Andrew Corvinus stood alone in his office, a space that was both his sanctuary and his battleground. The vast room was adorned with symbols of power—mahogany bookshelves lined with rare tomes, the presidential seal embossed on the deep blue carpet, and a panoramic view of Washington D.C. that stretched out behind his desk. Yet, none of these symbols of power offered him any comfort today.
His reflection stared back at him from the large window, the faint glow of city lights outlining his sharp features. His blonde hair, meticulously slicked back, caught the dim light, and his blue eyes, usually so piercing and authoritative, seemed clouded with thoughts. Andrew's tailored black suit, accented with a blood-red tie, was as impeccable as always, but it felt more like armor than attire—a necessary barrier between himself and the world he controlled.
He let out a breath, the tension he had been holding in since the morning slowly escaping. In his hand, he held a photograph. It was slightly crumpled, the edges worn from where his thumb had traced it over and over. The image was of a boy, no older than twelve, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes—the same eyes that now looked back at him from the glass.
Michael Corvinus. His son.
Andrew had spent years keeping the boy's existence a secret, a shadow cast over the brilliant legacy of the Corvinus name. Michael was a reminder of a moment of weakness, a chapter Andrew had thought was long closed. Yet, here he was, staring at the face of a son he had never acknowledged, a son who had been hidden away like a dark secret. The amber alert had shattered the fragile wall of secrecy he had built, and now the pieces were falling apart faster than he could catch them.
A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He didn't have to turn to know who it was. The familiar, measured footsteps followed, and Thomas, his most trusted aide, entered the room.
"Sir," Thomas began, his voice low and steady, "the situation with Michael—it's escalating. The First Lady has been alerted, and the press is starting to pick up on the amber alert. We need to contain this before it spirals out of control."
Andrew's jaw tightened. He had known this moment would come, but he had hoped it would be on his terms, not under the scrutiny of the entire nation. "What's the latest update?"
"We've traced Michael's last known location to a rift. A B-rank dungeon in the Appalachian region. It's a dangerous place for someone so young, but he's already been in there for several days. Our agents are monitoring the entrance, but so far, he hasn't emerged."
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "And the First Lady? How much does she know?"
"She knows enough," Thomas replied, his tone cautious. "She's asking questions. About the boy. About you."
Andrew's grip tightened on the photograph until his knuckles turned white. This was the nightmare scenario—his carefully crafted life unraveling because of a decision made over a decade ago.
"He's still a threat, Thomas," Andrew said, his voice cold and resolute. "If he survives that dungeon, he could become a problem we can't control."
Thomas nodded, though there was a flicker of something—hesitation? Doubt?—in his eyes. "What do you want to do, sir?"
Andrew turned away from the window, setting the photograph down on his desk. He walked around to his chair, sitting down with the practiced ease of a man used to making hard decisions. His eyes locked onto Thomas, the air between them heavy with unspoken words.
"We find him before anyone else does," Andrew said, his voice firm. "Bring him in. Alive, if possible. Dead if necessary. I won't allow him to be used against this family."
"And if he resists?" Thomas asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Then we make sure he's a problem that doesn't exist anymore," Andrew replied, his tone icy. "I'll handle the First Lady. Spin whatever story is needed to keep this under wraps. But I want Michael found."
Thomas nodded once more, then turned to leave. He paused at the door, as if considering whether to say something more, but then thought better of it. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Andrew alone with his thoughts once again.
As the silence enveloped him, Andrew leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the photograph on his desk. The boy's eyes seemed to bore into him, accusing him, questioning him.
For a brief moment, Andrew allowed himself to feel the pang of regret—a feeling he had buried long ago. But in the world he lived in, power demanded sacrifices, and there was no room for weakness. Michael was a loose thread, and in Andrew's world, loose threads had to be cut.
He reached out and turned the photograph face down, the image hidden once more. Andrew stood up, straightening his suit, and walked to the door. He had a family to protect, a legacy to uphold, and a nation to lead. And no matter the cost, he would ensure that nothing threatened that—not even his own blood.
As he left the room, the door closed with a soft click, the finality of his decision echoing in the silent office.