the beginning after the end perfect duo

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The flames danced in the hearth, their restless flickers painting jagged shadows across the towering walls of a grand yet suffocating study. Tom's small frame perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, legs dangling above a polished wooden floor that gleamed under the soft glow of the firelight. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink—a weight that seemed to press down on him as heavily as his father's gaze.

Across the room, his father stood by the window, silhouetted against the dim, gray light of the overcast sky. The tall man's hands were clasped behind his back, his posture impossibly straight, radiating control. Outside, the iron gates of the estate stood as silent sentinels, barring entry—or perhaps, exit.

"You don't understand what's at stake," his father said, his voice steady and low, each word carefully measured. He didn't look at Tom, his attention fixed on the world beyond the frosted glass. "The brilliance you possess... it's not a gift, Tom. It's a responsibility. One that must be guarded."

Tom's fingers curled around the leather spine of a thick notebook resting on his lap. Its pages were filled with numbers and diagrams—works he barely remembered writing, yet they poured out of him as naturally as breathing. A prodigy, they called him. A mind born once in a millennium. But here, he was just a boy staring at his father's back, searching for warmth and finding only shadow.

"I just want to go outside," Tom said softly. His voice faltered, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. "Even just for a little while."

The silence that followed was deafening. His father turned slowly, his sharp features illuminated by the firelight. There was no anger in his expression, only something colder—disappointment, perhaps. Or was it fear?

"You don't know what the world would do to someone like you," he replied. His tone carried no malice, only an unyielding certainty. "You're more than just a child, Tom. You're... an anomaly. If they knew, they would tear you apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left."

Tom lowered his gaze to the notebook in his hands. His father's words were always like this—heavy, layered, and impenetrable. But behind the stoicism, he sensed something else. Was it worry? Guilt? He didn't know. And maybe he didn't want to.

The iron gates shuddered against the force of urgent knocks, their reverberations a drumbeat of unease that echoed through the estate. From the study window, Tom watched as black-suited men marched into the courtyard, their expressions blank yet purposeful. His breath hitched as his father strode out to meet them, his coat billowing like a cape in the cold wind.

Even at a distance, Tom could hear fragments of their conversation.

"...government orders..."

"...for the boy's protection..."

"...national importance..."

The words swirled in his mind, sharp and incomprehensible. He pressed his hands against the glass, his small fingers leaving faint smudges on the frost-covered surface.

His father's voice cut through the commotion like steel. "You think I'd let you take my son? Over my dead body."

The leader of the group, a man with graying temples and a clipped tone, stepped forward. "This isn't a request. Your son's intellect could change the world. It's bigger than you, or me, or this estate."

Tom's heart thudded painfully in his chest. His father remained unmoving, his back as straight as the iron gates that separated them from the world. But even from here, Tom noticed the way his hand twitched at his side—a fleeting moment of vulnerability.

The men didn't leave. Two of them ascended the stone steps of the mansion, their boots echoing ominously. Tom turned from the window, his breath quickening. He crouched behind the study door, heart pounding as it creaked open.