I Died Loyal But Returned Lethal

Smoke, Suits And Ghosts

The suit didn’t feel like it fit. Not just the cloth, though it was tailored like armor and crisp like money. No, it was the weight of it. The smell. The clean cold feel of something that wasn’t earned by the hands wearing it. Excel adjusted the collar for the third time.

“You keep doing that,” Alaric said beside him in the limo, “and you’ll look like a nervous intern.”

Excel froze, then dropped his hands to his lap.

“You invited me,” he said, not looking at the old man.

“And I expect you not to embarrass me,” Alaric replied, sipping whiskey from a flask like it was water. “This isn’t family dinner. This is the war table.”

The city outside rushed past. Glass towers like knives against the sky. Excel stared at his reflection in the tinted window. He still didn’t recognize the face looking back. But the fire inside it? That was starting to look familiar.

“You’ll see everyone tonight,” Alaric continued. “CEOs, politicians, parasites in tuxedos. Eyes on you. So talk less. Watch more.”

Excel didn’t answer. His heart thudded heavy under the jacket. But his face stayed calm.

He was walking into a ballroom full of giants.

And one of them murdered him.

The gala was hosted at the Silverhurst Plaza, a place so expensive it made money smell better. Chandeliers that looked like falling stars. Music that came from nowhere but wrapped around you like perfume. Laughter in polished corners. Waiters moved like dancers.

People turned when Alaric entered. The whole room shifted like gravity had changed. Excel followed a step behind, his footsteps soft but steady.

"Is that Excel Winchester?" someone whispered.

"Didn’t he nearly die last winter?"

"He looks… different."

"I thought he was the sick one."

He kept his chin up. He didn’t blink.

Alaric moved through the crowd like a general inspecting soldiers. Hands shook. Smiles were exchanged. But behind every look was calculation.

Then Alaric stopped.

A tall man approached, drink in hand, tailored black suit sharp as a razor. Hair silver at the temples. Eyes cold. Smile wide.

“Alaric,” the man said, voice like oil and silk. “I thought you’d be retired by now.”

Alaric smirked. “And I thought you’d be arrested by now, Victor.”

Victor Hayworth laughed. Loud. Like they were old friends trading harmless jabs. He looked younger than his age — well-fed, powerful. The kind of man who never cleaned his own mess.

“This,” Alaric said, putting a hand on Excel’s back, “is my grandson. Excel.”

Victor turned.

And Excel nearly stopped breathing.

He knew that face.

That smirk.

That voice.

He heard it the night he died. Cold. Calm. Efficient.

“Clean it up. No loose ends.”

Excel forced himself to extend a hand.

Victor took it.

“Well now,” Victor said, shaking slowly. “The infamous Winchester heir. I’ve heard rumors.”

“I’m real,” Excel replied, voice steady.

Victor chuckled. “And so alive, too. A miracle.”

Excel’s fingers twitched in Victor’s grip. He smiled tightly.

Alaric turned to Victor again. “What happened to your old business mascot? That delivery boy. What was his name…”

Excel froze.

Victor frowned. “You mean the one at Titan?”

“Yeah, yeah. Nathan something.” Victor sipped his drink. “Poor bastard. Too loyal for his own good.”

Excel's nails dug into his palm.

Victor kept going.

“I liked him. Quiet. Obedient. Never asked questions. Died like a dog in a ditch, I heard.”

Excel’s stomach turned. His lips parted slightly. He swallowed the scream climbing up his throat. He could hear blood rushing in his ears. The ballroom faded to a blur.

Victor laughed again, unaware of the bomb standing inches away.

“Well, what can you do?” Alaric said, raising his glass. “The world eats the weak.”

Excel’s jaw locked. His hand trembled slightly at his side. He stepped back before he could react, before the rage slipped through his teeth.

Alaric noticed.

“You alright?” he asked.

Excel blinked. Nodded.

“Too much champagne.”

Later, Excel stood alone on the balcony. The city lights below looked like stars that had lost their way. He gripped the railing, fingers white.

He was here.

He was alive.

And Victor Hayworth had no idea.

He didn’t just approve the kill. He mocked it. Laughed over it. Spit on the memory like Nathan Gray had been just another piece of office trash.

“I should’ve torn his throat out,” Excel muttered.

But that wouldn’t do.

That would be mercy.

Back inside, people whispered.

Sebastian was watching again from a corner table. Two others leaned in toward him, chuckling.

 “That kid used to faint at the sight of blood.”

“Now he’s charming CEOs?”

“It’s all staged. Bet he’s on meds.”

Excel walked past them without a glance.

Victor was now speaking with a senator. Excel watched him. Studied him. Every gesture. Every pause.

He would burn this man down.

And do it smiling.

Back at the mansion, hours later, Excel sat alone in his room. The suit was tossed over the chair. His shirt still smelled like cigars and fake charm.

The phone buzzed.

He reached for it like a reflex.

ELEVATOR // NEW CLUE

“First enemy confirmed.

Victor Hayworth — authorized your execution.

Watch his left hand. He writes lies with it.”

Excel read it twice. Then again.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

He whispered to the dark,

 “I will make you remember my name.”

Then he turned off the light.

And planned.