the tall windows of the Watson estate, casting a warm glow over the meticulously set dining table. The table was adorned with fine china, polished silverware, and an array of breakfast dishes—freshly baked bread, fruits, eggs, and other delights, arranged with care by the household staff. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were already seated, exchanging quiet words as they waited for their sons and their guest to join them."Everything looks perfect," Mrs. Watson remarked, her eyes scanning the table with approval."It certainly does," Mr. Watson agreed, a hint of pride in his voice. "But it’s not the food that matters today. It’s eating with our sons."As they spoke, one of the bodyguards entered the room, standing tall by the door. "Mr. Dickson has arrived," he announced."Thank you. Please show him in," Mr. Watson instructed.A moment later, Mr. Dickson entered the dining room, his presence as imposing as ever. Dressed in a tailored suit, he moved with the
The room, still warm with the remnants of their earlier conversation, felt charged with an undercurrent of something unspoken, something that Sultan had already perceived.For Sultan was no ordinary man. Known to many as the fool—a title that masked the depth of his true abilities—he had honed his skills to an art. And today, as Mr. Dickson sat across from him, discussing marriage and the future of the Watson family, Sultan’s mind was elsewhere, reaching into the recesses of Dickson's thoughts, peeling back the layers of his intentions.In an instant, Sultan saw it clearly: Mr. Dickson's visit had little to do with genuine concern for the Watsons or their company's future. It was about positioning. The recent collaborations with Lin Enterprise and Sullivan, the President's son, had solidified the Watsons’ place on the path to immense power and influence. Mr. Dickson, ever the opportunist, was angling for a deeper slice of that pie—one that could only be secured through family ties. H
(SOMEWHERE IN THE WOODS)..It was a typical late afternoon in the sleepy little town of Thornwood, where the world seemed to move just a touch slower. The summer sun was beginning its descent, casting long, lazy shadows across the winding dirt road that led out of town and into the thick, endless stretch of woods that bordered the northern edge of the county. The locals called it the “Dark Forest,” though it had no official name. It was a place that everyone knew of but few dared to explore.Today, the forest was quiet, as it usually was, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of a bird. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the light filtered through the dense canopy above, painting the forest floor in a patchwork of gold and shadow.As the day edged closer to dusk, the quiet was broken by the crunch of gravel underfoot. A man, dressed in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans, walked slowly down the old road that cut through the forest. His
The road to a certain destination was long and winding, flanked by dense forests that seemed to close in around the narrow path. The man walked with a deliberate pace, his steps heavy with the weight of memories that he couldn’t shake. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the only sound was the steady crunch of leaves underfoot.As the road twisted and turned, the destination finally came into view, nestled at the end of the valley. "Armstrong's Den," the man blurted out.The house stood like a forgotten sentinel, its once-grand façade now weathered by time. Vines clung to the walls, and the windows, some broken, others covered in dust, gazed out like the hollow eyes of a weary sentinel. The man hesitated at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on the house that seemed to hold all the answers he had been seeking.Without a word, he moved forward, crossing the worn cobblestone path that led to the front door. The creaking of the floorboards under his feet
Darkness clung to Sultan like a thick fog as he found himself standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day—the sky was a dull, ashen gray, and the air was still, oppressive, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Around him, shadows loomed, shifting and twisting, never settling into anything recognizable.Sultan’s breath quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure how he had ended up here or why, but something about this place gnawed at the edges of his mind, a whisper of fear that he couldn’t quite shake. The ground beneath his feet was cold, hard, and unyielding, and every step he took seemed to echo into the void.He started walking, not sure where he was going, but driven by an urgent need to move. His footsteps were the only sound, the silence around him thick and stifling. As he moved forward, the shadows seemed to part slightly, revealing a narrow path ahead. It wound through what appeared to be an endless exp