The night in São Paulo was an open wound of neon lights, flickering to the horizon like the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. From up high, from the 43rd floor of Aurora Holdings, any metropolis looked like a child's toy — fragile, manipulable, insignificant. Roman Kael leaned against the cold glass of the balcony, a glass of pure whiskey in his right hand, his tie loose and the first three buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the hard outline of a chest marked by old scars. The icy air conditioning of the office contrasted with the humid heat rising from the asphalt below, but he felt neither.
He hadn't felt anything for a long time.
The penthouse was a monument to excess: Italian mahogany furniture that cost more than the apartment where he grew up, a black grand piano he hadn't touched in months, Persian rugs that held the weight of millions of reais in silk threads. But Roman looked at none of it. His dark eyes — the same eyes a three-year-old girl had inherited without knowing — were fixed on his own reflection in the glass. The deep shadows carved beneath his orbits, his jaw clenched hard enough to crack his teeth, the invisible scars that no scalpel or fortune could erase.
Four years. Four years since his life had collapsed like a house of cards on a windy day.
The whiskey in his glass swayed slightly as he moved his hand to drink. The amber liquid burned his throat, but the fire was comfortable — a familiar pain amidst the void. He was about to turn the glass again when the air in front of him changed.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a light.
It was pressure. As if the oxygen around his head had been sucked out and replaced by something dense, metallic, alive. Roman felt his teeth ache, a sharp buzz piercing his eardrums, and then...
"Welcome back, heir."
The voice came from nowhere. It wasn't a whisper. It was a direct injection into his cerebral cortex — as crystalline as a bell's chime, but as intrusive as a needle in his temple. Roman dropped the glass. It shattered against the marble floor, spreading whiskey and shards like a small explosion of amber and glass. He didn't care.
Before him, in the empty air, a translucent blue screen began to materialize. It wasn't a holographic projection — there were no projectors on the ceiling, no lasers, no technological tricks he knew. It was pure information floating in space, pulsing in shades of cobalt and silver, as if the universe had decided to open a window just for him.
SHADOW SYSTEM — Version 2.0 activated.
Influence Points: 0
Loyalty Points: 0
Status: Heir of the Night Clan (no territory).
Current Mission: None.
Roman ran his hand over the screen. His fingers passed through the projection as if touching smoke, and a tingling sensation spread across his skin, traveling from his arm to the nape of his neck. He let out a sound — not a laugh, not a sigh, but something between the two, hoarse and disbelieving.
"A system. Of course." His voice came out deeper than he expected. "Four years breaking my head to reach the top, and now a video game screen appears to tell me I'm an heir."
Skepticism was his armor. It always had been. But deep down, a spark ignited. He had felt something change that morning, when he woke up with a chill down his spine and the absolute certainty that the day would not be ordinary. Fate had turned the key. And Roman Kael, even if he didn't want to admit it, was ready to see what was on the other side.
The screen blinked again. This time, the name appeared in blood-red, thick as arterial ink:
PRIMARY TARGET — LARA MONTEIRO (former partner).
Status: ALLY of the Red Clan.
Threat level: LOW.
Recommendation: Neutralize or Convert.
Roman froze.
Lara.
The name was a trigger fired at the bottom of the darkest well of his mind. In less than a second, the present dissolved, and he was thrown back to that tiny apartment on the outskirts of Guarulhos. He could smell the mold on the walls, the sour smell of cheap cachaça that permeated the torn sofa, the moisture that dripped from the ceiling on rainy days. He could feel the weight of his own feverish body, numb limbs from withdrawal, his mouth dry as cardboard.
He saw himself sitting on that sofa, body trembling, a glass bottle in his right hand. His mother had died the week before — cancer, fast, brutal, leaving no time for goodbyes. He had been fired from his third company that same year. He had no more money for rent, no more strength to fight, nothing left but the bottom of a bottle and the echo of his own failures.
And then, she was there.
Lara. Standing at the apartment door, a red suitcase in her trembling hands. Pregnant at five months — he only found out much later, when the pain had already become a scar. At that moment, she was just a silhouette against the dim light of the hallway, her brown eyes that once shone with love now empty. Tired. Resigned.
"Roman, I can't take it anymore." Her voice in the memory was a dagger twisting in his chest. "You don't eat, you don't sleep, you just drink. The baby is going to be born, and you can't even support yourself."
He tried to get up. His body didn't respond. His weak, feverish drunkard's legs folded like wet paper. He reached out his hand, the bottle falling to the floor and spilling cachaça across the filthy carpet.
"Lara, wait..." His voice back then was a hoarse, pathetic whisper. "I'll get better. I promise. Just give me one more week."
She shook her head. Two tears rolled down her face, but they were quick, as if she had rehearsed them. She looked at her belly, then at him, and the last spark of hesitation died out.
"Rafael offered me a roof. A life. And I'm going to accept."
The door slammed. The sound was dry, definitive, like a mercy shot.
The silence that followed was so heavy that Roman almost drowned in it. He stayed there, lying on the floor soaked in cachaça and tears, until dawn. And that morning, when the sun came through the dirty window, he made a promise to himself:
"Never again."
---
The glass door of the office opened with a soft click, and Roman was pulled back to the present like a drowning man being dragged to the surface.
Vera entered. As always, without knocking.
She was 38, but looked older with that impeccable gray bun, silver threads escaping from the sides like strands of an ancient map. Her reading glasses hung from her neck on a silver chain, and her impeccable dark gray pantsuit hid a thin, angular body. On her feet, orthopedic shoes — she never wore heels, and once, when an intern asked why, she replied with a look that made the boy resign the next day: "Because I don't need to prove anything to anyone, least of all to my spine."
