Klaus sank into the cold, metallic chair, the clang of steel echoing through the sterile interrogation room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming like the wings of some mechanical wasp waiting to sting. His heart pounded against his ribcage, heavy with disbelief. They believed him. Reginald Thorne — polished businessman, beloved philanthropist, grieving father. The perfect mask. A titan of influence with connections on speed dial and his name engraved on a few charity plaques across the city. And who was Klaus? A half-naked, wounded man dragged in by officers who didn’t know they had a billionaire in their midst. His body was laced with strange scars and a fox tattoo. His tale — absurd, incoherent to them. Something out of a dime-store thriller. The kind of story that gets you a padded cell, not justice. The system had failed him once. And now, it was happening again. But Klaus Whitlock wasn’t the kind of man to stay down. No, not anymore. The world had tried to e

The tension in the precinct was thick as smoke. It hung in the air, pressing down on the room with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Detective Donovan stood tall, his coat draped over his shoulders like a curtain hiding the lies he so carefully managed. The cold fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, adding a surreal quality to the moment, as if even the light itself was uncertain of the truth in this room. Across from him, sitting at the interrogation table with his hands cuffed but a posture so relaxed it could have been a throne, sat Klaus Whitlock. His eyes were icy and calculating, his gaze like a hawk's, taking in every detail, every nuance of the room and its occupants. He seemed utterly unfazed by the cuffs, the sterile environment, or the fact that his freedom had just been torn away. Donovan's voice broke the silence, smooth and practiced. “You look comfortable, Whitlock. It’s almost as if you’re used to being in this situation.” Klaus didn’t answer i

“With the right photos and video clips of you looking violated—” The video cut off. Abruptly. Silence filled the office. Not the kind of silence that was peaceful or still, but the kind that sank its claws into the room, heavy and suffocating. It was the silence that came just after a bombshell dropped—but before the dust had settled. Assistant Commissioner Hargrave sat frozen behind his desk, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his face trembled. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He was locked in place, a statue carved out of disbelief and fury. The only sound now came from outside the door—Donovan’s fists pounding furiously, his voice muffled by the barrier but still loud enough to convey the threat in every syllable. “Klaus Whitlock!” Donovan barked from the hallway. “Open this damn door or I’ll break it down myself!” Klaus didn’t flinch. He stood across the room, composed, arms crossed as he studied Hargrave with a cold, unwavering gaze. His voice, when he fin

“Right now, I need to gather the rest of the evidence. It’s time to bury that bastard… and his worthless daughter.” --- The hotel’s corridors were quiet, but Klaus’s mind wasn’t. He and Cassandra returned to the Thera Grand in silence. The weight of everything—memories, betrayals, years lost—hung in the air like a noose around his neck. Cassandra, still stunned by Klaus’s true appearance—his real face, not the constructed mask of the red-haired socialite he used to be—walked beside him wordlessly. It wasn’t fear that kept her quiet. It was awe. Raw, electric awe. Back in his suite, Klaus moved like a man possessed. He threw open his suitcase, pulled aside layers of clothing, weapons, and backup passports, and retrieved a compact black device—his personal bugging tool. The device had been connected to Allison Thorne’s phone for months, gathering whispers in the dark, digital crumbs of evil cloaked in champagne and silk. Her laughter—twisted, venomous—echoed in his ears. “

People weren’t just angry—they were horrified. They said the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. They said her cruelty was inherited. “Rotten genes,” one headline read. “How Reginald’s daughter picked up the same venomous instincts.” Worse still, the footage of her last confrontation with Klaus—when she dropped her wine, when she shook in fear—was leaked online. It went viral. “You should’ve made better enemies,” Klaus had said in that clip, and the world couldn’t stop quoting it. Petitions sprang up to ban the Thorne name from major media networks. Sponsors pulled out of deals. Businesses distanced themselves. A senator publicly denounced ever knowing Reginald. A city once cowed by the Thorne influence now spit on it. By the third day of coverage, reporters stood outside the now-seized Thorne estate, and one said solemnly: > “For years, the Thorne family lived above the law—while silencing their victims with wealth and whispers. But today, justice isn't just knocking. It