7 July 1958
Books were scattered across the table like fallen leaves — algebra textbooks, half-filled notebooks, loose sheets covered in calculations. Pens rolled lazily between them.
Samuel leaned back in his chair, studying the boy sitting opposite him.
"So," he said casually, tapping a pencil against the table, "how much do you actually know? I mean academically."
James folded his hands neatly in his lap.
"Basic mathematics. Some English — I can read and write it well, though I'm not fluent when speaking. I can speak German and Russian. And… a little Japanese."
Samuel blinked.
Then he burst into laughter.
"Oh my God, you're a freakin' nerd," he said, grinning. "You just made my job ten times easier. At this rate you'll be placed straight into seventh grade. Middle school. Nothing scary. Just some algebra and basic science — give it a week and you'll probably master everything."
"Okay," James replied calmly.
There was no excitement in his voice. No pride.
They began.
Hours passed in steady concentration. Pages turned. Equations were solved. Concepts were absorbed — not learned, absorbed.
Then, without looking up from his notebook, James asked quietly,
"You're Russian. A Soviet, right?"
The room shifted.
Samuel's pencil stopped moving.
For a brief second, he said nothing. His expression cooled — unreadable — before he slowly lifted his head to look at the boy.
Then he smiled.
"Sharp eyes," he said lightly. "Yeah. I'm Russian. Born there. Both my parents were Russian too."
"Oh," James said, almost thoughtfully. "Really?"
"Yeah. Though my story isn't worth hearing."
"Most things we do in life aren't worth doing," James said. "But we still do them because we want to. That's what makes us human."
Samuel stared at him.
"You sure talk like a philosopher for your age."
He exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
"Fine. I was born in Marfino, Russia. 1939. The year the war began. My mother had just turned eighteen when she had me. As for my father…" He shrugged faintly. "Never knew him."
His tone had shifted — not dramatic, not emotional — just factual.
"My mother didn't love me. Not really. But she kept me alive. I never figured out why. Childhood was… hell. We stole food. Got caught. Starved. Begged to die some days."
He gave a small, humorless chuckle.
"Some people experience suffering at some point in their lives. I was born with it."
James didn't interrupt.
"One day, in 1949, my mother killed herself." Samuel's voice remained steady. "I tried too. Didn't work. Somehow I survived. Drifted with other homeless people. Eventually made it to Germany. Got small jobs. Met the right people. And now…"
A grin returned to his face.
"Now I'm just a random guy who happens to have a crush on a beauty."
James blinked once.
"You mean Amy?"
Samuel straightened immediately.
"Hey — keep that down! That's classified information."
"I think everyone already knows," James replied.
Samuel clutched his head. "What?!"
James looked at him, genuinely puzzled.
After a moment, Samuel waved it off with forced confidence. "Anyway, a handsome and intelligent man like me doesn't get bothered by minor things."
James said nothing.
"Alright, back to work."
They returned to their studies.
By evening, Samuel tossed his pencil aside and stretched. "That's enough for today."
James reclined on the sofa, eyes half-closed — not tired, just quiet.
"You know," Samuel said thoughtfully, "I'd heard rumors about The prodigy thing that is nowadays famous in the books. But today I saw it myself."
James opened one eye. "What do you mean?"
"What you learned today took me an entire month. And my teacher called me smart. If I'm smart… you're something else."
"Maybe," James said softly. "I don't know."
Samuel squinted at him. "What's your IQ?"
"I don't know."
"Yeah, figures. You're probably Einstein or something."
"That's exaggerated."
"Not at all."
There was a pause.
Then Samuel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Tell me something. Have you ever loved someone?"
The air changed.
James' expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Yes," he said.
"Oh? Tell me."
"She was my childhood friend. Japanese. Three years older than me. She's in the UK now. We made a promise… that when we meet again, we'll marry."
Samuel's smile softened.
"That's adorable."
"It's nothing like that."
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
Samuel laughed — then, curious, asked,
"What's her name?"
James inhaled.
"Her name is—"
The door opened.
Amy stepped inside.
"Dinner's ready. Both of you."
James stood immediately. "Okay."
Samuel remained seated for a second, watching him.
James did not look back.
The dining table was set like a royal exhibition.
Crystal glasses reflected chandelier light. Silverware gleamed. The air carried the scent of butter, herbs, wine, roasted meat — French precision blended with Italian warmth.
For James, it was the first time he had ever seen food like this laid out for him.
He did not react.
He sat calmly between Samuel and Aisha.
Amy sat opposite.
Locke stood behind Aisha, posture straight as ever — silent, watchful, almost mechanical.
For a while, only the quiet sounds of cutlery touching porcelain filled the room.
Then Amy placed her fork down.
"Can we talk now?" Her voice was sharp.
Aisha looked up. "Talk about what?"
"About James."
A slight pause.
"What about him?" Aisha asked.
