The front-page image of the cover story on the CEO was a shock to them—it was Aditya, their estranged son. The parents gawked at each other without uttering a word.

We meet at a diner near Dundas, the type that calls itself Southeast Asian-inspired without being specific or authentic. White Singaporean coffee, roti john, laksa, fishball noodle soup, egg tarts, and pineapple buns share the menu with chilli fries and sambar.

Father wanted a son in his image, one who would carry on his legacy. He insisted that we—I mean, you—follow his footsteps and study mechanical engineering.

Atlas A, fourteen years old, is sitting alone in his bedroom reading a comic. Beside him is a box labelled Easy Hobby-Games for Little Engineers, unopened.

“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree,” Atlas hummed softly, as xe did the dishes, glancing over xir shoulder to where xir mother, Mrs Adhikari, sat nursing an after-dinner drink and eyeing her child with an appraising eye.