In her left hand, a cup of black coffee. In her right, a tablet. Her face was a mask of impassivity, but her eagle eyes — the eyes of a former federal police officer who had seen things most people only dreamed of — missed no detail.
"Sir, your new 'technological toy' is blinking." Vera placed the coffee on his desk with a dry, almost military movement. Her eyes scanned the floor, the glass shards and spilled whiskey, but she made no comment. "And speaking of irritating things, a certain Rafael Monteiro called fifteen times in the last two hours. Fifteen, sir. Counting the last one, as I walked in."
Roman took the coffee and drank a sip. The bitterness burned his tongue, and the contrast with the whiskey still present in the back of his throat created an unpleasant mixture. He swallowed, letting the sensation dissipate, and replied with a neutral voice:
"Monteiro."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement, as if he were savoring the name for the first time.
Vera raised an eyebrow — a millimeter movement that, in anyone else, would go unnoticed. But Vera was not anyone else. She adjusted her glasses on her neck — a tic Roman had learned to decode. It meant: "I'm calculating every word I'm about to say."
"Yes, sir. From Monte Verde Construction." She paused, deliberate. "The one that's on the brink of bankruptcy. From the call history, it seems the man discovered that Aurora Holdings bought his bank debt." Another pause. "He's in panic."
Roman didn't respond immediately. He turned his face back to the window, to the city below, and tasted the whiskey still in his mouth. Four years. Four years building this empire with his own hands, deal by deal, blood by blood. Brick by brick. Debt by debt. How many people had he crushed on the way to the top? How many companies had he bought, dismantled, and sold for parts? How many sleepless nights had he spent planning the next move, the next strike, the next humiliation?
Everything. Every second, every cent, every drop of sweat and blood — all of it had led him to this moment. To the instant when the man who stole his woman, who gave his name to his daughter, was at Roman's fingertips, begging for scraps.
"Schedule a dinner." The order came out dry, without inflection. His voice was steel. "Le Noir. Tomorrow. 8 PM."
Vera didn't hesitate. Her fingers were already dancing over the tablet, recording the appointment. But when she finished, she didn't leave immediately. Her eyes scanned Roman's profile — the clenched jaw, the tense temples, the way he avoided his reflection in the glass.
"Sir..." She began, and the pause that followed was filled only by the hum of the air conditioning. "Rafael Monteiro insisted on bringing his wife."
She let the information hang in the air like bait.
Roman didn't move. But his fingers, resting on the mahogany desk, clenched for a fraction of a second before relaxing. The movement was quick, almost imperceptible. But Vera saw it.
"He mentioned her name." Vera continued, and now there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes — something she rarely let slip. "Lara. Should I confirm both their presences?"
The silence stretched for three heartbeats.
Roman felt the pressure in his skull again — the system, pulsing somewhere in his consciousness, waiting for his answer. The blue screen blinked, and he could have sworn Vera looked at the exact spot where the projection was, as if she sensed something.
"Confirm." The word came out hoarse, almost a grunt. "And Vera..."
"Sir?"
"Does she know who I am?"
The question was unexpected. Roman could see Vera's brain moving behind those gray eyes, processing the tone of his voice, the stiffness of his shoulders, the way he avoided direct eye contact. She reached a silent conclusion, but her face remained a professional mask.
"From Rafael's tone of voice, he acts as if you're a stranger. An arrogant nouveau riche who bought his debt." She tilted her head, an almost imperceptible gesture. "His wife made no mention of knowing you personally. But, curiously... he didn't mention that you've met before. Nor that you have a past she might know."
The blow was precise.
Roman finally turned his face to look at her. There was no threat in his eyes — there was nothing, except a coldness that chilled the temperature of the room. Vera knew that look. It was the look he used before destroying someone.
But she didn't back down. Vera never backed down.
"Sir, I'm just observing." She stepped back, but the firmness in her voice didn't waver. "The fact that the husband doesn't know about his wife's past with you is... a relevant piece of data. Nothing more."
Roman stared at her for another long second. Then, his features relaxed — not into a smile, but into something more dangerous: acceptance.
"Good work, Vera." He picked up the coffee and drank another sip. "Now, prepare the car for tomorrow. And tell the chef at Le Noir that I want the mushroom risotto on the menu."
Vera blinked. The information caught her off guard — a rare move.
"Mushroom risotto, sir?"
"Yes." Roman placed the cup back on the desk with a dry click. "It's her favorite dish."
She didn't ask further. Vera was a professional. She simply noted it down, turned, and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Roman was alone.
The whiskey on the floor had already formed a sticky puddle, and the glass shards gleamed under the cold office light. But he didn't look at them. He walked to the mahogany desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out an old phone — a cheap button phone he kept as a relic from his past life.
On the cracked screen, a photo. A dark-haired woman holding a toddler on her lap. The child had bright eyes — so much like his that it hurt his chest.
"Mia." The name came out like a prayer, or a curse.
The system blinked at the edge of his vision.
Influence Points: +10 (preparation for imminent confrontation).
Current Mission: "The Dinner" — Humiliate the enemy and reclaim what is yours.
Roman put the phone back in the drawer and closed it firmly.
Reclaim. What an interesting word.
He didn't want to reclaim. He wanted Lara to look at him that night and see exactly what she had lost. He wanted every sip of champagne, every bite of that risotto, every second of awkward silence to be a mirror in her face.
He wanted her to wake up the next day and know, with absolute certainty, that the man she had stepped on had become a god.
Roman looked at his reflection in the glass. The city below glittered, indifferent to the storm brewing in that office on the 43rd floor.
He smiled.
It wasn't a smile of happiness. It was the smile of a predator who, after four years of fasting, finally smelled blood.
Tomorrow, the ghost of the past would have dinner with him.
And unlike four years ago, this time Roman Kael was not a fallen man.
He was the hunter.
2026-06-21 21:10:22
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