Rain fell again that evening, the kind that painted the streets in silver threads. The city's pulse slowed after dusk, yet the air around the abandoned train terminal throbbed with quiet tension. The Imperial Crest glimmered miles away, untouched by the weather, a world of chandeliers and laughter. Here, the concrete walls were streaked with rust and graffiti, and the wind hissed through broken windows.
John Raymond stood under the half-collapsed roof of the platform, his hands buried in the pockets of his worn jacket. Each sound made him alert: a distant car horn, dripping water, a train's faint echo from far down the line. He checked his watch. It was nine o'clock exactly.
He did not know why he had come. Curiosity, perhaps, or desperation. Maybe both. The voice on the phone had carried authority, calm and deliberate, and something inside him had whispered that ignoring it would mean silencing the last chance to understand who he truly was.
A beam of light sliced through the darkness. A car rolled into the yard, its tyres crunching over gravel. The headlights dimmed, and the driver stepped out. He was tall, wearing a long coat and a hat that shadowed his face. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the man said, "John Raymond?"
"Yes," John answered cautiously. "You are Mr Shack?"
The man nodded and walked closer. His movements were controlled, his voice precise. "I appreciate your punctuality. Not many people show up when asked by a stranger in the dark."
"You mentioned my family," John said. "That is not something I can ignore."
Mr Shack stopped a few feet away. His eyes were sharp, assessing. "You have been working at The Imperial Crest for how long?"
"Almost four years."
"Four years," Shack repeated thoughtfully. "Do you ever wonder why life placed you there, of all places?"
John frowned. "It was a job. I needed money."
"And yet," Shack said softly, "the building you serve belongs to the very empire that once belonged to your bloodline."
The words hit like cold rain. John's breath caught. "What are you talking about?"
Shack reached into his coat and drew out a folder wrapped in plastic. "Your parents, Richard and Evelyn Raymond, were not ordinary people. They owned controlling shares of the Raymond Empire, one of the largest conglomerates in the country. Hotels, real estate, finance. The Imperial Crest was its crown."
John stared at the folder but did not reach for it. "My parents died in an accident."
"Yes," Shack said. "A plane crash. But it was no accident."
The silence that followed was heavy. The wind outside seemed to pause, listening.
John finally spoke. "You expect me to believe strangers murdered my family? Why?"
Shack opened the folder. Photographs slid out images of business meetings, board documents, and an old newspaper clipping reporting the crash. He held up a photo of a man with grey hair shaking hands with another executive. "This man is Harrison, the same one who supervises you. Back then, he worked for the empire as an operations manager. After your parents died, he sold information to Mart-Dove Corporation, the Raymonds' main rival. Within months, the empire fell under new control. Certain files vanished. Those who opposed the takeover disappeared."
John's heart pounded. He recognised the name Mart-Dove immediately. Jerry Martins. Rita's lover. The memory burned.
"Why are you telling me this?" John asked.
"Because your grandfather, Mr Raymond, never stopped searching for you. He believed you survived. I was hired years ago to find proof. Two months ago, we confirmed it. You are his heir, John. The rightful successor."
John took a step back. The idea felt impossible. "If that is true, why now? Why wait so long?"
Shack's expression softened slightly. "You were hidden after the crash. Your parents' lawyer placed you in an orphanage under a false identity. When the lawyer died, the trail vanished. We only rediscovered it recently through a charity record that listed your name."
He extended the folder. "Take it. You deserve to know the truth."
John accepted it slowly. Inside were birth certificates, photos, and financial records. His father's signature was on the company documents, neat and confident. The proof was undeniable. His throat tightened. The people he had served drinks to, the ones who sneered at his uniform, had stolen everything that once belonged to his family.
Mr Shack watched him carefully. "I understand this is a shock. But you must decide whether you want to reclaim what is yours."
John looked up. "Reclaim it how?"
"There is an inheritance waiting. Your grandfather is old and frail. The board resists handing control to anyone they cannot see as strong enough. You must prepare yourself before revealing your identity. I can help, but it requires trust."
John's mind swirled. Images flashed the endless humiliation, Rita's laughter, Jerry's arrogance, Harrison's threats. All the while, he had been a Raymond, sweeping floors in his own empire.
"What do you gain from this?" he asked.
"Loyalty," Shack said simply. "Your grandfather's last wish is to restore the family's honour. But you will need allies who understand how corruption works. That is where I come in."
Lightning flared through the broken windows, illuminating Shack's face for the first time. The man looked composed, his gaze firm, his mouth a thin line of discipline.
"You have been living as a servant," he continued. "But power requires silence, observation, and patience. You already have those qualities. That is why you were found. The question is whether you will act."
John closed the folder and met his eyes. "If what you say is true, then every person at that hotel lives off my family's name."
"Indeed," Shack said. "And some of them caused the deaths that made it possible."
The weight of the truth settled over John like a cloak. He felt the anger rise, slow and cold, until it steadied into something sharp. For years, he had swallowed insults and smiled through pain. Now he understood why the world had always seemed unfair: it had been built from his loss.
"When do we start?" he asked quietly.
Shack's mouth curved slightly, almost a smile. "Soon. But first, you must see your grandfather. He wants to meet you before the transfer begins."
"Transfer?"
"The process of reinstating you as heir. Discretion is crucial. Harrison and his associates must never suspect until everything is in place."
John nodded. "When do I meet him?"
"Tomorrow night. I will pick you up at seven. Keep this conversation to yourself, and go about your duties as if nothing has changed."
Shack turned to leave, but John stopped him. "If they killed my parents, what will they do when they learn about me?"
The man paused. "That depends on how prepared you are when they find out."
He walked away into the rain. The car's headlights swept over John once before disappearing into the distance.
John remained on the platform long after the sound of the engine faded. The folder felt heavy in his hands. He opened it again, staring at the photograph of his parents. His father's smile seemed to hold a message he had never noticed before.
He whispered, "I will make them remember the name Raymond."
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