CHAPTER 2 

I should’ve trusted my instincts… I should have. But lamenting now is futile. I'm awake, yet oblivious. My eyes are open, yet sightless. Hell, what have I entangled myself in? 

I was discharged from the hospital just after six as darkness was setting in. Dad arrived a few minutes before my release, relieving Alaya. We swung by the pharmacy to grab my prescribed painkillers. Despite my efforts, I wasn’t behaving normally. Those images... they tormented me relentlessly. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

When did we stop driving? 

“Nick, are you alright?” 

Oh, we're home. 

“Yes, Dad, I’m fine. Stop treating me like a child, would you?” 

Exiting the car, we entered my one-bedroom bachelor pad. I immediately went to the kitchen to seek solace in my preferred pain reliever. 

“Alcohol… is that really wise, son?” Dad admonished. 

“Seems wise to me.” 

As usual, Dad commenced his critique of my 'deplorable living conditions'. 

“When will you finally settle down?” 

Not this again! 

Every time he asked, I couldn't help but laugh. What part of being a single, 24-year-old hunk screams 'settle down'? “I’ll think about it when you do,” I teased. His reaction remained the same – none at all. 

Despite knowing my answer, he asked the same question each time, as if expecting a miraculously different response. 

“I need to go, Nick. But we have something important to discuss. Let's do lunch at 12 tomorrow, okay?” 

“Sure, whatever.” After shedding my clothes, leaving me in my boxers, I slumped onto my couch. I'm not normally messy, but right now, I really didn’t care. I needed a good night’s sleep, I convinced myself, despite knowing it wasn’t true. 

The inevitability of death is terrifying enough from the moment you're born. But knowing how it ends? That's another level of cruel joke. 

Ding Dong 

The doorbell roused me. Damn, what time is it? 

Dragging myself to the door, I wondered who it could be. The only two people who would ever visit me had their own keys. 

“Dad, what the hell? You have a key!” 

He met my gaze defiantly as he stepped past me, “True, but I chose not to use it.” Once inside, he began his usual critique of my apartment, “For God's sake, hire a maid if you won’t get married. You live like a pig!” 

"Are you implying a wife would do all the cleaning?" 

"No, I’m suggesting she might make you do it." 

He made breakfast, and we sat down to eat. It was only 10:20 am. So much for mid-day, Dad? 

“I have something for you.” While saying this, he retrieved an envelope from his jacket. 

“And what might that be?” I inquired. 

“That envelope contains information about your birth parents.” 

The news hit me like a punch to the gut. Not because I harbored resentment toward those who'd left me on a staircase as an infant – though I did – but because it made me spit out perfectly good eggs. 

“What did you just say?” 

“I said…” 

“I heard what you said! How dare you?” I shot up from my chair in fury. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard, let alone the words I was hurling at my dad. “I told you, they are not my parents!” 

I glared at the envelope on the table. Dad laughed pitifully, “When you’re done throwing your tantrum… we’ll resume our conversation.” 

He left, and I remained, stewing in my anger. I had to escape. The thick, palpable resentment was choking me. So, I fled to the office, where I tried to evade human contact. However, every so often, someone would drop by to express their concern and joy for my swift recovery. 

I realized then that I couldn’t outrun my vision any more than I could convince myself the six-day-old slice of ham pizza in my refrigerator was still edible. 

“Hey…” A voice called out. “Are you okay?” 

“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?” 

Alaya detected my irritation. “Hey, don't sweat it. Things will go back to normal soon.” 

“Will they?” I scoffed. 

She shut the door behind her and moved closer, “Yes, they will. But we still have an unresolved issue to discuss.” 

“There’s nothing to discuss.” I refused curtly. 

My brusqueness upset her usual calm, but she wasn't one to back down. “I don’t recall seeking your permission.” 

“Listen…” I interjected, needing to nip this in the bud. I couldn’t have Alaya worrying about me. “I don’t know what I saw! In hindsight, it could've been a coma-induced nightmare that morphed into a vision due to my abnormality. So until we have solid facts, let's not discuss it, okay?” 

“But Nick…” 

“I said drop it!” 

In hindsight, it was the first time I’d ever raised my voice at her. I regret it now, especially given my current predicament: tied to a chair, utterly clueless about what’s happening. 

The last thing I remember was locking up the office around ten, not leaving until I'd finished half a bottle of vodka that had been on my desk for over a month. The alcohol might've slightly impaired me, but my training and experience should've allowed me to neutralize any threat. 

By the time I got to my car, I felt something was off. I remember reaching for my gun. But it was already too late. 

When they removed my blindfold and my vision cleared, I was met with three large monitors. A quick survey revealed two ceiling vents, three guards behind me, and an older, aristocratic man sitting directly in front of me. 

“Mr. Bishop…” 

“Hello, stranger who has me tied to a chair.” 

Of course, he knew my name. This was a carefully orchestrated plan. They had selected the night I was assigned to lock up. They must've been watching me, keeping tabs on my schedule. But why? They clearly needed me for something, which is probably why I’m still alive. But what? 

“Please accept our apologies for the restraint. We are well aware of your exceptional skill set. Extreme measures were required to ensure your cooperation and the safety of our personnel.” 

He produced my firearm and continued, “If you agree to cooperate and remain calm, we'll gladly untie your hands and return your weapon. Agreed?” 

My response, though hesitant, was a nod, sufficient for our agreement. Freed from my bindings and armed again, I took a second look around the room for anything I might've missed. 

Facing the aristocratic man, I asked, “So why am I here?” The monitors suddenly came to life, revealing the Three World Leaders. 

Damn, this is serious! 

“Hello Mr. Bishop,” They chorused. “We are pleased to finally meet you.” 

“Let’s hope the sentiment is mutual.” I retorted. 

Reflecting on it now, my impending doom seems to have impaired my ability to recognize when sarcasm is inappropriate. 

President Lu interlocked his fingers and leaned forward, “Let’s cut to the chase…” 

An image flickered onto the screen. 

“This boy is my son!” 

This can't be happening… 

“His name is Alexander Torres… And we need you to break him out of prison!” 

I could feel my face blanch as my gaze once again fixated on the face of my assailant.