A motorcade of three black luxury sedans came to a screeching halt right before a worn-out, dilapidated house here in the well-known lower-class borough, Queensgate.

Six stunning men, impeccably dressed in black suits and dark shades, emerged from the vehicles and stood by the side with military precision. 

The bodyguard standing at the front passenger door of the middle sedan reached for the rear door handle and bowed as he swung it open.

A pair of shiny, expensive-looking leather Ferragamo Oxfords revealed themselves and stepped out onto the weathered concrete. 

They belonged to a young man, whose dark brown hair, which seemed to be meticulously styled with a selection of high-end hair products, created a striking contrast with the lack of intensity in his brown eyes. His angular face and pale complexion glistened under the sun, most likely due to a slight touch of makeup.

Though slightly shorter than six feet, he was adorned in a corporate Ralph Lauren pinstripe twill suit with a cream-black pinstripe shirt underneath. These garments, collectively worth over $7,500, seemed slightly oversized for his slender frame, giving him an almost comical air of sophistication.

A black square-patterned silk tie was elegantly knotted around his neck, and adorning his left wrist was a stainless steel Rolex with a striking blue dial worth approximately $11,000.

His personal entourage of suited men with jet-black sunglasses swiftly ascended the old steps leading up to the bungalow house and formed a protective corridor down to the car door for him.

The commotion and screeching vehicles had drawn the attention of several residents in this poor-class neighborhood. And among them was a frail middle-aged lady, who came out of the old bungalow house. 

She was covered in layers of worn-out clothes to shield her from the cold and stood at the opened door of the house with a wide smile soon appearing on her face as she recognized the classy young man.

Several onlookers stood in sheer awe and disbelief, whispering amongst themselves.

"Isn't that little Nick?"

"No way, it—it can't be. It's been ages since I saw the kid, but that certainly can't be Nick."

"Hey, Nick my boy. Don't say you forgot old Steve here?"

"So Sara wasn't lying when she said he left for school all those years ago?"

"Heh, the lad must have hit it big in the city!"

"Tsk. Sara's a lucky one. If only my James was more like him, going to school and getting a job. Instead, that boy just idles about with his dumb friends who are always getting into trouble…"

Nick ignored the not-so-subtle whispers from his former neighbors, walked up to his mother—Sara halted a few steps below her, then extended the flower bouquet he held in hand.

Nick held a dignified smile. 

"Momma, I'm back." 

Sara beamed. "Steven, you've come to see me?" 

"Of course…" Nick stretched his arms wide and calmly climbed up the remaining steps.

Sara's eyes held back tears as she accepted the bouquet and embraced Nick.

The scene resembled one out of a fairytale, where the young hero returned triumphant and brought honor to the family name. However, in Neapolis, such sights were rather common.

Nick soon turned around and added, "And Momma, I also bring gifts."

With a snap of his fingers, one of his bodyguards hurried forward, head bowed, carrying a gift basket filled with provisions and a few items of clothing.

"Oh… you really didn't need to," Sara humbly said, with her hands clasped before her chest.

Nick eagerly handed the basket to her, and she accepted it.

A few brave on-lookers had attempted to approach, calling out Nick's name and reminiscing about their shared memories, but their pleas fell on deaf ears as the bodyguards prevented them from getting too close. 

Nick, on the other hand, didn't even spare them a glance.

Sara placed her palm on his face and asked worriedly, "Have you been eating well? It's been so long since I saw you, almost three years now."

Nick chuckled. "It's only been two."

"Come inside; I was even about to bake a meatloaf, your favorite. Oh, but it might not be enough for all of your friends. No, I'll use all my reserves and make more. I must treat you all today to a great meal. It will be just like before…"

Nick gently placed his hand on her frail, delicate hand resting on his face, before slowly lowering it and averting his gaze. 

"Momma… I wish I could stay longer, but there's a meeting I have to attend. My presence is very essential. I have to get going. I just… wanted to personally deliver the gifts to you."

Sara's facial muscles shifted, briefly revealing her despondence, but then she quickly composed herself and nodded. 

"Yes, yes, of course. I'm very sorry. You're now a very busy man, but you still came to see me. I'm so happy. Thank you."

"…"

"I know how hard you worked to get here. I'll be fine, don't you worry." Her motherly smile remained as she caressed his face and added, "I am so proud of you, Steven."

Nick looked wistful for a brief moment and put himself back in his mother's embrace. This time, he wasn't going to let go so fast.

Shortly after, Sara stood outside her old, dilapidated bungalow house, waving, as her only son's luxurious motorcade sped away.

…

Neapolis, also known as the City of Stars, was said to be a place where talent found fertile ground, dreams took flight, and legends were born.

Famously regarded as the world's entertainment capital, the whispers of success reached even the farthest corners of the earth and constantly drew in the most talented, gifted, and hardworking from all walks of life like moths to a flame.

Neapolis stood as the poster image of the perfect place to be to realize the American Dream.

Because here, the promise of success was not limited to the privileged few. The doors to prosperity swung wide open for all who dared to vigorously chase their dreams with the required hard work and dedication.

With the untapped power of raw human potential, accompanied by the great strength of the human spirit, along with passion, determination, and a little touch of fate, in the City of Stars, anything was possible.

At least, that's what Nick was told.

And what a fool he was to believe it. Such was understandable though; after all, everyone did, and most still do. 

Now, however, Nick saw this city for its truth.

He plopped down on his frameless bed, tired, and stared blankly at the ceiling of his apartment.

'I wonder who'll show up first. Mike? Oldman John? Or maybe Tony? No, Tony isn't like that. Emma will probably come on his behalf. Or at least, that's what she'll claim.'

Nick took off the expensive suit jacket and dropped it beside him with a light thud. Exhaling deeply, he felt the weight on his shoulders lessen only by a fraction.

Knock~ Knock~

Hearing the soft rap echo from the entrance, Nick let out a hollow chuckle. How predictable.

He pushed himself up and answered the door. 

There was a pregnant woman of East Asian descent, looking to be in her late twenties, standing before him.

She stood at an average height, wearing a loose-fitting pastel-colored cotton dress with her well-combed dark hair cascading down past her shoulders. 

It was Emma, Tony's wife.

"Nick, hey. I saw when you arrived, so I came down. How did the interview go?"

Emma's voice was soft, and her tone was gentle. However, there was a hint of urgency in her voice, as though she just wanted to be done with the greetings and other things she didn't care about as fast as possible.

'Of course she'll be the first.' Nick scrutinized her carefully. Despite the friendly smile on her face, her slanted black eyes bore into him with an inscrutable loathing.

"To be honest, I don't know," Nick lied. "They just said they'll get back to me."

Emma offered a slight nod. "Try not to dwell on it too much. It'll work out. By the way, Tony asked me to help him get back the Oxfords he lent you."