On Christmas Day, as I was preparing dinner, I asked my parents, “Did any official paperwork come to the house?” They said, “Yes. We tossed everything in the trash.” I went completely still. “Are you certain?” I asked. My father burst out laughing, smug and confident: “Of course.” The next words out of my mouth erased his smile instantly — replaced by pure fear and shaking…
THE LAST GIFT UNDER THE PINE TREE
Chapter 1: The False Peace
Thick snow fell outside the windows of the colonial-style mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. Inside, the aroma of roasted turkey mingled with cinnamon and pine wood, creating a suffocatingly perfect Christmas atmosphere.
I stood by the kitchen counter, slowly slicing potatoes. My mother, Eleanor, was busy with a tray of gravy, while my father, Arthur, sat at the head of the table, sipping an expensive glass of red wine. He had recently retired after thirty years running a private equity firm, and a smug self-satisfaction was always evident on his rosy face like a medallion.
For the past ten years, I had been the “long-lost son”—the one who had left home to work for the government in Washington D.C., rarely returning. This time, my return carried a weight they were unaware of.
“It’s wonderful to have you home for Christmas, Julian,” my mother said, her smile flawless but her eyes filled with worry. “We’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, Mom,” I replied, my voice calm. “But I know life here has its own rules. Especially Dad’s rules.”
My father chuckled, a dry laugh. “Rules are what keep this family from falling apart, son. You should learn that in D.C.”
Chapter 2: The Trash Can and Self-Complacency
I set the knife down, looking straight into my father’s eyes. The tension in the room suddenly increased, drowning out the soothing jazz music emanating from the expensive speakers.
“Speaking of rules,” I began, wiping the water off the marble table. “For the past few weeks, I’ve been expecting some important documents to be delivered to our address. I diverted the mail here because I thought the D.C. office might be under surveillance. Mom and Dad… did any official paperwork arrive?”
My mother froze, the sauce tray in her hand trembling slightly. She looked at my father, waiting for a signal.
Arthur Sterling leaned back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. He took a sip of wine, slowly savoring his power before answering.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice full of self-satisfaction. “But we threw them all in the trash. In fact, your mother personally put them in the shredder and threw them in the garbage truck this morning.”
I felt my blood freeze. I stared at him, hoping I’d misheard. “You threw them away? Do you know what they were?”
“Of course I know,” my father stood up, approaching me with his usual menacing demeanor. “Those are subpoenas, requests for information about Sterling Holdings’ old accounts. I’m not letting you bring trouble from your auditing office home to dirty this house. I’ve taken care of everything. No paperwork, no evidence, no case. You’re still a rookie, Julian. I’ve dealt with federal officials before you knew how to tie a tie.”
He looked at me with a mixture of contempt and confidence. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice now low, carrying a tone he’d never heard before.
My father laughed loudly, a laugh full of self-satisfaction and confidence. “Of course. The garbage truck left two hours ago. Everything’s turned to dust in the county landfill. You’re finished with your family investigation, son.”
Chapter 3: The Climax – The Verdict
I looked at my watch. 6:15 p.m.
I dropped the potato knife to the floor. The dry, metallic clang cut through the Christmas music. I wasn’t angry. I felt only an overwhelming sadness.
“You’re partly right, Dad,” I said, my voice as cold as the ice outside the cliff. “The garbage truck’s gone. But you’re wrong on the most important part.”
My father frowned, his smile beginning to stiffen. “What nonsense are you talking about?”
“Those papers weren’t subpoenas from my audit office. I don’t work for the Treasury Department anymore, Dad. I was transferred to the FBI’s Witness Protection and Undercover Agents Unit eighteen months ago.”
My father’s face turned from rosy red to pale. My mother dropped the sauce tray, the dark brown sauce staining the white silk carpet like a wound.
“Those papers you just threw away,” I continued, moving closer to my father, my gaze now sharp as a verdict. “They’re the ‘Final Criminal Liability Waiver Agreement’ and the ‘High-Level Witness Protection Order’ specifically for the two of you.”
My father stammered. “Li… waiver? Protection of what?”
“For the past two years, I’ve been secretly investigating the Moretti syndicate – the very people you’ve been helping launder money for ten years. They know you’re under FBI scrutiny. They’re not here to sue you. They’re here to wipe out this whole family to cover their tracks.”
I paused, watching the trembling begin to appear in Arthur Sterling’s hands.
“Those papers require the two of you to sign confirmation of participation in the protection and evacuation program immediately before 6 p.m. tonight. That is the only condition to prevent Moretti’s union snipers from activating the purge order once the deadline for handing over my father’s documents to the FBI has passed.”
