Author POV London, 14 years ago. Victoria Beach. 4:37 PM. The charity event was chaotic. White tents, loud music, people in suits sweating under the sun. “Brooks Foundation Annual Children’s Gala” banners flapped in the hot wind. Cameras flashed every few seconds. Thirteen-year-old Ryder Brooks hated every second of it. He wasn’t supposed to be near the water. His bodyguards had said it three times. “Stay where we can see you, young master.” But the tide was low and the waves looked harmless. And he was bored of rich men talking about donations. So he slipped away. He ran past the tents, past waiters carrying trays of juice, past his mother calling his name. He didn’t stop until his bare feet hit wet sand. The backside of the beach. Quieter. No one here. Just rocks, seaweed, and the sound of waves hitting stone. The water was cold when he waded in up to his knees. Then his waist. Then his chest. He thought he could touch the bottom. He was wrong. One step. The sand gave way
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