Amy's gaze hardened. "Are you seriously sure you want to adopt him?"
The air shifted.
"Of course," Aisha replied gently. "Why wouldn't I—"
"We don't know anything about him," Amy cut in. "No background. No records. No past."
"Because he has no one," Aisha said. "He grew up alone. No family. No home. No friends."
Amy leaned forward slightly.
"Exactly."
Aisha frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's too perfect," Amy said. "A boy with no past. No identity. And a flawless explanation for it. Don't you think that's… constructed?"
Silence spread across the table.
Aisha hesitated.
Samuel glanced at James and muttered quietly, "Sorry about her."
Amy continued, her eyes never leaving Aisha. "If this is some kind of setup, we're walking into it blindly."
Samuel opened his mouth to respond—
But James slowly stood.
Samuel immediately placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down.
"Don't worry," he whispered. "I've got this."
He turned toward Amy, and the playful tone he usually carried was gone.
"Listen," Samuel said evenly, "I understand being cautious. I even agree with your logic."
Amy didn't look away.
"But it's still just a theory," he continued. "Aisha and I aren't children. We know who to trust."
Amy stayed silent.
"And if we follow your reasoning," Samuel added, leaning forward, "then it doesn't just apply to him. It applies to all of us."
He tapped the table once.
"Maybe one of us is hiding something. You. Me. Aisha. Anyone. Should we start doubting each other too?"
The tension thickened.
"Think before you speak," he finished, his voice suddenly firm. "Understood?"
Amy lowered her gaze.
"…Yes."
Aisha quickly intervened. "That's enough, Samuel."
He exhaled and leaned back. "Sorry. I went too far."
James watched the exchange without expression.
Cold.
Observing.
Then the television in the corner shifted everyone's attention.
A news anchor appeared on screen.
"And now we have an update on the Diable murder case in Hosel."
James' fingers tightened slightly against the edge of his plate.
"The key witness and childhood friend of Diable, Mary, who had been hospitalized, has fallen into a coma."
The words landed heavily.
"There is currently no confirmation on when she may regain consciousness."
Aisha covered her mouth softly. "Poor girl…"
Samuel frowned. "That complicates things."
The anchor continued.
"However, Inspector Oliver has announced that investigators have successfully obtained fingerprints of the prime suspect known as 'Frazzle.' Further updates will follow."
The name echoed.
Oliver.
James' breathing grew shallow.
Amy spoke quietly. "Fingerprints mean progress. But it'll still take time."
James said nothing.
The world around him blurred into distant noise.
Oliver.
Fingerprints.
Mary.
Coma.
He stood abruptly.
"I'm going to my room," he said.
"Wait—" Aisha began.
But he was already walking away.
Locke's steady voice followed behind. "Miss Aisha, you should rest as well. You have your checkup tomorrow."
"Oh," she said softly. "Right."
Upstairs, James entered his room and locked the door.
The silence inside felt suffocating.
He stood there, unmoving.
His eyes were dry.
Not because he felt nothing—
But because something inside him had hardened beyond tears.
His thoughts spiraled violently.
He strarted to beat his Head against the wall.
Over and over .
Starts Chanting the words.
Regret.
Over and over.
The word echoed inside him like a hammer striking metal.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Soon His Forehead Starts Bleeding. The blood ran down through his Face.
His breathing became uneven.
The repetition wouldn't stop.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Regret.
Over and over.
The night passed with the word carved into his mind.
Morning arrived quietly.
A gentle knock echoed against the door.
Sophia opened it and stepped inside, intending to wake James. The curtains allowed pale morning light to slip into the room.
"Master James?" she called softly.
No response.
Her eyes moved toward the bed.
Empty.
Confusion crossed her face.
Then she looked down.
James was lying on the floor.
Blood had dried across his forehead.
For a moment Sophia froze. Then panic seized her.
"Master James!"
She rushed forward, lifting him carefully. His body was cold from the floor but still breathing.
Without wasting another second, she ran out of the room.
"Mr. Locke!"
Her voice echoed through the hallway.
⸻
When Locke and Aisha arrived, both stopped in shock.
James' forehead was stained with blood. The dried wound looked worse in the morning light.
"James!" Aisha rushed forward, panic clear in her voice.
But suddenly—
James stirred.
His eyelids fluttered open.
"Umm… what's going on?" he muttered sleepily.
Aisha leaned closer.
"What happened to your forehead?!"
James blinked slowly.
"My forehead?"
He stood up weakly and walked toward the mirror.
The reflection made him freeze.
Blood.
A cut across his forehead.
He stared for a moment before speaking casually.
"Maybe I fell from the bed while I was asleep," he said. "That's probably what happened."
Aisha frowned.
"Are you sure you're alright?"
James turned toward her and forced a small smile.
"Yes, of course. Look at me. I'm fine."
Before Aisha could respond, Locke stepped forward.
