Chapter 3 - The Penthouse SanctuaryTwo hours later, the black Maybach pulled into the private underground garage of the Hail Tower—a soaring glass monolith that pierced the city skyline.
Jenna sat quietly in the plush leather backseat, staring out the tinted windows at the glittering city lights. When the private elevator opened directly into Warren’s top-floor penthouse, her jaw dropped. It was a palace of marble, floor-to-ceiling glass, and minimalist luxury.
“Is this... is this where you live?” Jenna whispered, her voice echoing in the vast, silent space.
“It’s too big,” Warren admitted honestly, taking off his mud-stained coat. “It was supposed to be for all of us. But it turned out to be just a cage.”
He called for Mrs. Gable, his loyal housekeeper of twenty years, who hurried out from the back quarters with a worried expression. But when she saw the little girl standing in the foyer, holding a worn backpack and wearing a patched coat, Mrs. Gable didn't ask questions. She simply knelt down, opened her arms, and said, “Welcome home, sweetheart. Let’s get you something warm to eat.”
As Mrs. Gable led Jenna toward the kitchen, Warren walked into Tyson’s old bedroom.
It had remained untouched for a year. The soccer cleats still sat by the closet door. The books on dinosaurs were neatly stacked on the shelf. And on the desk, right beside a half-built model airplane, sat a small shoebox tied with a faded red ribbon.
With trembling hands, Warren picked up the box and untied the ribbon.
Inside were dozens of folded drawings, comic books, and—at the very bottom—three folded newspaper clippings featuring Warren receiving industry awards for his mega-buildings.
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Across one of the clippings, Tyson had written in clumsy, childish block letters: My dad is building the world. One day we will build it together.
Warren collapsed into Tyson’s desk chair, burying his face in his hands, letting out a sob that had been trapped inside his soul for a lifetime.
