—In the past—

The VIP club breathes behind the doors—a living thing of bass and neon, pulsing in the dark like a second heart. The walls hum with each beat, spilling electric blue and deep pink through the open doorway, washing the pavement in smooth, shifting color.

The city beyond is quieter. Controlled. Streetlights glow in soft gold, reflecting off polished cars and clean pavement. Everything moves without rush, without noise—like the night itself knows its place.

Ken steps out of the club.

He stretches his arms toward the sky, slow and lazy, like a cat claiming its territory. A smirk curls on his lips—familiar, well-practiced. The expression of someone who has never been told no.

Behind him, footsteps follow. Casual. Comfortable.

"So, Mr. Ken." The man’s voice is light, teasing. "Do you like X Country?"

Ken glances back. The smirk widens, curling at the edges like smoke.

"Yeah. It’s impressive." His gaze sweeps the street—the trees lining the pavement, their leaves catching the glow of distant streetlamps, the hills dark against the indigo sky, the warm air wrapping around them like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

"Better than Crystal Country, honestly. Over there, it’s always cold. Even in summer, the air bites. Winter lasts forever—the sun barely rises, and when it does, it feels like an apology."

He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with warmth.

"But here?" A faint tilt of his head. "The air is warm. Fresher. And this country is... green."

He nods once, satisfied.

"I’m glad I agreed to Dad’s decision. Joining the business here..." He exhales softly. "It’s good. I like it."

The man steps forward. His hand lands on Ken’s shoulder—easy, familiar. The kind of touch that comes without thinking.

"I’m glad you like it." A pause. "So—where to?"

Ken’s eyes glint. He winks—slow, deliberate. "Where do you want me to take you, Mr. Cass?"

Cass laughs. The sound is warm, unpolished—nothing like the rehearsed laughter of Ken’s world.

"Hey, we’re friends. Stop calling me Mr."

Ken tilts his head. "Look who started first."

"Fine." Cass shakes his head, still smiling. "Let’s go somewhere to eat. I’m starving."

Ken nods. "Let’s go. I brought my sports car."

Cass whistles low, appreciative. "Oh... you’re a completely spoiled rich kid, aren’t you?"

Ken unlocks his car. The expensive sports car responds with a soft, obedient click—lights flashing once, twice, like it’s winking at the night. He opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat. The leather soft beneath him, settling around his body like a second skin.

"Spoiled kid?" He glances at Cass as the other man settles into the passenger seat. "I’ve seen worse. My cousin, for one."

Cass’s expression shifts—curiosity flickering behind his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

The car rolls forward. Smooth. Silent. The city glides past the windows in streaks of gold and red.

Ken’s smirk sharpens. Bitter at the edges—like something left too long in the sun.

"Spoiled rich kid..." He repeats it slowly, tasting the words. "Reminds me of someone I hate."

Cass blinks. "Is that so."

Ken’s eyes stay fixed on the road. Streetlights slide across his face—gold, then shadow, then gold again.

"I have a cousin." His voice drops—quiet. Almost conversational, but not quite. Like he’s speaking to himself and only letting Cass overhear. "He’s irritating. I can’t stand being around him. He acts like he doesn’t care—about anything. No matter what happens, his face stays calm."

His jaw tightens. A muscle flickers near his temple. "And I hate that calm expression."

Cass blinks again—slower this time, processing.

Ken glances at him.

"Do you know?" A short laugh—hollow. "He likes doing nothing. Even his own family is fed up with him."

Ken laughs. Cass laughs too. Then—

Headlights flash. Bright. Sudden. Cutting through the dark. Ken’s eyes snap forward.

"Shit—"

His foot slams the brake. The car jerks—tires screaming against the asphalt. Cass grabs the dashboard, breath sharp. "God... we almost died."

Ken’s face twists. His fists tighten on the wheel—knuckles white, veins rising beneath his skin. He stares at the car ahead.

Black. Sleek. Expensive. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

The kind of car that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind that simply exists—and expects the road to move for it.

"Who’s the bastard who doesn’t know how to drive?"

He shoves the door open. Steps out. The night air hits his face—cool, or maybe that’s just his blood turning cold. Cass follows. Hesitant. His footsteps uncertain on the asphalt.

