The office door shut with a quiet click, sealing Levi inside a room unlike any he had ever set foot in. The walls were deep mahogany, shelves lined with books bound in leather and gold foil. A long glass desk sat in the center, immaculate except for a single parcel resting atop it.
Martin Hale walked to the desk, his steps measured, his expression unreadable. He turned back to Levi, considering him for a long moment before picking up the package.
"This," Martin said, holding it firmly, "is of the highest confidentiality."
Levi stared at it, his stomach twisting. The package was a plain black box, perfectly square, no markings beyond the official seal of Oakland Mail Services stamped on the side.
Martin exhaled sharply. "The sender made it clear. If this parcel does not reach you within twenty-four hours, the consequences will be severe."
"Severe?" Levi echoed, his voice low. "For who?"
Martin's gaze was sharp. "For the company. For everyone attached to this delivery."
Levi swallowed. "That doesn't make sense. I—I don't know anyone who would send me something like this. I don't have connections. I don't—" His words faltered, his mind racing.
Martin handed him the parcel, his fingers lingering just slightly before releasing it.
"You have connections," he said quietly. "Whether you realize it or not."
Levi's hands gripped the box, the weight of it heavier than it should be. The silence stretched between them.
"Who sent it?" Levi asked.
Martin shook his head. "That information was redacted. Even I don't have access. All I know is that whoever sent it wanted you to have it. Urgently."
Levi inhaled sharply. "And if I don't open it?"
Martin's lips pressed together. "Then you should be prepared for fallout."
A chill crept up Levi's spine.
A parcel. A twenty-four-hour deadline. And a threat—one that could bring down an entire company.
His fingers tightened around the edges. The box sat in his hands, cold, waiting.
His name had been spoken in places he'd never set foot in.
And now, something—someone—had forced him into the center of something much larger than himself.
He turned the package over once.
And then—slowly, carefully—he began to open it.
Martin watched Levi carefully, his gaze steady, unreadable.
"You can open it here," he said, voice calm, "or I can take you somewhere more private."
Levi hesitated. The weight of the parcel sat in his hands, cold and unfamiliar. The office was too open, too exposed. He could feel the quiet hum of security cameras in the corners, the silent presence of staff moving just beyond the doors.
"I want a private room," Levi said.
Martin nodded once. "Follow me."
He led Levi through a discreet hallway, the floors silent beneath their steps. At the end of the corridor stood a thick steel door, unmarked, secured with a coded lock. With a quick press of his fingers against the panel, Martin unlocked it.
The room was simple. Small, enclosed, soundproof. A single lamp cast sharp shadows against the walls. A long, polished table sat in the middle, its surface empty except for a chair.
"This will do," Martin said. He stepped aside as Levi entered, then looked at him one last time before closing the door. "Take your time."
The door shut with a quiet click.
Outside the Oakland Mail Services building, amidst the sea of pedestrians and passing cars, a man in a black suit stood near the curb, blending effortlessly into the shifting city.
The moment Levi took the parcel into the private room, the man pressed a finger to his ear microphone.
"Package has been received," he murmured, voice low.
No names. No excess words. Just confirmation.
He stepped toward the waiting Bugatti—a sleek, custom-painted midnight blue machine that gleamed under the afternoon sun. Without hesitation, he slid inside, the door closing behind him in practiced efficiency.
Then, without delay, the Bugatti pulled onto the street and disappeared into the flow of traffic.
Back in the private room, Levi sat in silence, the parcel resting before him.
His pulse was steady, but his mind was anything but.
Someone was watching. Someone knew.
And whatever was inside this box—it wasn't just for him.
It was for something far bigger than he'd ever imagined.
Levi exhaled slowly, staring down at the edges of the package.
Then, with measured resolve, he reached for it.
And prepared to open it.
Levi sat in the dimly lit private room, the parcel resting before him like an unanswered question. His fingers hesitated over the lid for a brief moment before he exhaled sharply and lifted it open.
Inside, resting neatly on top, was a letter.
A plain white envelope. Nothing elaborate—no logo, no sender's name, no markings. But when Levi turned it over, his breath caught.
The recipient's name was printed in crisp, black ink.
Levi Stringer.
His pulse kicked against his ribs.
Stringer?
He stared at the name as if it could change just by looking at it long enough. His name was Levi Wings. It had always been Levi Wings.
Had there been a mix-up? Had Martin Hale given him the wrong package?
But no. The parcel had been labeled for him. He had been called here, specifically, for this.
Confusion curled through him.
His fingers moved before his mind could stop them—sliding under the envelope's seal, peeling it open. He pulled out the folded letter inside and smoothed it over the table. The handwriting was deliberate, neat, written in deep black ink.
Then he read the first line.
"If you are reading this letter, you must be Levi Stringer. But you currently go by the name Levi Wings."
The words punched into him like ice water.
His breath stalled. His hands gripped the paper tighter.
This was impossible.
Someone had to be messing with him.
But the letter was real. The parcel was real. And whoever had written this knew something about him—something he didn't know about himself.
His chest tightened.
For the first time in his life, Levi wasn't sure whether he wanted to know the truth.
Because if this letter was right—if he really was Levi Stringer—then everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie.
He then continued reading his curiosity increasing.