Slept With An "Ex-convict Nobody" - A Hidden Trillionaire!

Chapter 2: Pretty drunk lady

The sky over Primus Industrial City shimmered in a palette of gold and tangerine as dusk began to kiss the glass towers. The city buzzed with expensive cars, soft jazz spilling out of rooftop lounges, neon lights stretching over luxury stores, and the glimmer of billions of dollars floating in motion. Here, wealth had a scent—cologne, burnt rubber, and champagne.

Amid this sensory feast strolled Ethan Northstrum, dressed in a simple black hoodie, slim-fit pants, and sneakers that had no brand. His gait was calm. His eyes, half-lidded, soaked in the sights like a poet rediscovering his muse.

No escorts. No cameras. No fanfare.

He had politely—though firmly—dismissed the president and his entire delegation. A man who could make or break nations from a frozen prison cell didn’t need noise. He just wanted to feel—the people, the city, the air.

“It’s been five years,” he murmured to himself as he stopped by a transparent water fountain, watching a flock of pigeons circle around its rim before fluttering away. The last time he walked a city street, he was a falsely convicted outcast. Now, he was… well, they called him AMEN—the Almighty Master Ethan Northstrum. 

He wandered into a cozy corner café and took a window seat. The smell of roasted coffee beans filled the air. A waitress served him a warm croissant and dark espresso. As he sipped slowly, the conversation near the next table caught his ear.

“Bro, you haven’t heard? The dude they call AMEN’s back!”

Ethan blinked slowly, his lips curling faintly.

“AMEN?” one of the men chuckled, “You mean that ghost story the streets talk about? Some demon-prisoner that took over Fort-tight?”

“Nah, not a story,” another said. “My cousin works at the Military Tower. Says the President himself bowed when this guy got off a chopper. Brought him a black card, a whole army behind him.”

“Pfft,” the first laughed. “Y’all crazy. I heard he’s like 7-foot tall and breathes fire. Some say he’s not even human, maybe an alien in disguise.”

“No no,” a woman joined in. “I heard he’s some disgraced nobleman. A silent killer. I even heard he can control minds!”

Ethan took another sip and chewed slowly, their words a comedy. A devil, a god, an alien—none saw the slim, shy-faced 27-year-old in front of them, his delicate features a mask for the storm within.

The funniest came from a barista, wiping the counter. “Amen’s a monster—huge, like a WWE champ. Crushes skulls with one hand.” 

Ethan nearly choked, his laugh silent. His lanky frame, barely 150 pounds, could’ve been snapped by a breeze in their minds. 

Yet Fort-tight’s hardest—mafia lords, murderers—had bowed to him. 

Humans, he thought, hadn’t changed: weaving legends from fear and awe.

He didn’t need to correct them. Let the world enjoy their myths.

The real Ethan Northstrum didn’t need smoke and mirrors. He was the mirror people feared to look into—the one that reflected their arrogance back at them before shattering it into dust.

---

Night fell, and Ethan found himself in the Electric Viper, a club pulsing with bass and neon, located in a small town on the outskirt of the city. 

Strobe lights sliced through the haze, dancers swaying on a glass floor, their silhouettes flickering like ghosts. 

He leaned against a bar counter, a whiskey tumbler in hand, its amber glow catching the light. The burn of alcohol was a quiet pleasure, a freedom Fort-tight denied.

Ethan sat alone at a table tucked in the far corner, nursing a glass of cognac with the patience of a monk.

His eyes scanned the crowd—tech moguls flashing gold watches, socialites in glittering gowns—until they landed on a woman alone at the bar’s far end. 

Her red gown hugged her curves, a Prada hat tilted low, matching shoes glinting, a Prada bag slung over her chair. 

Wealth dripped from her, each accessory screaming millions, but her slumped shoulders and fifth martini told a different story—grief, or loss, drowning in liquor.

Ethan studied her, his mind sharp despite the whiskey. 