Chapter 4: Extreme Terror
My father’s smug smile vanished completely, replaced by an expression of utter horror. He looked out the window, where night was enveloping the mansion.
“Julian… you’re kidding, right? This is Christmas…”
“Why do you think I asked Mom and Dad not to let anyone into the house today? Why did I lock the electronic gate?” I snapped. “The deadline was 6 p.m. Without Mom and Dad’s signatures on that agreement, the FBI has no legal right to interfere in this private property anymore. They withdrew fifteen minutes ago because they consider Mom and Dad to have refused protection in favor of Moretti.”
My mother began to sob. “Can we… can we call them? Julian, you’re their son!”
“I tried to save you both!” I shouted, my voice breaking for the first time. “Those papers were our only hope! But Dad’s arrogance threw them into the shredder. He always thought he could control everything, including the law, including me!”
Just then, all the power in the mansion suddenly went out.
The room plunged into deep darkness, with only the flickering light from the candles on the dining table remaining. A faint crack from the severed security system echoed from the basement.
My father collapsed into his chair, his body trembling so violently that the sound of his teeth chattering could be heard. The self-satisfaction and confidence of a billionaire vanished in an instant, leaving only a frail old man facing death.
“They…they’ve come?” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Chapter 5: The Final Twist
I stood silently in the darkness. I didn’t run. I didn’t draw my gun.
“Julian, do something!” my mother screamed in the darkness.
I switched on a small flashlight, its light not directed toward the door, but straight at my face. I was smiling. A smile even more terrifying than my father’s earlier.
“You know,” I said, my voice a whisper but echoing through the silent room. “Actually, no Moretti union wants to kill you. Moretti was arrested six months ago.”
My father looked up at me, his eyes clouded with fear and confusion. “What?”
“Those papers were indeed the Waiver Agreement,” I said slowly. “But it’s the agreement I needed you to sign so I wouldn’t be prosecuted for my past wrongdoings while working for you. I needed your confirmation that you were the sole administrator of those accounts. But you threw it away.”
I glanced at the clock again.
“And that phone call you made at 6 p.m.? That wasn’t a call to the FBI. It was a call to the federal property auction unit. Because you threw away your last chance to admit your mistake and retain power, according to the law of the case I filed, this entire house and all of Sterling’s assets will be seized immediately.”
Outside, the sirens weren’t those of assassins, but of a convoy of property seizure vehicles and economic police.
My father trembled as he stood up, intending to lunge at me, but exhaustion from fear caused him to collapse.
“My Christmas gift to you and Dad is the truth,” I said, backing away towards the back door. “You taught me the rules that keep a family together. But you forgot the most important rule: Never throw away something you don’t understand, just to satisfy your own self-satisfaction.”
I stepped out into the white snow, leaving my parents in the dark house surrounded by the flashing green and red lights of justice. This Christmas, Arthur Sterling’s complacency had been utterly destroyed, and the only gift remaining under the pine tree was the collapse of an empire built on lies.
July in Chicago wasn’t just hot, it was stifling like a giant furnace. On the Route 66 bus that ran down Chicago Avenue, the air conditioning had broken three stops earlier. The smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and the irritation of fifty people crammed into a tight space created an explosive atmosphere.
Sergeant Ethan Cole sat in the row near the back door. He was only 24 years old, dressed in his Army camouflage uniform (OCP), but he looked much older than he was. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his straight nose, and dripped onto his already damp collar.
Ethan wasn’t just hot. He was in pain.
A dull, sharp pain radiated from his pelvis down his legs, making every jolt of the old bus feel like a sledgehammer to his spine.
He sat huddled, his hands clutching a black tactical backpack in his lap. His fingers were white from exertion. He lowered his head, the brim of his cap covering his eyes that were bleary from painkillers and exhaustion. He counted down the stops in his head, muttering, “Five more. Just five more. Come on, Ethan. Don’t pass out. Don’t drop it.”
The bus stopped at the intersection of Wells Street. The doors opened with a deafening screech. A new wave of passengers rushed in, pushing into the already suffocating space.
Among them was an old woman. She was Martha, about 80, with a cane in one hand and two heavy grocery bags in the other. She stood unsteadily in the middle of the aisle, trying to hold on to the handrail, slippery with sweat.
The bus was packed. There were no empty seats. Young people with headphones on pretended to sleep. The middle-aged men were glued to their phones.
The crowd’s eyes began to search for a “victim” to vent their moral discomfort. And they found Ethan.
