They appeared in the basement of Draven’s estate, the air thick with a cold, metallic stillness that seemed to cling to the walls and settle into the lungs. The faint hum of electricity lingered in the background, low and constant, like a quiet warning that something terrible had already begun and was far from over. At the center of the room sat Dominic, bound to an electric chair with heavy restraints that dug into his wrists and ankles. His body slumped slightly forward, his head tilted to one side as though the weight of his own sins had finally dragged him down into unconsciousness. The dim light above flickered once, then steadied, casting harsh shadows across his face. Bruises marked his skin, faint but visible, evidence of a struggle that had not gone in his favor. Kylen stood a few steps away, his gaze fixed on Dominic with a darkness that ran deeper than anger. His expression remained controlled, but his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “In the eyes of the citizens he is

Draven snapped his fingers, and in an instant Dominic appeared in Abigail’s room. The transition was seamless, yet everything shifted. The tiled floor beneath them changed into the cold, hardened surface of the basement. The air itself felt heavier, thicker, charged with something unseen. Kylen appeared alongside him, followed by the soldiers, their presence filling the space with quiet force. The soldiers did not react with surprise. They adjusted immediately, their posture straightening as if responding to an unspoken command etched into their very being. “Sir!!!” Their voices rang in unison as they saluted Draven, their movements sharp and impeccably disciplined. Abigail’s jaw dropped. Her eyes moved from one soldier to another, then back to Draven, disbelief washing over her face. “What the…?” she whispered under her breath. Soldiers of this number calling her father sir? It did not fit into anything she knew about him. Draven had always been powerful, always influential

Dominic tried to speak, but his lips refused to part. His jaw remained stiff, locked in place, as though his own body had turned against him. A strained sound escaped his throat, nothing more than a broken murmur, his eyes blinking rapidly in frustration. Draven watched him for a moment, then exhaled lightly. “My bad,” he said, almost casually, as if he had only just remembered. With a snap of his fingers, the invisible hold loosened. Control returned to Dominic all at once, and with it came the full weight of his condition. His body slumped backward into the chair, his limbs hanging awkwardly. His lower jaw had shifted out of place, leaving his mouth half open in a painful angle that made even the simplest movement unbearable. Dominic sucked in a sharp breath. “I… don’t know anything,” he managed, each word dragging painfully through his mouth, each attempt at speech sending waves of agony through his jaw. Draven tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Tsk tsk

“Hello, sir!” Mrs. Elara’s voice carried across the garden, cutting through the stillness that had settled there. Draven did not respond immediately. After leaving Abigail’s room, he had come straight to the gym area, needing space, needing distance from everything that had just unfolded. But even here, the quiet did little to calm what burned beneath the surface. His thoughts were anything but still. They circled one name. "Veyron." The urge came again, clawing at the edges of his control. If it were possible, he would drag Veyron back from the dead just to end him again. Not once. Not quickly. But over and over until nothing remained. The thought alone brought no satisfaction, only a deeper, darker hunger. What Veyron had done to Anna refused to leave his mind. The fact that Dragna and Dominic spoke about it, they too saw Anna in that position. It was not enough that Veyron was dead. Not enough that his body had been buried. It felt incomplete, unfinished, as thou

Midas’s new villa sat at the center of a vast estate that stretched endlessly across the heart of Acaryn, land that belonged entirely to him, land built to reflect his power, his wealth, and the fear he had planted into those beneath him. Every inch of the estate was guarded, every path watched, every entry sealed with layers of security designed to keep threats out and authority intact. Yet despite all of that, despite the armed men stationed across the compound and the systems meant to detect even the slightest intrusion, Draven’s convoy had already arrived and not a single soul within the estate had noticed. The line of army vans and the Rolls Royce Phantom rested just beyond the entrance of the villa like a ghostly procession, invisible to every eye that should have detected them. Draven’s soldiers remained in formation, their posture straight, their grip on their weapons firm, their focus sharp as they awaited the signal that would turn silence into chaos. Inside the Phanto