"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
The room was dark, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner, and Sultan could still feel his pulse racing from the nightmare. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it…"Sultan shifted in bed, the sheets rustling as he pushed himself up to sit at the edge. His hand ran through his hair, now damp with sweat. He could still feel the weight of the dream, the shadows of the four figures lingering in his mind. Their accusations, the way they chased him, it all felt too real. It was as if they were trying to pull him back into something he desperately wanted to escape from."Forgotten... forsaken… what the hell does it even mean?" He muttered, rubbing his face with his palms. The clock on the nightstand showed 6:15 AM. He hadn’t planned on waking up this early, but after that dream, there was no chance of going back to sleep. He got up, his feet making soft thuds on the carpet as he moved to the window. Pulling the curtains apart, he was met with the dull light of dawn. The
"Phew!" exclaimed Sultan, wiping the sweat from his brow as he took off his apron and folded it neatly. “And I'm done for the day.”He turned to his coworker, Jerry, who was standing behind the counter, and tossed him the towel, calling out with a cheerful voice, "Yo! Catch!" Jerry glared at Sultan, his expression blank, then returned to mixing the cocktail. He didn't even try to catch the towel, which landed on the floor behind the counter with a dull thud. Sultan shrugged with a smile, not wanting to make a fuss. It was no secret that Jerry wasn't the friendliest person, and he had never bothered to explain why. But when Sultan once asked him why he was always so cold to him especially, Jerry's reply was blunt and brutal: "You're dumb and act like a fool." The words had stung, and Sultan had never forgotten them.Despite Jerry's attitude, Sultan always did his best to make their working relationship as smooth as possible. He was determined to be the bigger person.That day, Sulta