The dormitory was dim as evening settled in, the fading light from the narrow windows casting long shadows across the rows of small beds. The air smelled of old wood and worn fabric, mingling with the faint scent of soap from the communal washroom down the hall. The floorboards creaked softly as children moved about, preparing for the night—some folding clothes, others rummaging through their meager belongings.
The room was alive with quiet chatter, the kind that filled the space between silence and sleep.
Then, suddenly, a voice rang out—sharp and panicked.
"Hey! Where's my toy car?!"
A boy near the center of the room stood abruptly, his face flushed with frustration. He was stocky, with messy brown hair and a permanent scowl etched across his features. He held up an empty hand, as though the toy car should have materialized there by sheer will alone.
"I left it right here on my bed!" he continued, his voice rising. "Who took it?!"
The other children paused, glancing up with varying degrees of interest. Some shrugged. Others looked away, uninterested.
The boy's eyes narrowed. He began searching—lifting pillows, tossing blankets aside, crawling to peer under his bed. Then, his gaze shifted to the bed next to his.
He crouched down, peering beneath the frame—and froze.
There it was.
A small red toy car, lying on its side beneath the neighboring bed.
The boy shot to his feet, his face darkening. "You stole it!" he shouted, pointing at the kid whose bed it was—a smaller, quieter boy with pale skin and wide, frightened eyes.
"I—I didn't!" the smaller boy stammered, backing away. "I don't know how it got there!"
"Liar!" the first boy snarled, stepping forward aggressively.
The smaller boy's face twisted in panic, then anger. "I'm not lying! You probably put it there yourself to blame me!"
"What?!"
And just like that, the two boys lunged at each other.
Fists flew. Shouts erupted. The other children scattered, some backing away to give them space, others gathering around to watch.
In the background, near the wall, two boys sat side by side on one of the beds.
One was little Owen, his expression neutral, his hand absently scratching the back of his head as he watched the chaos unfold. His face carried a faint trace of confusion, like he wasn't quite sure how things had escalated so quickly.
Beside him sat another boy—Lucien Drayke.
Lucien's face was calm, his eyes sharp and glinting with amusement. A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched the two boys grapple on the floor, their limbs tangled, their voices raised in furious accusation.
He looked pleased.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
The moment I agreed to be Lucien Drayke's friend, things took a turn.
His way of handling my bullying dilemma wasn't through confrontation or violence—it was through schemes. Carefully crafted situations that pitted the bullies against each other.
He'd plant seeds of doubt, misplace belongings, whisper half-truths in the right ears. And slowly, the kids who used to torment me began turning on one another.
Disunity spread among them like wildfire. They stopped paying attention to me entirely—they were too busy suspecting each other.
It was brilliant.
And terrifying.
---
**Scene Shift**
The small classroom inside Delvin Orphanage was modest but functional. A blackboard stretched across the front wall, slightly warped from age, its surface marked with faint chalk residue from previous lessons. Rows of mismatched wooden desks filled the space, most of them scarred with carvings and scratches from years of use.
At the front of the room stood a boy—no more than twelve years old—holding a piece of chalk in his small hand.
Lucien Drayke.
He stood before the blackboard, his posture straight and confident despite his young age. His hand moved fluidly across the surface, writing out complex equations with precision—symbols, numbers, variables intertwining in intricate patterns.
Behind him, seated at the desks, were other children—most of them older than him—watching with wide eyes and silent awe. Among them sat little Owen, his gaze fixed on the board, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to follow the logic unfolding before him.
At the back of the room stood three adults—scholars, by the look of them. They wore tailored blazers over pressed shirts, their attire professional and refined. One held a notebook, scribbling notes furiously. Another leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression one of quiet astonishment. The third—a woman with graying hair pulled back into a tight bun—watched Lucien with a faint smile, her eyes sharp and analytical.
Lucien finished the equation with a flourish, tapping the chalk against the board twice.
"And that," he said calmly, turning to face the room, "is how you solve for x in a quadratic polynomial."
The children stared.
One of the scholars exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Remarkable," he muttered.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
At that time in Delvin Orphanage, Lucien's name was unknown. The caretaker, Jessica, gave him a Christian name—Elijah. And ever since, that's what everyone called him.
Elijah.
His genius mind and ability to solve the most difficult mathematical equations made him beloved among the faculty. The scholars at Delvin practically worshipped him.
It wasn't a surprise when a certain well-renowned family came knocking, wanting to adopt him.
---
**Scene Shift**
The office inside Delvin Orphanage was small and cluttered. Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with files, folders, and stacks of paperwork. A single window let in a sliver of afternoon light, illuminating the dust motes floating lazily in the air.
Jessica Simpson sat behind a worn wooden desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She wore her usual caretaker's uniform—a light blue blouse tucked into dark slacks, her name tag pinned neatly to her chest. Her face was calm, professional, though her eyes carried a faint trace of sadness.
Across from her sat a couple.
The man was tall and well-dressed, wearing a crisp gray suit that fit him perfectly. His hair was neatly combed, his posture relaxed but confident. He had the kind of face that suggested intelligence and authority—sharp jawline, calm eyes, a faint smile.
