Richard Hale, owner of Hale Industries, was a man used to commanding attention — but not gratitude. For once, he couldn’t stop thinking about that kid’s eyes, how calm and certain they were amid chaos. He ordered his assistant to find Jordan. When they finally did, Jordan was sitting outside a soup kitchen, sharing his bread with a stray dog.

Richard approached quietly. “You saved my life yesterday,” he said. “I want to repay you.”

Jordan looked up, wary. “You don’t owe me. I just didn’t want anyone else to die like my dad did.”

Richard felt a knot tighten in his chest. The boy’s father, as he later learned, had once worked as a mechanic for one of Hale’s subcontractors — laid off after safety cuts Richard himself had approved. Guilt hit him harder than he expected.

Over the following weeks, Richard visited Jordan often. He arranged better housing, hired tutors, and even took him to the Hale Industries hangar — the same place where the helicopter had nearly exploded. Jordan’s eyes lit up as he examined the engines, naming each component with ease.