A young, healthy soldier (in their eyes), was sitting right in front of a frail old woman.
“Hey soldier!” A young man in a tank top, his hair slicked back with gel, stood a few steps away and spoke. His name was Brad, a self-proclaimed “KOL” on TikTok with a loud speaker. “Can’t you see the old woman standing there?”
Ethan heard. But his mind was spinning. The anesthesia from this morning’s surgery had not yet worn off, combined with the side effects of the bone marrow stimulant that made him violently nauseous. He only slightly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes looking at the old woman, then bent down again, hugging his backpack tighter. He couldn’t stand up. The doctor warned: “You just lost a large amount of spinal fluid and blood. If you stand for too long or move too much, you will faint and possibly cause internal bleeding.”
And more importantly, he had to protect his backpack.
“Are you deaf?” Brad snapped, pulling out his latest iPhone. He turned on Livestream mode. “Everyone, look! Is this the face of our military? A big guy sitting there while an 80-year-old woman has to stand there shaking. What a disgrace!”
Brad’s words were like a spark thrown into a powder keg.
“What a fool!” A middle-aged woman added. “Our taxes pay for you to behave like this?”
“Get up! You coward!”
Curses flew at Ethan’s face. He bit his lip until it bled. He wanted to explain, but his throat was so dry that he couldn’t speak. And he knew, if he opened his mouth to say he was in pain, they would laugh at him. “What kind of weak soldier is that?”
Martha waved her hand in concern: “No, I can stand. He looks tired…”
“Don’t defend him!” Brad shouted into the phone, holding the camera close to Ethan’s face. “Look at his bowed face. He must be high or too embarrassed to look up. Hey, man, say something? Is that backpack filled with gold bars that you’re holding so tightly?”
Ethan remained silent. He focused on breathing. Inhale… Exhale… Hold the backpack tight… Don’t let anyone touch it.
Brad, seeing the number of viewers on the livestream skyrocket, became even more excited. He approached, intending to snatch Ethan’s hat.
“Let me show the world this ungrateful bastard’s face!”
Ethan responded instinctively like a soldier. He shrank back, using his whole body to shield the backpack, pushing Brad’s hand away.
“Don’t touch me!” Ethan roared, his voice hoarse but powerful.
“He hit someone! Did you see? He hit me!” Brad yelled, though Ethan just brushed his hand away.
The whole bus was in an uproar. “Get him off the bus! Call the police! Where’s the driver?”
Chapter 3: The Driver’s Intervention
The bus screeched to a halt, sending everyone screeching to a halt.
The driver, a large black woman named Dolores, stepped out of the cab. She’d been driving in Chicago for 20 years; she didn’t fear anyone, not even gangsters or TikTokers.
“Quiet!” Dolores’s voice boomed like thunder. “What’s going on here?”
“This guy won’t give up his seat for an elderly person, and he’s even assaulting me!” Brad pointed at Ethan’s face. “Get him off!”
Dolores looked at Ethan. She could see sweat soaking the back of his shirt. She saw his trembling hands clutching the black backpack. She saw his face as white as a sheet. Experience told her this was not a grave.
t the insolent one.
“Sir,” Dolores said, her voice soft but still stern. “Are you okay? Why don’t you give up your seat?”
Ethan looked up at her. His eyes were desperate.
“I… I can’t stand, ma’am,” he whispered. “I have to… hold this.” He pointed to the backpack.
“What’s in there?” Brad interrupted. “Bomb? Drugs?”
“Check it!” The crowd chimed in. “He’s suspicious! Terrorism is rampant these days!”
Dolores frowned. She needed to ensure the safety of the bus.
“Soldier, I’m sorry, but to clear up this mess and ensure safety, I need you to show me what’s in your backpack. If you don’t, I’ll have to ask you to get off the bus.”
Ethan looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to the “golden hour.” If he got off now, in the middle of this traffic jam, he would never catch another bus. And walking was impossible with these legs.
“Okay…” Ethan said, his voice trembling. “But please… be careful. It’s fragile.”
The whole bus held its breath. Brad pointed his phone at the backpack, hoping to capture drugs or weapons so his video would go viral.
Ethan trembled as he zipped the backpack.
Cold air billowed from inside.
Inside the backpack were not clothes, not weapons.
It was a specialized medical styrofoam box, tightly packed with bags of dry ice.
And nestled neatly in the ice was a clear, hard plastic box, containing a dark red IV tube – fresh bone marrow – and a thick medical file stamped red with “URGENT”.
