The next morning, the Imperial Crest returned to its polished rhythm. The lobby sparkled, the air thick with perfume and wealth. John moved through it with practiced calm, yet every sight felt altered. The chandelier's crystals no longer dazzled him; they looked like cages made of light.
Rita stood behind the reception desk, laughing softly with Jerry, who leaned across the counter. John watched from the corner of his eye as Jerry handed her a wrapped box. She giggled and pressed her hand to his arm.
John walked past them, keeping his expression neutral. Jerry's voice followed him, lazy and amused. "Hey, Raymond. Carry my luggage up later, will you? Don't scratch the leather this time."
John turned slightly. "Yes, sir."
The old response came automatically, but this time the words carried no submission. In his mind, he was already somewhere else, standing in the storm with the truth in his hands.
By evening, the routine ended. He clocked out, changed clothes, and waited outside near the staff exit. At exactly seven, a black car stopped at the curb. The rear window rolled down, and Mr Shack's composed face appeared.
"Get in," he said.
The city blurred past as they drove through the business district and then into the hills overlooking the river. The houses grew larger, spaced farther apart. Finally, the car turned through iron gates that opened without sound. Ahead stood a mansion built of pale stone, its windows glowing softly in the night.
John stepped out. The air smelled of cedar and rain. Shack led him inside through marble halls lined with portraits. One painting caught John's attention, a younger man who looked almost like him, standing beside a woman in pearls. His parents.
An old butler approached, bowing slightly. "Mr Raymond is waiting in the study."
They entered a room filled with books and the scent of aged paper. A fireplace burned quietly. In a high-backed chair near the window sat an elderly man with silver hair and eyes the same blue as John's. He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until it softened into something close to awe.
"So it is true," he murmured. "You survived."
John's throat tightened. "Grandfather?"
The old man motioned for him to come closer. "Let me look at you."
John obeyed, feeling the weight of years between them. The old man reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and touched his shoulder. "You have your father's eyes."
Tears threatened, but John held them back. "I remember little about them."
"You were taken too young." The old man's voice broke for a moment. "They wanted the empire destroyed, and you erased. I failed to protect them, but I will not fail you."
He gestured to the desk where papers lay neatly stacked. "These are the documents that will return what is yours. But we must move carefully. The men who profited from our ruin still hold power."
John listened, his resolve hardening with each word. The fire crackled softly beside them.
Mr Shack stepped forward. "The first step is to place you in a position of silent control. We will adjust internal records and accounts. When the time is right, the world will see the heir they forgot."
John nodded slowly. "And Harrison? Jerry Martins?"
"They will learn what justice feels like," the old man said, his voice steady despite age. "But revenge must never consume you. Rebuild first, punish later."
The words settled deep within John. He looked at the flames, remembering the long nights in his rented room, the humiliation, the laughter that had once haunted him. All of it led here, to this quiet room and the promise of reclamation.
He turned to his grandfather. "I am ready."
The old man smiled faintly. "Then tomorrow, the game begins."
Outside, thunder rolled across the hills. John looked through the window at the city lights far below. Somewhere in that maze of glass and gold, his enemies slept, unaware that the servant they had mocked was about to rise.
The night seemed to whisper through the rain, carrying a single truth, his silence had ended.