Beside him sat his wife, equally elegant. She wore a modest yet expensive-looking dress, her hair styled neatly. In her arms, she held a little girl—no more than four years old—who sat quietly, her wide, curious eyes darting around the room with quiet wonder.
A short distance away, standing near the door, was little Elijah.
He wore a clean shirt and slacks—nicer than anything he usually had. His hair was combed neatly, his face freshly washed. But despite his tidy appearance, his body language betrayed his nervousness. His hands fidgeted at his sides, his shoulders slightly hunched, his gaze flickering between the couple and the floor.
The man leaned forward slightly, his smile warm. "We've heard wonderful things about Elijah," he said, his voice smooth and sincere. "He seems like a lovely and rather intelligent boy. My wife and I would love to adopt him."
The woman nodded, her smile equally genuine. "Yes. His etiquette and manner of conducting himself are remarkable. And my little girl here—" She glanced down at the child in her arms. "She would fancy having such an amazing big brother, wouldn't you, darling?"
The little girl nodded enthusiastically, her eyes bright and innocent. She looked over at Elijah, her small lips curving into a shy smile.
Elijah shifted awkwardly, his face flushing slightly. He glanced at Jessica, then back at the couple, unsure of what to say.
The man chuckled softly. "It's alright, son. Don't be shy. Tell us—do you want us to be your parents?"
The little girl, emboldened by her father's words, leaned forward slightly, her small arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. "I'll share my mom's lovely biscuits with you every day if you accept," she said, her voice sweet and earnest.
Elijah blinked.
Then, slowly, a small smile crept across his face.
He took a hesitant step forward. Then another.
The couple stood, opening their arms.
Elijah walked into their embrace, his small frame enveloped by their warmth. The little girl wrapped her tiny arms around him as well, giggling softly.
Jessica watched from her desk, her expression soft, her eyes glistening faintly.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
A multimillionaire couple—scientists and archaeologists by trade—ended up adopting Elijah. Their name was Isley.
What I found amusing at the time was that before all of this, Elijah had told me privately about a wealthy family who had ruined his life. The culprit who sent his innocent mother to prison was Viola Saye.
The same woman who had worked with my mother back in Clover Down.
Barely two years after arriving in Crestwood, she'd climbed the ladder and become the matriarch of the Halvern family.
When Elijah told me, I was shocked. Upset. Angry.
And I told him my story—about that same Viola being part of my mother's disappearance.
I also learned that the man who looked like her—slightly older, just as cold—was her brother. Caleb Saye.
You can imagine how powerless we felt. Two twelve-year-old boys, traumatized and filled with hatred for the people who had destroyed our lives. People who had power, money, influence.
And we had nothing.
For me, it felt impossible.
But Elijah surprised me.
He promised to craft a plan—a blueprint that would lead us toward the path of facing, and avenging, the injustices done to us.
His genius brain and his ability to showcase it attracted the Isleys. It was in his plan all along. He advertised himself, got their attention, and they adopted him.
The Isleys were associates of the Halverns themselves. And that's exactly why Elijah wanted them.
---
**Scene Shift**
Rain poured down in heavy sheets, drumming against the roof of the car parked outside Delvin Orphanage. The sky was gray and heavy, the world soaked and blurred by the downpour.
The couple—Mr. and Mrs. Isley—stood near the trunk of their sleek black sedan, loading a small suitcase inside. Mrs. Isley held an umbrella over her head, though the wind kept threatening to tear it away. Mr. Isley worked quickly, his suit jacket already damp.
Inside the car, in the back seat, sat little Elijah. Beside him was the little girl, her small hands folded in her lap, her eyes bright with excitement.
From a window on the second floor of the orphanage, little Owen stood, peering down at the scene below. The rain blurred the glass slightly, but he could still make out Elijah's face.
Elijah turned—and looked up.
Their eyes met.
Elijah raised his hand and waved.
Owen, after a moment, waved back.
The little girl beside Elijah tugged on his sleeve. "Who are you waving at?"
Elijah smiled gently, patting her head. "No one. But I'm really going to enjoy being your big brother."
The little girl beamed.
The Isleys climbed into the car. The engine purred to life. And slowly, the car pulled away, disappearing into the rain.
Owen watched until it was gone.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
Before Elijah left that day, he promised he'd send someone to come and take me.
I was skeptical. But Elijah proved me wrong.
Seven months later, a man came to the orphanage claiming he wanted to adopt me.
He was well-dressed—business suit, polished shoes. But his face… his face looked like a ruffian's. Scarred, rough, with a crooked nose and cold eyes.
He showed me a video call.
On the screen was Elijah—now a teenager—sitting in a room filled with gaming equipment, monitors glowing behind him. He waved at me, grinning.
"Owen," he said, "the guy who wants to adopt you? He's just a hired hand. Accept it. Trust me."
And I did.
Elijah always had a knack for surprising me. The things he accomplished, the favors he did—they made me trust him more than anyone else.
Then and now.