I Died Loyal But Returned Lethal

What Clues Had To Offer

Excel didn’t sleep that night. Not because he was afraid, not really. It was something else. Something like rage but quieter, thicker. Like oil in his blood. It moved through him in slow waves, kept him up even after the noise of the gala had died in his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, hands clenched like they were trying to squeeze something invisible.

Victor Hayworth’s voice kept echoing in his skull. That smile, those words. "Died like a dog in a ditch."

Excel’s jaw locked again. He had clenched it so long it ached now. His teeth felt like they’d fused. His fingers twitched. He could still feel the ghost of Victor's handshake. Still warm. Still smug. Still clean. So clean. Like nothing had ever bled beneath those nails. Like nothing ever touched him but silk and power and sin hidden behind legal papers.

He stood up too fast and nearly tripped. His knees didn’t want to work right. The world tilted sideways and then settled. He paced. Back and forth. The carpet whispered beneath his bare feet. He didn’t look in the mirror. He couldn’t. Not yet.

The phone buzzed. The elevator clue was still there.

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

Excel didn’t even know what that meant. It pissed him off more than anything else.

He slammed his hand on the table. A sharp knock. The vase on the corner jumped and then fell. Shattered. Glass like tears across the wood. No one came running. This house never reacted to noise. Not unless it came from someone important.

Sunlight hit the curtains in broken streaks. Time had slipped.

He didn’t change out of his wrinkled shirt. He just grabbed a blazer from the armchair, shoved his arms in, and stormed down the hallway.

Alaric Winchester’s study was dark, even in daylight. The curtains were drawn halfway and dust floated in the light like secrets. The room smelled like paper and old brandy. Books that hadn’t been opened in years sat behind glass. Excel didn’t knock.

Alaric sat behind a desk too large for one man, sipping something dark and bitter. His eyes flicked up, sharp as razors.

"You’re not dead yet," the old man said.

"Disappointed?"

Alaric raised a brow. That almost counted as a smile. "Mildly."

Excel stepped forward. His hands trembled a little, so he shoved them into his pockets.

"Why do you smile with him?" Excel said.

Alaric didn’t blink. "Be specific."

"Victor Hayworth. You smiled at him last night like he didn’t order the death of everything you stand for."

Alaric sipped again. Took his time. Let the silence crawl.

"Because," he said, finally, "he is not worthy of hate."

Excel’s lips snapped shut.

Alaric stood. Moved to the window. Looked out like he was watching ghosts battle in the garden.

"Men like Victor think themselves wolves. But they forget that wolves don’t own the forest. They’re just another mouth in it."

Excel stepped forward. His nails dug into his palms. "You act like he doesn’t matter."

"He doesn’t."

"He matters to me."

Alaric turned. His face was tired now. Not old, just tired. Worn like stone.

"Then you're still thinking like prey."

Excel winced. He hated that word. Prey.

"You think power is loud?" Alaric asked. "Power is patience. Power smiles while its enemies speak. Power waits while they grow bold. Power holds the blade and lets them walk into it."

Excel stared. His throat felt dry.

"Victor Hayworth," Alaric said slowly, "is not a rival. He is a ripple in a river that will drown him. I don’t fight men like Victor. I forget them."

Excel swallowed.

"Then why did he kill someone like me?"

Alaric paused. That was the first crack.

"Maybe," he said, "because you mattered more than you think."

Excel left the study shaking. Not from fear. Not from anger either. Something else. Like standing too close to a storm that hadn’t started yet. He walked down the hall, past oil paintings of men who'd built empires. None of them smiled.

He stopped at a room near the far end. No one used it anymore. He stepped inside. The air was cold. Dust danced in the light.

He sat on the floor. The phone buzzed again.

"One truth lies beneath the left hand’s ink."

He opened the old file he’d stolen weeks ago from the archive. It was faded. A shipment record. Titan Logistics. Signed with a left-hand stroke. Slanted odd. He flipped through more. Another one. Signed differently. Two signatures. One man. One lie.

Victor was hiding something. Signing deals under a different name maybe. Fake shell company? He couldn’t be sure yet. But this was the thread.

His fingers gripped the edge of the paper too tight. It tore. He didn’t care.

He came back to his room just as Sarah knocked. She didn’t wait. Just entered.

"You looked pale," she said.

"I feel fine."

"No. You don’t."

She moved closer. Sat beside him on the bed. Her perfume was soft, like jasmine.

"You were staring at Victor like you wanted to burn the room down."

"Maybe I did."

Sarah sighed. Her hand touched his. He flinched. Then let her.

"That kind of fire will eat you before it warms you."

"Then let it."

She stared at him. Long. Quiet.

"You’re not the same," she whispered. "You don’t walk like you used to. You don’t speak like you used to."

Excel met her eyes.

"Maybe I died."

Sarah didn’t answer. She stood. Her hand lingered on his shoulder.

"If you did... then whoever came back, I hope he remembers who loves him."

Night fell. The city outside blinked with lights like dying stars. Excel stood on the balcony. Cold wind against his face. He watched the streets below like they were veins in a dying beast.

The phone buzzed again.

ELEVATOR // UPDATE

"Left hand = cover name. Find: Vitric Holdings. Shell company tied to Victor. Hidden under cross-border contracts."

Excel read it twice.

Then again.

He whispered to himself.

"Victor Hayworth. You left the door open. And I’m not just walking in. I’m setting fire to your house."

He didn’t sleep that night either.