BLACK LEDGER

4

Kellan slammed the black phone onto the marble table with a restrained violence. The sound of the impact echoed through the silence of the penthouse unit, which felt far too vast for a single person. He had only just woken up, but his breath was already ragged, as if he had just finished a ten-mile sprint through muddy trenches.

On the glowing screen, a CCTV angle displayed the front gate of his house. The house he had bought with the bonus from his first mission—the house where he was supposed to grow old.

A black SUV was parked there. It belonged to Dwayne Philips.

"Bastard," Kellan hissed. His hands, covered in scars from parachute cord friction, fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette—a habit he had actually quit since joining the Raptor Unit. Empty. All he found were the keys to a Rolls-Royce that felt foreign between his fingers.

He looked back at the screen. The front door opened. Gina stepped out, wearing a thin nightgown layered under an oversized knit cardigan. She looked... broken. Her hair, which usually smelled of jasmine and stayed perfectly styled, was now thrown into a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes were visible even through the low-resolution camera.

Gina carried a single trash bag, but she didn't throw it away immediately. She stood at the fence, staring vacantly at the asphalt road as if she were waiting for a miracle—for a military truck to stop and drop off the husband who was supposed to be dead.

"Don't cry, Gina. Not in front of that prick," Kellan muttered. His fingertips touched the screen, stroking the blurred image of his wife's face.

Then, Dwayne stepped out of the car. He didn't approach immediately. He stood there, adjusting his glasses, watching Gina with the kind of gaze that made Kellan’s stomach turn. It wasn't the grieving look of a friend; it was the look of a collector waiting for his prize to fall into his hands.

Dwayne stepped forward, placing a hand on Gina’s shoulder. It looked natural. Far too natural for someone whose best friend had been dead for only two weeks.

Kellan kicked the leather chair in front of him until it toppled over. His rage surged, tightening his chest until it was hard to breathe. His instincts screamed one thing: grab a weapon, go there, and put a hole in Dwayne’s head. But Sydney’s voice replayed in his mind like a broken record.

"Show up now, and you're just a walking corpse heading for a military prison."

Kellan turned, walked into the bathroom, and twisted the cold water tap. He splashed his face repeatedly, trying to kill the emotional Kellan Draik and revive the cold Sebastian Crowe.

---

An hour later, Sebastian Crowe stepped out of the lobby elevator at Ares Capital. The tremors in his hands were gone. His face was as cold as a headstone.

Vane, the assistant provided by Sydney, was already waiting by the car door with a tablet in hand. "The meeting with the harbor board of directors is in ten minutes, Mr. Crowe. They aren't happy with our acquisition move."

"Good," Kellan replied as he stepped into the cabin that smelled of fresh leather. "I didn't come here to make them happy."

During the drive to the industrial port, Kellan didn't look at the documents. His eyes stared out the window, observing every logistics truck that passed. Some of them bore the fading logo of McKenn Logistics.

Gina’s company was dying, and he knew exactly who was squeezing its neck: Paulo.

The harbor smelled of fish, oil, and sweat. When Kellan stepped out of the car, several tattooed dockworkers stared at him suspiciously. A man in an expensive suit like him was usually easy prey for extortion here.

Kellan ignored them. His stride remained steady—the kind of walk belonging only to a man used to traversing minefields.

The board meeting room was located in an old building where the smell of cigarettes clung to the walls. Five old men with greasy faces sat around a long wooden table. In their midst sat a man with a stitched scar on his chin—Andy, Paulo’s enforcer on the ground.

"So this is him," Andy said, lighting a cigar and blowing smoke toward Kellan. "The rich guy from nowhere who thinks he can buy Pier Seven."

Kellan didn't sit. He stood at the end of the table, looking at them one by one. "I’m not buying it. I’m simply taking what you should have handed over since the bank declared you in default last month."

"We have protection from Iron Fist Shipping," one of the directors said, his voice trembling.

"Protection?" Kellan gave a short laugh—dry and dangerous. "You call it protection; I call it extortion. Paulo is choking your distribution lines to drive the value down so he can buy it for pennies. I’m offering a fair price. But it only lasts until nine o’clock this morning."

Andy stood up, his large frame attempting to intimidate Kellan. "Do you have any idea who you're fighting? We aren't stock market players you can bluff with numbers."

Andy stepped closer, reaching out to grab Kellan’s lapel.

In a move almost too fast for the eye to follow, Kellan caught Andy’s wrist and wrenched it behind his back. Crack. The sound of a shifting joint was followed by Andy’s stifled scream. Kellan slammed the man’s face down onto the hard conference table.

"Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me," Kellan hissed directly into Andy’s ear. His voice was low, laden with the weight of a very real death threat. "I know you were a mercenary in Libya. I also know you ran when your unit was slaughtered in Tripoli. Do you want me to send you back there in a wooden box?"

The entire room froze. The directors turned pale. They realized one thing: the man in the suit before them wasn't a businessman. He was something much more terrifying.

Kellan released Andy, who slumped back into his seat clutching his limp hand. Kellan straightened his jacket as if nothing had happened.

"Vane, give them the contract," Kellan commanded.

After the contract was signed by the trembling hands of the directors, Kellan walked out. He didn't care about Andy’s curses. His mind was already back on that black phone screen.

---

That night, Kellan returned to the penthouse. Instead of sleeping, he sat on the floor of the dark living room, illuminated only by the glow of the phone.

He watched a recording from two hours ago.

Dwayne was still there. He was helping Leo, Kellan’s son, ride his bike in the yard. Leo was laughing—that small laugh that used to be Kellan’s remedy for exhaustion every time he returned from duty. But now, that laugh was being given to another man.

Dwayne crouched down, ruffling Leo’s hair with an affection that looked... sincere. And that was what hurt Kellan the most. If Dwayne were a cruel villain, it would be easier for Kellan to hate him. But Dwayne was playing the role of "Substitute Father" perfectly.

Then Gina came out carrying a tray of drinks. She smiled at Dwayne. A thin smile, full of gratitude.

Kellan felt something snap inside him. He threw the phone onto the sofa and walked toward the balcony. The night air bit at his skin, but he didn't care.

He looked toward the flickering city lights. Out there, his world was being taken over by someone else. His wife, his child, his home. Everything was slowly erasing the name Kellan Draik and replacing it with Dwayne Philips.

"Two years," Kellan whispered into the darkness. "Sydney said I have to wait two years."

He clenched his fists until his knuckles were white.

"No. I won't wait two years to watch him sleep in my bed."

Kellan walked back inside, grabbed his laptop, and began opening the data Vane had provided regarding Dwayne’s personal assets. If he couldn't touch Dwayne physically right now, he would hit him through the thing Dwayne loved most besides power: money.

"You want to be the hero for my wife, Dwayne?" Kellan smirked cruelly, his eyes glinting in the shadows. "Let’s see how long you can last when every one of your construction companies goes bankrupt, one by one."