Balai Loreta

02/08/2026

29/04/2026

“AHH—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
His scream tore through the room.
The camera pushed in—
close—
too close—
behind him.
Fire crackled in the background.
Cold light spilled through the window.
And her hands—
steady.
Unshaken.
Holding his head in place.
The tool still inside his ear.
“Stop—this isn’t normal!”
He struggled—
panic rising—
but she didn’t move.
Didn’t hesitate.
Her face—
calm.
Focused.
Almost… empty.
“If I stop… you’ll never hear the truth.”
Silence dropped.
Heavy.
The fire popped softly—
the only sound left alive.
The camera slowly circled—
revealing his face.
Fear spreading.
Real now.
“…what truth?”
His voice broke.
Not from pain—
from something deeper.
She paused.
Just for a second.
The tool froze.
Then she leaned closer—
closer to his ear—
so close her breath barely moved the air.
“The one they buried inside your head…”
The words sank in.
Slow.
Unavoidable.
His breathing changed.
Faster.
Uneven.
Like something inside him was starting to wake up.
The camera pushed in—
tight—
on his eyes.
Widening.
Understanding—
or almost understanding.
“…you were never supposed to remember.”
The sentence didn’t end the moment.
It opened something.
Something wrong.
Something hidden.
And just as it started to surface—
just before he spoke—
just before everything broke—
darkness.

29/04/2026

A little boy with a dirty face and torn clothes stepped directly in front of a sleek wheelchair rolling between marble tables. The wheels locked hard. Guests turned instantly. The rich man seated in it looked down, amused. “You?” The boy didn’t flinch. He stepped closer with impossible certainty. “I can fix your leg.” Nearby laughter burst out. Phones rose. The rich man leaned forward, entertained. “How long?” The boy’s eyes never moved. “A few seconds.” Silence began to creep in. He dropped to his knees and placed two fingers onto the man’s polished shoe, pressing through the leather where the foot rested motionless. The man jolted violently. His wine glass rattled. The boy said quietly, “Count.” “One.” Camera crash-pushed to the foot. A toe TWITCHED beneath the shoe. Laughter died instantly. The rich man’s smile vanished. “Two.” More toes moved. The wine glass slipped from numb fingers and shattered across the marble floor. Guests stood in shock. The waiter froze mid-step. The boy slowly lifted his eyes. “Stand up.” Heartbeat rose through the room. The rich man gripped the table, arms shaking, beginning to rise for the first time in years. The boy leaned close and whispered, “My mother said… you’d know me.” . But the room stayed frozen around them. The man was halfway up, legs trembling under his own weight. Tears filled his eyes before he could stop them. “Who is your mother?” he whispered. The boy stepped back. “You forgot her when you could still walk.” Gasps rippled through the guests. The man forced himself fully upright, gripping the table, staring down as if seeing his own body for the first time. “Name her.” The boy reached into his torn pocket and pulled out a faded photo. Camera close-up—young rich man standing beside a smiling nurse in a hospital hallway, hand on her pregnant belly. The waiter dropped a tray. “No…” the man breathed. “Elena died.” The boy shook his head. “She said you buried the wrong woman.” The skyline lights flickered across the shattered glass at their feet. The rich man took one shaky step toward him. Then another. “Why now?” he asked, broken. The boy’s voice turned cold. “Because tonight she’s downstairs.” Elevator doors chimed behind them.

28/04/2026

“What are you supposed to be?” he sneered.
The boy said nothing.
Then he swung the stone straight into the cast.
CRACK.
Plaster exploded across the luxury floor. The doctors jumped back in shock.
The old man grabbed both bedrails and screamed:
“What did you do?!”
The boy stood still, calm as ever.
“It wasn’t healing,” he said coldly.
The room fell silent.
A fracture line spread across the cast.
The boy lifted the stone again.
“Stop!” the old man shouted, panic finally replacing arrogance.
Too late.
Another strike. Another crack. A large piece fell away.
The doctors stared.
Inside the broken cast… his toes were clean. Healthy. Pink. Not swollen. Not injured.
The female doctor covered her mouth.
The boy pointed.
“Move them.”
No one breathed.
Then one toe twitched.
Gasps filled the room. Sweat poured down the old man’s face.
The boy stepped closer.
“So why were you pretending?”
The male doctor reached into the lining of the broken cast and slowly pulled out a hidden plastic packet.
Inside was a folded sealed paper.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“…what is this?”
The old man’s face collapsed in fear.
Because he knew exactly what was written inside.

28/04/2026

“Look at him!” the biker leader roared.
Someone kicked the cane across the floor like trash. Chairs scraped. The waitress froze beside the counter.
But the old man never moved.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t even look down.
He simply sat there in his pressed coat, silver hair neat, face calm enough to terrify anyone paying attention.
The camera would have pushed closer then—because something was wrong.
The biker leader leaned over him, grinning.
“What now, grandpa?”
Still no reaction.
Then—click.
The old man slowly lifted a small key fob from his pocket and held it near his ear like a phone.
“It’s me,” he said quietly.
The room began to hush on its own.
Even the laughing bikers stopped smiling.
Then the old man added only three words:
“Bring them.”
Silence crushed the diner.
One biker turned toward the front windows. Another took a nervous step back.
Outside, three black SUVs slid into the parking lot at speed, tires spitting gravel. Engines growled low and heavy.
The biker leader’s grin disappeared.
The front doors opened.
Three men in black suits stepped inside without a word.
The old man slowly pointed at the biker leader.
His voice stayed calm.
“Take his hands first.”
The biker stumbled backward as every chair in the diner screeched at once.

28/04/2026

Then a ten-year-old boy in a dirty gray hoodie stepped out of the crowd and slammed his fist against the metal door so hard the boom echoed through the entire room.
Glasses rattled. Guests jumped. Phones rose instantly to record.
The child looked straight at host Sebastian Vale and said with terrifying calm:
“I’ll open it.”
Laughter broke out at first—thin, nervous, mocking.
The camera would have rushed closer as the boy lifted his dirty fingers to the keypad.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Sebastian’s smile began to fade.
“Who told you that code?” he asked quietly.
The boy never looked at him. His eyes stayed on the keypad.
“No one… it remembers me.”
Another number.
Then the final key.
A green light flashed.
The room fell silent before anyone realized it had.
A heavy metallic CLACK rang through the ballroom.
The lock released.
The door began to open.
Guests stepped back as if the safe itself were dangerous.
Inside sat a black velvet box, legal documents, and a sealed envelope that looked older than the room.
An elegant woman in emerald silk suddenly screamed.
“Don’t touch that! He’s Adrian’s son!”
The crowd gasped so loudly it drowned the orchestra.
Every eye turned to Sebastian Vale.
All color had drained from his face.
Because the dead man whose fortune he inherited… had no known child.
Until now.