Dolores was stunned. She looked at the words on the file:
“LURIE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL – ONCology. PATIENT: TIMMY VANCE (6 YEARS OLD). TYPE: BONE MARROW TRANSPLANT. SPECIMEN SURVIVAL: 4 HOURS.”
She looked down at Ethan’s rolled-up sleeves. Only then did everyone notice that both his arms were covered in bandages, the needle marks still bleeding through the bandages. And on the small of his back, where his shirt had been pulled up a little due to his sitting position, there was a large, bloody gauze pad – the site of the bone marrow aspiration from his pelvis.
The whole bus fell silent.
Brad put down the phone, his face drained of blood.
Ethan hurriedly zipped it up to keep warm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath ragged. “I’m the only suitable donor. The hospital’s special vehicle got into an accident on the highway this morning… traffic jam… they didn’t get there in time to get the sample.”
He coughed, the pain making his face contort.
“Timmy’s surgery has already begun. They’ve destroyed his old marrow. He needs new marrow within four hours or he’ll die of infection. I… I took the bus from the donor center to the children’s hospital myself. The doctor said I can’t stand up, because the pressure will rupture the wound in my pelvis… and I have to hold this box steady.”
He looked up at Martha, tears welling in his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I want to give up… but if I stand up, I’m afraid I’ll fall and break this box. His life is in it.”
The air in the bus felt like it was being sucked out. The whispers and curses from earlier disappeared completely, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.
The middle-aged woman covered her mouth and burst into tears.
Old Martha trembled, placing her hand on Ethan’s shoulder: “Oh my God, son… Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“They didn’t give me a chance to speak,” Ethan laughed sadly, sweat running down his cheeks. “And I… I’m a soldier. We’re not used to complaining about our pain.”
Dolores, the tough driver, wiped her tears. She returned to the cockpit and picked up the microphone. Her voice echoed throughout the bus, but this time it wasn’t a scolding.
“Everyone, listen up,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. “We have a hero on board who’s on a mission to save a child’s life. I don’t care where you’re going. From now on, this bus is priority.”
Dolores turned on her emergency lights and honked her horn. She drove the bulky bus through the heavy traffic, ran red lights, and sped away like a giant ambulance.
On the bus, no one complained about the reckless driving.
A man sitting in the front seat stood up: “Soldier, give me your backpack, I’ll hold it for you. Take a break.”
“No,” Ethan shook his head firmly. “This is my job. I have to hand it over myself.”
Brad, the TikToker, secretly deleted the video he had just recorded. He took out all the cash he had from his wallet and quickly stuffed it into Ethan’s hand.
“I… I’m sorry. Take this and take a taxi later…” He stammered, too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Ethan pushed the money back.
“I don’t need the money. I just need to get there on time.”
Fifteen minutes later, the bus screeched to a halt in front of Lurie Children’s Hospital.
The door opened.
Ethan struggled to stand up. His legs were shaking, the pain from his pelvis almost made him collapse.
But the two men in the car caught him in time. They helped him out of the car, carefully as if they were handling a treasure.
The medical team was already waiting at the door with a stretcher.
Ethan handed the backpack to the head doctor.
oa.
“Still cold,” he said, then collapsed onto the gurney beside him.
“You did well, soldier. You came just in time,” the doctor said, patting him on the shoulder.
Ethan lay on the gurney, looking up at the blue Chicago sky through the hospital awning. The crowd on the bus was still there, watching him through the glass. The judgmental, angry eyes from earlier had now been replaced by respect and deep regret.
Old Martha stood at the door, waving goodbye to him, tears streaming down her face.
Brad stood with his head bowed, the phone in his hand hanging limply. He realized that no “like” on social media was worth the beating of a human heart that Ethan had just saved.
As the nurse was about to wheel Ethan into the emergency room to treat his bleeding wound, a TV reporter who happened to be there ran over.
“Do you want to say anything to those people who misunderstood you on the bus? Are you angry with them?”
Ethan smiled weakly, shaking his head.
“I’m fine. I’m not angry with anyone. They don’t know my story, and they just want to protect the elderly. That’s fine.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the pain gradually eased by the relief in his soul.
“Just… just be in time to save the boy. Everything else, doesn’t matter.”
The stretcher was pushed away behind the automatic doors.
Outside, the 66 bus continued its journey. But the people on that bus were forever changed. They had learned a valuable lesson: Sometimes, the greatest heroes are not those who fly in the sky, but those who bow their heads silently, endure pain and misunderstanding, just to hold on to a small hope in an old backpack.