No ring on her fingers—unmarried, then. Rich, alone, drinking herself numb. Trouble, he guessed, deep and personal. 

He considered approaching—five years in prison left him friendless outside his elite allies, and her solitude mirrored his own. 

His glass clinked as he set it down, but before he could move, two men loomed over her, their bulk casting shadows like they owned the air around her.. 

Leather vests, tattooed arms, gold chains glinting, teeth yellowed by years of arrogance—they reeked of trouble, their grins predatory. 

Ethan paused, his instincts honed in Fort-tight’s brutal yard, watching the scene unfold.

“Miss,” the taller one growled, his shaved head gleaming, “our boss wants you at his table.” 

He jerked a thumb toward a corner booth, where a man in a velvet suit lounged, eyes glinting like a snake’s. 

The woman, her gaze hazy, waved them off. “Piss off,” she slurred, her voice sharp despite the liquor. “Not interested.” 

The men exchanged glances, signaling their boss, who nodded, his smile tightening. 

They leaned closer, the shorter one—broad, with a scar across his cheek—sneering, “You’re coming, or we drag you.”

Now the tone changed.

He grabbed her wrist.

She slapped his hand away as he grabbed her arm, her nails raking his skin. “Touch me again, I’ll scream.” 

They laughed, low and cruel. “Scream, princess—who’s gonna care?” 

The tall one gestured at the crowd, and she turned, her eyes scanning. Faces averted, dancers kept moving, bar staff looked away—fear hung thick, the club’s pulse faltering. 

Ethan’s grip tightened on his glass, his blood simmering. 

The short man grabbed her again, harder, and she flung her martini in his face, the liquid dripping down his scar. 

The crowd’s laughter erupted, brief but sharp, until the tall one roared, “Shut the hell up!” 

And just like that, the club folded back into silence like a dog beaten too many times.

Back at Ethan’s table, a waitress approached with his next drink.

The waitress—Mela, her name tag read—slid a fresh whiskey to Ethan, her dark ponytail bouncing. 

He nodded at the scene. “Who are they?” 

Mela’s smile was tight, her eyes wary. “Don’t bother, sir. Nobody stops Cobra’s crew.” 

Ethan raised a brow, his voice calm. “Cobra?”

She sighed, leaning closer, her voice low. “I’m Mela, head waitress—five years here. Those guys? Cobra’s men, nephew of the Red Serpent Fraternity’s third-in-command. They roll into clubs, pick girls, harass them—nobody fights back.” 

Her gaze flicked to Ethan, sizing him up—his slim build, soft features, a pampered rich kid in her eyes. “You’re new, aren’t you? Stay out of it. You don’t look like you can take a punch, let alone throw one.”

Ethan’s lips curved, a quiet amusement. 

If she knew—Fort-tight’s mafia lords trembling, the warden his pawn, twelve challengers broken in under a minute—she’d choke on her words. Cobra’s crew wouldn’t last a day in that frozen hell. 

“Just curious,” he said, his tone light. “New in town, learning who to avoid.”

Mela relaxed, her smile warmer. “Smart. Cobra’s bad news—Red Serpent runs these streets. They take what they want.” 

Her words cut off as a scream pierced the club—the woman in red, now hoisted over the short man’s shoulder, kicking as the tall one cleared a path. 

Gasps rippled, other women shrieking, but the crowd stayed frozen, eyes averted. 

Mela spun, her tray clattering. “That’s what I mean—nobody stops them.”

Ethan was gone. Mela blinked, scanning the bar—his whiskey untouched, his seat empty. Her gaze darted to the club’s center, and her breath caught. 

Ethan stood before Cobra’s men, his lanky frame a frail barrier, the woman struggling in their grip. 

The tall man sneered, “Move, kid, or you’re next.” 

The woman’s eyes, wide with fear, met Ethan’s—pleading, desperate. 

Mela’s heart sank, her tray hitting the floor as she rushed forward, whispering, “He’s gonna get himself killed.”