Episode 3: Promise

The blaring siren of the ambulance shatters the stillness of the night. The old man stirs awake, a sharp, unfamiliar pain stabbing through his chest. At first, it's a dull throb, almost bearable, but within moments, it escalates, growing more intense with each passing second.

His heart pounds, erratic and heavy, panic clawing its way into his chest. His breath comes in shallow gasps, his mind fixated on a single thought, the one he was in denial.

"Yes," I answered the question he refuses to utter, my voice barely a whisper, yet thick with inevitability.

He clenches his chest tighter, his fingers pressing against the aching flesh as though willing the pain to stop. "Am I dreaming?" he croaks, his voice a desperate plea, a final attempt to escape the horrifying reality closing in on him.

"No," I reply again, my tone steady, untouched by his panic.

The pain surges, overwhelming him, and he struggles to draw in a breath. "Who are you?!" His voice cracks, a mix of fear and disbelief.

"You know very well who," I say, my words laced with cold certainty, a final declaration he cannot escape.

"Stop it," he gasps, his hands clutching at his chest as the pain becomes unbearable. "It hurts… Please… Stop."

I stand there, unmoved, watching him suffer. "Okay, that's all for now. See you tomorrow, Promise?" I say, my tone casual, as if this were just another fleeting moment in time.

The next day arrives, cloaked in a blinding sense of normalcy, almost like a cruel joke. William Sinclair shakes off the events of the previous night, dismissing them as nothing more than a vivid, unsettling dream. How disappointing, he thinks, that his mind would play such tricks on him.

As he descends the grand staircase of his mansion, the head of his household greets him with a respectful bow.

"Good morning, Sir Sinclair," the butler says, his tone clipped and professional.

William's lips twitch with a hint of annoyance. "How many times have I told you? Just 'Will' is fine," he says, tapping the butler lightly on the shoulder as he walks past.

William Sinclair is a man of many titles: billionaire, owner of one of the world's most prestigious financial firms, a titan of industry whose life is marked by incredible achievement. At fifty-nine, he stands at the cusp of his senior years yet shows no sign of slowing down. With a beautiful family, a thriving empire, and more prestige than most could ever dream of, he is a man accustomed to control.

His commanding presence is undeniable. His sharp mind and authoritative tone make him both admired and feared. Yet, despite his seemingly perfect life, there is an edge to him, a deep, gnawing fear lurking just beneath the surface.

"Are you okay, Dad?" his youngest son asks, sensing something off about his father's demeanor.

"Yes, perfect as always," William replies. Then, eyeing his son, he adds, "You don't look well, Wade. Is something the matter?"

"Yeah, because of you," Wade mutters. "Filling my head with nonsense the other day."

"Oh, so you finally met the One. Good for you." William smirks, clapping him on the shoulder. "Joining us on the helicopter?"

"Nope, I'm taking the day off. My head still hurts from all the wine and booze last night."

As William steps outside into the crisp morning air, his eldest son waits for him at the helipad. They exchange brief greetings, the kind only a father and son who have known each other their whole lives can share. Their bond is strong, yet there's something unspoken between them, a distance neither acknowledges but both feels.

"Ready for another busy day?" his son asks, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Always, Barry" William replies, though his mind is elsewhere.

Upon arriving at the office, there's no time to waste. An emergency meeting has been called, something urgent, something critical. The tension in the air is palpable as they enter the boardroom. William's mind races, still haunted by the events of the night before. The question lingers: Was it just a dream, or was it a warning? A glimpse into a future he isn't ready to face.

The doors to the meeting room close behind him, sealing him into a world of high-stakes decisions and relentless pressure. But the pain in his chest, the same pain from last night lingers. It's a dull, persistent ache that refuses to fade. As the minutes tick by, he can't shake the feeling that something is about to change.

The emergency meeting goes well, the company decides to buy out another bank. It's a victory, yet the unease doesn't fade. William waits for his lunch to be delivered in his office when his secretary's voice crackles through the intercom.

"A young lady is here to see you. She says she has an appointment, but I don't see any record of it. Do you recall arranging anything?"

William frowns. He doesn't remember scheduling a meeting, especially not today.

I lean against the front desk. "He forgets?" I ask, hearing the uncertainty in his mind. He doesn't remember any appointment and instructs the secretary to turn me away.

"I'm sorry, Miss," the attendant says, her gaze sweeping over me as though I don't belong in this building. "The President is not accepting visitors right now."

I stare back, unfazed. "Okay, I'll just wait here."

Then, speaking directly to William through his mind, I call out to him. "Will, what's this? I told you I would see you today. We promised."

From somewhere on the fifty-fifth floor, I hear his voice, laced with disbelief and confusion.

"You are…"

"Yes, it's me." I smile.

"Am I losing my mind?!" William groans, his voice strained, as if holding his head in his hands.

"I certainly hope not," I reply. "To be mad, to be crazy, it's the only way you can truly say you're alive. Isn't that what you've always said?" 

Just then, the phone at reception rings. The young attendant glances at me, awaiting my response.

"You may now use the private elevator," she says with a faint, reluctant smile. "The President is waiting for you on the fifty-fifth floor."