Rain poured heavily that night, hammering the roof of the hospital in an erratic rhythm, as if nature itself wanted to conceal the crime that was unfolding.
In a silent corridor, a man in hospital scrubs moved quickly, his face hidden behind a surgical mask and cap. In his arms, he carried something wrapped in a white cloth—a newborn baby boy, unaware that his life was about to be stolen before it even began.
In the delivery room, a baby's cry had just pierced the air. The mother smiled in relief as a nurse handed her the child—unaware that the baby wasn't hers.
No one noticed the swap. Not the doctors. Not the family. Everything had been carefully planned.
A few hours later, in front of an old, crumbling orphanage, the man stopped. He looked down at the baby in his arms—his eyes sharp but filled with hesitation. His heart pounded.
But orders were orders.
In a quiet whisper, he said,
"I'm sorry, little one… Tonight, your life is no longer yours."
He placed the baby at the doorstep, rang the bell, and vanished into the darkness—swallowed by the fog and the distant wail of sirens.
Behind that door, a new life awaited the baby—a hard life, full of secrets. And that night, no one knew...
That the abandoned baby would one day rise to greatness.
---
Seventeen years since that night, a young man sat quietly in the backseat of a bulletproof Mercedes-Benz, his gaze vacant as he stared out the window.
It was raining again—almost exactly like the night his life had begun with a lie.
Today, he was returning to his family after seventeen years of separation.
In his mind:
What am I supposed to do when I meet my mother and siblings? Ugh... this is such a hassle. Going back to a family I've never even seen before. I guess "familiar" and "family" don't always go together.
He let out a quiet sigh and leaned his head against the window. His faint reflection stared back—a seventeen-year-old with pale skin, the kind of complexion that came from growing up far from luxury, yet somehow radiating an oddly magnetic presence.
His jet-black hair was messy, like he didn't care much for combs. His eyes were a deep, dark black—calm, observant, as if studying the world and deciding it wasn't worth getting involved.
A straight nose, a firm chin, and though his face was still youthful, there was something mature in his expression, like someone who had seen too much too soon.
He was tall and lean, his posture strong—not from military training, but from the habits of survival. His broad shoulders carried an air of quiet authority.
When he stood, he drew attention without trying.
But his appearance was painfully simple—just a plain black shirt, dark pants, and an old jacket that looked like it came from a year best forgotten. Even his shoes were nothing fancy—just white canvas sneakers that almost mocked the fact he was sitting in a luxury car on his way to a noble family's mansion.
He wasn't the type who tried to stand out, yet somehow, the world couldn't help but look twice.
Yes, he was handsome—but that wasn't what made people stare.
There was something behind his calm expression. Something that said, I could destroy your world... but I'm too lazy to care.
And today, that young man was returning to a place that saw him as a stranger.
Not as a guest.
Not as a servant.
But as a son.
His name was Al. A lazy young man with an extraordinary story in this world.
---
"What are you thinking about, Al?"
The voice came from a middle-aged man sitting beside him in the backseat. His face was calm but stern, marked with sharp lines that spoke of strict discipline. His neatly combed hair was graying at the temples.
This was Edward Virellano, Al's biological father—the head of the powerful Virellano family and CEO of the Virellano Group, one of the oldest conglomerates in Indorosia, with business stretching across Asia, the Middle East, and major countries in Europe and America.
A man who had just reentered Al's life after seventeen years.
Now here he was, personally picking up his lost son from the orphanage, accompanied by the family driver.
Al didn't respond right away. He kept his eyes on the window, watching the drizzle dance across the glass. There was a strange feeling inside him—not fear, but not comfort either. Just… emptiness.
"Nothing, Mr. Ed—I mean, nothing… Father," Al finally replied, his voice quiet and flat.
"I just feel awkward. I don't know how I'm supposed to act when I meet Mother and my siblings."
His father leaned back in his seat. The movement was calm, with no clear emotion toward what Al had just said.
"You'll be fine," his father replied without looking at him. His voice remained flat, without emphasis. "Everyone at home is waiting. They'll accept you, no matter what."
It sounded like a memorized line—light, direct, and shallow.
To Al, it didn't feel like the longing words of a father. It felt more like a formal statement. As if Edward was just checking off an overdue task.
Yep, pick up the missing son. Done.
"This isn't the time for hesitation," his father continued. "This is about family, Al. You don't need to worry about anything else. They'll see you as one of them."
Al stayed silent. He knew his father wasn't trying to comfort him. He was just fulfilling a moral obligation as head of the family.
There was no real care in that voice. No attempt to understand.
---
Al stepped out of the car without saying a word. The drizzle soaked his clothes, but he didn't care.
His eyes fell on the young man standing at the mansion's entrance, staring at him like he was judging a rare artifact.
Beside him, a woman with trembling red eyes fought back tears.
Three other girls stood in an unusual formation—like they were welcoming an honored guest…
Or a stranger.
Seventeen years.
They had lived their lives as usual...
And now, he had returned.