"Pardon me, my lady," he said calmly, "but even if young master does not feel pain, it would be unwise to ignore the injury."
He paused.
"We were preparing for your medical checkup anyway. Perhaps we should apply first aid and take him to the hospital with us."
Aisha blinked.
"Oh… that's actually a good idea."
She turned to James.
"Do you want to come?"
James shrugged.
"I don't mind."
Aisha smiled slightly.
"You're going to love the doctor. He's a very nice man."
Locke silently began treating the wound.
The bandages wrapped neatly around James' forehead.
Soon after, the three of them entered the car and began the drive toward the hospital.
⸻
Inside the car, James looked out the window before asking,
"Where are Samuel and Amy?"
Aisha answered casually.
"Amy is usually busy with work."
She paused.
"And Samuel… he's probably helping her as an apology for yesterday."
James didn't respond.
He simply nodded.
⸻
The hospital soon appeared before them.
It was enormous.
But strangely quiet.
Despite its size, there were very few people inside—only a handful of staff members moving calmly through the halls.
A nurse approached them immediately.
"Miss Aisha," she greeted politely.
She escorted them through several corridors before stopping outside a private room.
"Please wait here. The doctor will be here shortly."
She bowed slightly and left.
Silence filled the room.
Minutes passed.
Then the door opened.
A man stepped inside.
He wore a long white coat. Light facial hair framed his jaw, and his relaxed smile gave him a friendly appearance.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties.
This was Dr. Robert Wordsworth.
A friend of Oliver and Tom.
But James had never met him before.
And he had no idea about that connection.
Robert walked in casually.
"Oh? Look who's here."
He smiled warmly at Aisha.
"Miss Aisha. And as always—Mr. Locke."
Then his eyes landed on James.
"Oh… a new face, huh?"
He chuckled lightly.
"Looks like someone bumped his head into something."
He paused.
"Sorry."
His first impression wasn't exactly reassuring.
Aisha gestured toward James.
"James, this is Dr. Robert."
James nodded politely.
"Hello."
Robert smiled and extended his hand.
"Well then, nice to meet you. My name is Robert Wordsworth."
James shook his hand.
"James Ford."
Robert glanced at Aisha.
"Ford…?"
Aisha nodded.
"Yes. I adopted him."
Robert blinked once before smiling again.
"Well then… congratulations."
He cleared his throat slightly.
"And good for you, Miss Aisha."
He clapped his hands once.
"Shall we begin your tests?"
⸻
Aisha left with Robert for another room.
Locke and James remained seated.
After some time, they returned.
Robert held a medical register while reviewing the notes.
"Everything looks normal," he said. "Nothing to be concerned about."
He looked at Aisha.
"You're taking your medication daily, right?"
Aisha nodded.
Robert closed the register.
"Then everything is fine."
His gaze shifted toward James.
"Now… let's look at you."
He stepped closer.
"May I remove the bandages?"
James nodded silently.
Robert carefully removed them.
The moment the bandages came off, Robert tilted his head slightly.
"Oh… now I can see your face properly."
He studied James for a moment.
Then he smiled oddly.
"You know… you remind me of an old friend."
James frowned slightly.
"Old friend?"
Robert nodded.
"Yeah. Though I'm not sure why."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"She was a girl. Japanese."
He looked at James again.
"You don't look Japanese at all… but somehow you resemble her."
James' voice came quietly.
"Japanese?"
He paused.
"What was her name?"
Robert answered casually.
"Yui."
He continued,
"Yui Alexander."
⸻
The words struck James like ice.
A chill crawled down his spine.
His breathing became uneven.
Yui…
Yui…
Robert interrupted the silence.
"Anyway, let's check that wound."
He leaned closer to inspect the cut.
"It doesn't look very deep," Robert said. "But I can't rule out internal issues."
He straightened.
"Let's do a brain scan."
James nodded calmly.
"Okay."
Aisha looked concerned.
"Is it safe?"
Robert waved his hand.
"Of course. Nothing to worry about."
⸻
They moved to another room.
A large scanning machine stood in the center.
James lay down as instructed.
Robert adjusted the machine.
"Don't worry," he joked. "It won't hurt. Might tickle a little."
The machine slowly began scanning.
But James wasn't thinking about the machine.
His thoughts were somewhere else.
Yui Alexander.
His mother.
The woman he killed.
Four years ago.
⸻
The scan ended.
Robert checked the system.
"Well," he said, "the reports will take about a week."
He looked at the calendar.
"Today is the 8th… so let's say the 14th."
Aisha nodded.
"That works."
Robert handed her a paper.
"Give him these medicines and keep the wound bandaged. He'll be fine."
James nodded.
They turned toward the door.
Robert waved casually.
"Take care."
Aisha waved back.
But James never looked back.
Not even once.
And with that—
They left the hospital.
Chapter Ends
To be Continued