The other car’s driver steps out. Young. Professional. His posture is stiff—rehearsed, controlled.

Ken closes the distance in seconds. Grabs his collar. Yanks him forward. "You bastard." His voice is low, dangerous. "Don’t you know how to drive?"

Cass reaches for his arm. "Ken. Calm down—"

The driver doesn’t flinch. His face remains still. His voice steady. "Let go of me." A beat. "You’re the one driving on the wrong side."

"I do whatever I want." Ken’s grip tightens, twisting the fabric. "Where’s your boss?"

"Let go—"

The other car’s passenger door opens.

A man steps out. Perfect posture. Perfect suit. He adjusts his glasses—slow, deliberate. The lenses catch the light, hiding his eyes.

"Using violence isn’t wise, Mr...?" A slight tilt of his head. "You must be new here. You don’t seem to understand how things work in X Country."

Ken looks at him, unimpressed. "Do you know how expensive my car is? What if it’s damaged?"

Cass grips Ken’s arm, pulling. "Ken. Let’s go. We should just—"

"No." Ken’s voice hardens. "They haven’t even apologized. I want one."

The driver struggles in his grip. "I told you—let go—"

The man in the suit steps forward. Measured. Precise. "The fault isn’t one-sided." A beat. "I suggest you watch your words... before you invite trouble you can’t handle."

Ken laughs. Short. Sharp. The sound of someone who has never faced real consequences.

"Oh, really?" A reckless grin spreads across his face. "Then let’s see how much trouble I can find." He releases the driver. Walks toward the back seat.

Cass’s gaze follows him—then drops to the number plate. No numbers. Just black. And a single letter.

X.

His expression shifts. The color drains from his face. He takes a step back.

"Ken." His voice lowers—tight, urgent. "Don’t do this." A pause. "Please. Come back."

Ken doesn’t listen. He never listens. He opens the back seat door.

Inside—

Silas sits.

Calm. Relaxed. His suit is dark, immaculate—perfectly tailored. Black gloves cover his hands. His posture is effortless. Still. His eyes shift slowly toward Ken.

Brown. Unreadable.

Ken’s hand shoots forward. Grabs his collar.

"Do you know who I—?"

A metal click.

Silas’s secretary raises a gun, pressing it to Ken’s head. His voice is cold—colder than the night air, colder than the metal in his hand.

"How dare you—"

Ken’s face changes. He freezes.

Silas looks at him. Just looks. His eyes don’t blink. They don’t waver. They don’t flinch. They just... watch. Calm. Patient.

Ken’s fingers loosen. One by one. Slowly—like they’re being pried open by something he can’t control. They fall away from Silas’s collar.

Silas glances at his secretary. Just a look. Nothing more.

The secretary lowers the gun. Steps back. Silent. Obedient. The movement is automatic. Practiced—without hesitation.

Silas looks back at Ken.

His gaze is calm.

Then—

The air shifts. Ken’s brows twist. His hand flies to his chest. His mouth opens— Nothing. No air.

What the hell—

Why can’t I breathe?

His chest tightens. His lungs feel too small. The air thickens around him, pressing in, sliding into his throat like something alive.

His knees buckle. He drops—first to his knees, then forward, catching himself on his hands. Trembling. Gasping.

Silas steps out of the car.

His black shoes—polished, expensive—come down on Ken’s hand. The same hand that grabbed his collar.

Ken screams. The sound tears through the night—raw, animal, broken.

Silas looks down at him. Still calm.

He twists his shoe. Slow. Deliberate. Each movement measured, controlled—whether he savors it or not, it’s impossible to tell.

Ken’s voice breaks. Tears fill his eyes—hot, humiliating, spilling down his cheeks. His nose runs. His lips tremble.

"Please—" His voice is barely a sound now, broken, begging. "Leave me—please—I’m sorry—leave me—"

Silas steps back.

Slowly.

He looks down at Ken one last time—a man crumpled on the ground, clutching his hand, holding it like something precious that’s already been destroyed.

Then Silas turns. Returns to his seat.

The door closes. The car pulls away—silent, unhurried, disappearing into the night like it was never there.