POV: Logan The prison gate didn’t creak. It hummed. Low. Mechanical. Indifferent. Steel sliding over steel. The sound of something opening that had never cared whether it held monsters or men. The guards walked him out without speaking. He didn’t rush. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back. Handcuffs locked around his wrists. Cold metal against inked skin. The tattoos at his neck had faded slightly over the years, but they were still there — sharp lines disappearing beneath the collar of prison-issued gray. His shoulders were broader than when he went in. Prison had aged him, yes — carved deeper lines into his face — but it hadn’t weakened him. If anything, it had sharpened him. They led him into the white processing room. Too bright. Too sterile. Too artificial. He sat when told. Across the metal table, a senior officer adjusted his collar, trying not to stare. “Name.” The officer’s voice was steady. Barely. “Logan Walterson.” Not loud. Not aggressive. Just deliberate

POV: LOGAN The prison cell doors were closed behind him. But in his mind, Logan was already on the other side, waiting. He'd been through enough systems to know how everything worked — or at least, how to break it. His arrival in the holding area had gone as smoothly as expected, but now that he was free, the true game began. He sat in the back of the sleek black SUV, the sound of the engine humming a steady rhythm. Lucien sat across from him, calm and calculated, his eyes focused ahead as the city lights blurred by. Johnny was beside him, too quiet as usual. He wasn’t looking for a fight, not yet. But that didn’t mean his presence didn’t send an undercurrent of unease through the air. They weren’t just taking Logan out of the system. He was still tied to the consequences of his past. A legacy, a bloodline that had earned enemies for generations. “We’ll get him, you know.” Lucien’s voice was low, but Logan felt every word as though they were etched in stone. His father's plans we

POV: JohnnyJohnny didn’t go home immediately after leaving the Walterson mansion. He drove. No destination at first. Just the road stretching ahead of him while the city thinned into quieter streets. The night air was cold when he finally pulled over near a late-night diner. The place was almost empty — a truck parked outside, neon light buzzing softly above the door. He stepped inside. A waitress glanced up from behind the counter. “Coffee?” Johnny nodded. He took the booth near the window, the one where he could see the parking lot and the road beyond it. Old habit. He never liked sitting where his back faced the door. The coffee came quickly. He wrapped his hands around the mug but didn’t drink. His mind was still inside the mansion. Logan’s return had shifted something. Old Walterson had been calm — too calm. Lucien had been watching everything, saying very little, but Johnny knew that look. Lucien only got that quiet when he was already five steps ahead of everyon

Johnny didn’t waste time. By morning, he was already standing inside the Walter mansion. The air in the room felt heavier than usual. Not tense—just… settled. Like everyone already knew whatever he was about to say wouldn’t be good. Logan stood near the window, hands in his pockets, gaze distant but alert. Lucien leaned against the table, arms folded, watching Johnny closely. Old Walterson sat quietly, his presence alone commanding the room. Johnny stepped forward. “The technician is dead.”Silence followed. Not shock. Not surprise. Just confirmation. “They ruled it an accident,” Johnny continued. “But before he died, he realized something. His report never made it into the case log.” Lucien’s expression hardened slightly. “So it was pulled,” he said. Johnny nodded. “Before it even got there.” Logan’s jaw tightened. That meant only one thing. Someone wasn’t just reacting to the situation—they were controlling it. “External pressure,” Lucien muttered. “They’re cleaning

Too much baggage. Too much weight for one soul to carry for long. Sometimes I wonder… what would happen if I let go? If I finally free myself… release this imprisoned soul. Would I become the traitor? The bad egg? The one who tears the family apart?Maybe there’s no freedom for me. Maybe this is the punishment. For Martin. For Susan. The past clings like a shadow I can’t outrun. No matter how fast I move, it follows—whispering, reminding, suffocating. I exhale sharply in the backseat of the car, my fingers tightening against my thigh. The city lights blur past the window, but my mind is far from here… trapped somewhere I wish I could forget. I asked Mario to meet. A simple meeting. Neutral ground—at a restaurant. But no—he insisted. Dinner. His house. Of course. A faint, bitter smile tugs at my lips. Control. It has always been his game. The car slows to a stop. “We’ve arrived, sir,” the chauffeur says. I don’t respond immediately. Just one more breath… before stepping