At the Sterling family estate, a world away in both style and substance from the Reed mansion, Eleanor Sterling stood before a floor-to-ceiling window in her sitting room. She held a delicate, outdated baby rattle, its silver worn out in places from the constant press of her fingers. The view was of a sprawling, perfectly maintained garden, but she saw none of it.
"Another dead end, Alistair," she said, her voice still beautiful but frayed at the edges, like aged silk. "Almost two decades, and all we find are ghosts and charlatans."
Alistair Sterling, a broad-shouldered man with hair as silver as the rattle, came to stand behind her, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "We don't stop. We will never stop, Eleanor. He's out there. Our boy is out there." His voice was a low rumble, a bedrock of certainty worn smooth by time and stubborn hope.
In the media room downstairs, Anastasia "Anna" Sterling was pacing before a massive screen paused on a racing simulator. She'd just shattered her own lap record, and the thrill had evaporated almost instantly, leaving her restless. She scrolled through her phone, past countless fan tributes and industry news, and stopped on a notification. A minor entertainment blog mentioned an "upcoming socialite and aspiring actress, Chloe Reed, cites Anna Sterling as her inspiration."
Anna's lip curled slightly. Another rich girl playing at her craft. She dismissed it. Her own craft…the acting, the racing…was a call into a void, a way to be seen so brightly that perhaps, somewhere, a missing pair of eyes might recognize the light. The thought of a fan was somehow grating today. She wanted her brother. The one who would have been her little brother. The one she would have spoiled and protected with a ferocity that would have surpassed her on-screen personas.
"Anna?" Benjamin's voice, sharp as a knife, came from the doorway. He was still in his uniform, just back from the base. "You're pacing. What's wrong?"
"Nothing new," she sighed, tossing her phone onto a sofa. "Everything's wrong. The lead in Prague was false. Again."
Benjamin's jaw tightened. "Intel is often not correct. It requires persistent pressure on all sources." He spoke of finding their brother as if it were a high-risk extraction mission. In his mind, it was.
Christopher entered, still in scrubs from a long shift, smelling of antiseptic. He didn't need to ask. The gloom in the room was a familiar fog. "I reviewed the medical projections from the last genetic search firm," he said, his voice clinical, tired. "The population sample is still too broad. We need a regional focus, but we have no region."
Three titans in their fields, reduced to helplessness by an eighteen-year-old mystery. The silence that fell between them was heavy with shared, futile determination.
——————
Cameron, oblivious to the distant storm of grief his existence would one day calm, was in the trenches of his own war. It was the day of his final interview for the Crestview merit scholarship, conducted through a video link from his bedroom. He had strategically arranged his background… a bookshelf, a tidy desk, nothing personal.
The interviewers, two professors and a dean, asked probing questions about his sudden academic turnaround and his interest in computational analytics. Cameron spoke with clarity and boldness, that made him look less nervous, weaving in bits of the research he'd done, carefully avoiding any mention of firewalls or Blackwood. He presented himself as a late bloomer, motivated by a passion for data-driven solutions.
As the interview concluded, the dean, a kindly-looking woman, asked a final, casual question. "And what inspires this drive, Cameron? Many students want success. You seem to be pursuing it with particular… urgency."
Cameron's practiced composure almost cracked. The image of marble stairs flashed behind his eyes. He saw the cold faces of Chloe, Lucas, Richard.
He took a slow breath. "I believe everyone has a question they need to answer," he said, his voice steady but softer. "A piece of their own equation that's missing. For me, this… this path is how I learn to solve for it. The urgency is because the question won't wait forever."
It was the most honest thing he'd said to an adult in years. The dean smiled, a gentle, understanding curve of her lips. "Well, we at Crestview value students who aren't afraid of big questions. Thank you, Cameron."
The call ended. Cameron slumped back in his chair, emotionally drained. He had done all he could.
Later that evening, as he was listlessly pushing food around his plate under Victoria's hawk-eye, his personal phone buzzed with a new email. The subject line: Crestview University – Scholarship Committee Decision.
His heart stopped. He excused himself from the table under the guise of a headache, ignoring Chloe's mocking whisper about "stress over a safety school."
In the sanctuary of his room, he opened the email.
Dear Mr. Reed,
On behalf of the Merit Scholarship Committee, we are pleased to inform you that you have been awarded the Crestview STEM Pioneer Full Scholarship, covering full tuition, room, and board…
The rest of the words were a blur. A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped him. He had done it. His ticket out. His first real victory. He wasn't free yet, but the walls of his cage had just developed a door.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, the phone clutched in his trembling hand. The victory felt immense and strangely lonely. There was no one to share it with. No one who would truly understand what it meant.
Unconsciously, his free hand slipped into his pocket, his fingers finding the sharp edges of the black card. In the depths of his isolation, the memory of that winter-gray gaze, severe and assessing, felt like the only thing that had truly seen his desperation. It was a frightening thought, and one he quickly buried. He had his chance. That was all that mattered.
Four hundred miles away, in a sterile office, a brief notification was sent for Aaron Blackwood's attention: a name on a scholarship recipient list from a university his company partnered with. He read it, Cameron Reed, and dismissed the notification with a tap. The boy had secured his starting point. The anomaly was progressing as predicted.
Paths were coming together, drawn by invisible currents of loss and need, their eventual collision still hidden in the fog of the future.