The room was heavy with silence, the kind that carried an unspoken storm. Teacher sat behind his oak desk, cigar smoke curling lazily upward, though nothing about him was calm. His jaw clenched, his eyes dark as if he had swallowed rage whole. The reports were clear—Xavier had flown to Spain, met with Vargas, and signed a deal without him. Without them.Teacher’s voice cut through the silence.“I knew it.” He slammed his fist against the desk, the sound echoing. “I knew that bastard was going to pull something slick the moment he came sniffing around about Vargas. I gave him the idea, Celeste! I practically handed him the damn blueprint. And now he thinks he can go behind me? Behind us?”Celeste shifted uneasily in her seat across from him. She had been pacing before, but now she sat, her fingers interlaced tightly on her lap. Her usual calm, sultry composure was cracking under Teacher’s fury.“You don’t know for sure that.” she began softly, trying to soothe the situation.“Oh, don’t

The house was chaos. Plates smashed against the floor, the sharp crack of glass exploding across the tiled surface. Dante’s booming voice thundered through the walls, drowning out Martha’s pleading cries.“You think you can run this house? You think you can tell me what to do?” Fredy roared, overturning the dining table with a violent kick. The legs screeched against the floor before snapping, chairs toppling onto their sides.Martha was pressed against the wall, hands trembling as she tried to shield her face. “Fredy, please, calm down...”“Shut your mouth, woman!” He grabbed a vase and hurled it at the wall beside her head. The crash echoed like gunfire. “Everything in this house is mine! I bought it! I earned it! And I’ll destroy every last piece to show you who’s in charge!”The living room looked like a warzone with curtains torn down, sofa cushions ripped and scattered, shards of glass glittering on the floor like sharp stars.Just then, the front door creaked opened and young X

Xavier sat on the small bed, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the wall. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. Three whole days, No Mothe. No Fredy, as annoying as he could be. No home. Nothing.The door creaked open. A man’s voice: “Still not eating, huh?”Xavier didn’t reply.“You’ll starve yourself if you keep this up.”Silence.The man sighed. “Suit yourself.” The door shut again.Moments later, another creak. Lighter footsteps this time. Then a different voice called out to him.“Hey.”Xavier didn’t turn.“I’m talking to you.”Still No words from Xavier.“You deaf or just rude?”Xavier’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.The boy laughed. “Okay, so you’re rude. Cool. I like rude people.”Still no response.“Name’s Chris,” the boy continued. “I heard about you. The new kid who doesn’t talk. Everyone’s placing bets on how long you’ll last before you break. Wanna know my bet?”Silence.“I said three days. But it’s already been three. Damn. Guess I lost.”Xavier muttered under

The meeting spot was one of those upscale lounges where everything from the air conditioning to the silence was designed to make conversations heated.Xavier sat first, a glass of brandy untouched before him. His expression was composed, but the weight of anticipation hung around him. When the door finally opened, Teacher walked in, his gait slow and deliberate, the kind that came with age and power.He didn’t sit immediately. He stood there, studying Xavier like one would study a student who had disappointed them.“So,” Teacher finally said, his voice low but sharp, “the prodigy finally decides to explain himself.”Xavier looked up, his tone even. “I thought it was best we clear the air before this gets any more twisted than it already is.”Teacher chuckled without humor, then sat opposite him. “Twisted? My boy, what you did wasn’t twisted, it was very calculated. You went behind your partners’ backs to strike a deal we all discussed together. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.

The knock on Irene’s door was loud enough to make her drop the spoon she was stirring coffee with. She froze, her eyes darting toward the clock on the wall, it was past eight in the evening. Too late for visitors.The knock came again, sharper this time.Her stomach sank. She didn’t need to guess who it was. Only one person had that kind of arrogance. Irene took a deep breath, adjusted her robe, and walked toward the door. She didn’t bother peeking through the hole. When she opened it, there he was , Antonio Deluca, standing with one hand shoved casually into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette he hadn’t lit. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and though he wore his usual easy smirk, his eyes were restless.“Irene,” he said, drawing her name out like smoke. “You’re a hard woman to find these days.”She leaned against the doorframe, unmoved. “That’s the point, I don't want to be found.”Antonio’s smirk deepened. “Don’t be dramatic, woman. I didn’t come here to fight. I