The luxurious ICU room on the 42nd floor of the city’s most exclusive private hospital, where one night’s stay costs more than many people’s annual rent. Alexander Harrington, 52-year-old tech billionaire, lay motionless on the specialized bed. His right leg was suspended high by a system of pulleys and medical cables, the femur shattered into pieces after a helicopter crash three weeks earlier. The world’s top doctors had shaken their heads: “The bone is too severely fractured, the nerves badly damaged. He may never walk properly again.”
The monitors beeped steadily. Alexander lay there, eyes sunken, stubble patchy, but his gaze still razor-sharp. He had refused all strong painkillers because he “wanted to stay awake to curse the world.” And today, he was in one of his foulest moods.
The door opened quietly. A skinny Black boy, about ten years old, slipped inside wearing an old, frayed hoodie. No one knew how he got past security downstairs. His name was Jamal. In his hand he carried a small, worn cloth bag.
Alexander glanced at him and gave a mocking laugh, voice hoarse from days of silence: