The world beneath the sunlight is always too straightforward, lacking twists and turns, devoid of emotion and shadow, and missing that touch of mystery.
That's why most great stories begin in the more forgiving embrace of the night.
Wrapped in darkness, the hands that write the tale press pen to paper for the first time, the tip scratching softly in the dark, slowly sketching the first outlines of the story.
Like… the first light piercing the night.
"Boom."
Beneath the calm night sky, a sharp, piercing shriek erupted, followed by a terrifying shockwave. Every pane of glass in the room shattered at once, as if struck by an invisible fist.
Amid the screams of a man and a woman, chaos descended—fearful, overwhelming.
After the explosion came the flames.
Scorching fire rolled wildly across the trembling ground like demons unleashed from hell. It howled as it swallowed the countryside villa, dragging the careless into its inferno. The wretched cried out within the flames, praying to every god they could name—but it was useless.
Despair spread through the blaze.
"Virton! Get up! Get up!"
Bathed in the fiery glow, a disheveled woman in a nightgown clutched an infant to her chest as she knelt on the ground, desperately trying to lift her fallen husband.
But the rubble pinned the man down, and the flames behind him spread rapidly. Sweat drenched his face, his eyes wide with terror as he struggled wildly against his inevitable fate.
He couldn't break free.
He was just an ordinary man. Just a mortal.
"Go! May, go!"
With his palms pressed against the floor, the weight of the stones bearing down on him grew heavier—like the descent of hell itself. In the increasingly scorching room, amidst the flickering firelight, he already sensed his doom.
In the face of disaster, he couldn't save himself—but he refused to drag his loved ones down with him.
Feeling the flames spreading rapidly behind him, the man's sweat-streaked face twisted. A flash of resolve crossed his eyes as he shouted at his weeping, helpless wife:
"Take the child and get out of here! Now! There's no saving me—"
"I—"
The woman stared at her husband in despair. She wanted to help him, but the infant in her arms wouldn't stop crying. The newborn seemed to sense the danger, instinctively pleading for rescue.
The baby's cries snapped her back to reality. With one last look at her husband, she clenched her teeth, wiped her tears, and staggered to her feet. Cradling the infant against her chest, she lowered her head and charged into the hallway.
Behind her, her beloved—the father of her child, Virton Riley—watched as his wife and son fled the nightmare. A mere ten seconds later, the man who had fulfilled his duty as a husband and father in his final moments was swallowed by the raging flames.
"Crash."
Another explosion. The wooden house stood no chance against the fire's fury. Just as the woman was about to escape, the second floor collapsed entirely, burying her beneath burning debris.
Yet even as she fell, maternal instinct drove her to clutch the infant tightly against her chest.
Even as the flames licked at her clothes.
Even as blood seeped from her wounds.
"No!"
Shaking off the embers clinging to her body, the woman screamed, her face twisted in panic. But everywhere she looked, there was only fire.
No hope left.
She and her child had no way out.
"Someone… please! Help us! I'm begging you—save us!"
She wept helplessly, unable to comprehend why this nightmare had befallen them. But fate, ever arrogant, never deigned to explain itself to mortals.
Yet sometimes… prayers were answered. Even in the darkest hour.
As her consciousness wavered, May Riley's desperate plea was finally heard.
By something far greater.
The woman thought she was hallucinating. Before her, the flames began to part—like curtains being drawn aside.
A shadowy figure stepped through the fire, walking steadily toward her.
The man wore a crisp black suit, a high-collared white shirt beneath, and a blue-trimmed gentleman's hat. A wide blue cape billowed behind him as he moved.
The flames danced around him but could not touch him—could not even come close. An invisible force pushed them back, carving out a perfect circle of safety around the two, a sanctuary amidst the disaster.
The mysterious visitor looked down at the injured woman. She stared back, and beneath the wide brim of his hat, she could make out a face obscured by shadows—and the white streaks of hair at his temples.
"You… you're here to save us?"
Tears of desperate hope spilled from her eyes. But in response to her plea, the stranger shook his head. His voice was smooth, magnetic, as he replied:
"I cannot save you, Mrs. Riley."
He paused, then knelt beside her. A gloved hand brushed the soot from her face as the infant wailed. Softly, he explained:
"You and your husband were meant to die in this fire. That is fate—something even I cannot change. But…"
His gaze fell to the crying child in her arms. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"Your son, Merlin Riley… is destined to play a great role in the future. His life will not end tonight."
The words sparked something in May's eyes. In that moment, she didn't care about her own fate. With trembling, fire-scarred hands—agonizing as the burns seared her flesh—she lifted the child toward the stranger, her voice breaking with desperation:
"It's… it's enough. Please… take him. Just take him and go. Save him… that's all I ask."
The stranger studied her ruined hands, the pain she must be enduring. Yet he showed no emotion as he accepted the bloodstained bundle.
Strangely, the moment the infant was in his arms, the crying stopped. As if the child sensed the danger had passed.
"Rest easy, Mrs. Riley."
Cradling the baby in one arm, the stranger looked down at her. With a flick of his fingers, a soft blue glow enveloped her, numbing the agony.
He couldn't save her—but he could grant her peace in her final moments. Gently rocking the infant, he murmured:
"I came for him. And I promise… he will live safely, at least until he turns eighteen."
"My… my and Virton's boy… will he… will he be great?"
May no longer felt pain. Only exhaustion. The urge to sleep dragged at her, but before surrendering to it, she forced out one last question. Then, as if answering herself, she whispered with a tired smile:
"Yes… of course he will be. Why else… would an angel come for him…? Merlin… my son… how I wish we could have watched you grow…"
"But… it's time to say goodbye."
Standing amidst the flames, the stranger watched as the mother's eyes fluttered shut, slipping into her final slumber. He didn't correct her last, beautiful delusion.
The truth was, the Rileys' purpose had been fulfilled the moment their child was born. Glancing down at the now-sleeping infant, the man exhaled quietly.
"I'm no angel."
With a wave of his hand, the surrounding flames snuffed out entirely. Kneeling, he placed the child back into May's arms. Gently, he brushed the baby's head—a silent farewell—before lifting his gaze to the stars.
Among the glittering lights above, countless unseen eyes seemed to watch. To observe the child in his arms.
And beneath the shadow obscuring his face, the stranger's lips curled into an odd smile.
"As for you, Merlin… will you be great?"
"So many powerful eyes upon your birth. So many stakes placed upon you. What a life awaits… But how will you choose? I wonder…"
The sleeping child, of course, gave no answer. Not that the stranger expected one. Rising, he stepped back, his form dissolving into the darkness like ink in water—just as he had arrived.
As the blue cape fluttered behind him, his voice lingered in the air:
"Let's see how this plays out."
Just before vanishing completely, he checked his wristwatch and cleared his throat.
"The time is midnight, August 17, 1971. In my capacity as an observer for both parties… I declare…"
"The game…"
"Is about to begin."
Days later, Buffalo County, Wisconsin—The Riley Family Estate.
A young girl in a floral dress carefully cradled her infant cousin, making silly faces until the baby giggled and reached for her.
On the couch beside her sat a middle-aged woman in a black veil, her expression heavy with grief as she studied the furniture—the remnants of a home.
She was a distant relative of the Rileys, a cousin of Virton Riley, who had perished in the fire days earlier. Having married into a New York family years ago, she was the last kin the dwindling Riley bloodline could claim.
Upon hearing of the tragedy, she had rushed back with her daughter.
"Mom, mom," the girl—May—glanced up, stroking little Merlin's head as she pleaded, "Can't we take him home with us? I've always wanted a baby brother. Please?"
"Hush, dear."
Mrs. Riley smoothed her daughter's hair. "I know you adore Merlin, but we can't. Between my work and your school, there's no one to care for him. If you really love him, you can visit once a year."
"Then what'll happen to him?"
May's lips trembled as she stared at her mother. "Are we sending him to an orphanage?"
"No."
Mrs. Riley shook her head with a small smile. Checking her watch, she added, "I've arranged a new home for him. I reached out to James—an old friend who grew up with Virton and May. A true gentleman. He was their closest friend. I'm certain he'll take Merlin in."
As she spoke, a red Chevrolet pulled into the driveway. Straightening her dress and veil, Mrs. Riley nodded toward the door.
"See? They're here."
"May, mind your manners. Call him 'Uncle Coulson,' understand?"
The girl watched as a kind-faced couple stepped out of the car and approached the house. Instinctively, she hugged the baby tighter. She didn't want to give up her only cousin.
But her mother was right. Merlin couldn't go to New York with them.
Looking down at the child, May swallowed her reluctance. Maybe this was for the best.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Merlin… I'll visit as often as I can."
"You'd better not forget me, you little troublemaker."