Marvel Industries HQ – Sublevel 3, 1:14 AM
The hallway buzzed with the sterile hum of fluorescent lights—cold, white, endless. Li Tian Marvel moved like a shadow past marble pillars and glass doors, dressed in matte black, the company lanyard around his neck swinging with each step. The name on the ID card read: Zhi Hong.
Mr. Zhi would probably wake up tomorrow morning realizing his badge was missing. But by then, Tian would be done with it.
He paused in front of an unmarked elevator tucked behind a steel emergency stairwell. No floor numbers. Just a fingerprint scanner.
He pressed his thumb against the scanner.
Nothing happened.
Then he held up Mr. Zhi's card to the sensor.
With a faint chime, the doors slid open, revealing a narrow, coffin-like elevator lined with brushed metal and a single screen showing the Marvel Industries logo.
Tian stepped inside.
The moment the doors closed, the elevator dropped so fast it made his stomach float.
Sublevel 3 wasn't on any public blueprint. Most Marvel employees didn't even know it existed.
But Tian knew. His father always said, "Our legacy is written in ink, but kept in silence."
He just hadn't expected that silence to feel this absolute.
Marvel Archives – Sublevel 3
Rows of floor-to-ceiling file cabinets extended into the dark like soldiers standing at attention. Every drawer bore a digital lock. The air smelled like paper, ozone, and something older—like the past never quite left.
Tian stepped forward, boots echoing on the concrete floor.
He passed files labeled with years:
1995 – Legal Affairs
2001 – Hong Kong Acquisition
2010 – Defense Tech Expansion
Then he stopped. A sleek black cabinet pulsed faintly with a red glow. No title, no year. Just a single word etched on a brass plate:
TERMINATED
He pressed the badge against the reader. The drawer slid open with a hiss.
Inside was a file thinner than he expected—no more than a dozen pages, fastened with a silver clip.
At the top:
HAN, YULAN – TERMINATED CONTRACT
He stared at the name for a long time.
His mother's name.
She hadn't been spoken of in years—not by servants, not by staff, not by Li Feng. Tian was seven the last time he saw her. One day, she was there. The next, gone.
No funeral. No divorce. Just gone.
He unfolded the top page.
Legal jargon greeted him in bold: "All intellectual and equity claims hereby waived under the condition of absolute silence."
No signature. No witness.
Just an official Marvel Industries seal and a date:
January 4, 2011.
The year she disappeared.
The year Tian stopped asking questions.
His pulse quickened. He turned the page, scanning redacted paragraphs blacked out with thick digital lines. But buried between two black bars, he caught a fragment:
"…due to internal conflicts and the restructuring of majority ownership, Han Yulan is hereby removed from…"
Removed from what?
The board? The family?
Or something deeper?
He kept reading.
Another page: a redistribution report.
"Assets previously held under Han Yulan transferred to anonymous shell account per emergency directive. Confirmation signed by L.P."
L.P.?
Vivian Park.
Tian's lips parted, but no sound came out. Something cold slid down the back of his spine.
She had stood there beside his mother once.
She had watched.
Maybe helped.
He turned the final page, and a photo fell out.
A snapshot, old and faded. His mother—Han Yulan—sat confidently at the head of a Marvel Industries boardroom table. Sharp suit. Half-smile. Her hand rested over a set of blueprints. She looked every inch a woman who belonged.
Behind her, standing slightly out of focus but unmistakable, was a younger Vivian Park. Dark suit, stiffer posture, arms crossed.
She wasn't smiling.
Tian stared at the photo for a long time, then slowly folded it and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket.
Flashback – Marvel Estate, Ten Years Ago
It was raining the night she left.
He remembered the echo of her heels on the marble, the blur of red lipstick, and the sharp smell of gardenia. Seven years old, standing behind the banister, Tian had watched her walk past the koi pond without a glance back.
She didn't take anything with her. No bags. No suitcase.
Just silence.
He remembered asking Li Feng where she had gone.
His father didn't answer. He only lit a cigar and said, "Some people don't understand the cost of building an empire."
Marvel HQ – Elevator Ride, 3:12 AM
Tian stood in the elevator again, this time going up. He stared at the dim screen as numbers climbed past familiar floors—legal, finance, PR.
His reflection stared back in the chrome. Red hair tousled. Eyes dark.
He wasn't angry.
Not yet.
Anger was loud, stupid, explosive.
What he felt now was colder.
Strategic.
The game had started.
Marvel HQ – Analytics Department, 3:25 AM
The glass walls of the 46th floor glowed faintly with screen light. A team of analysts sat scattered at their desks, immersed in data even at this hour.
She was there—Jin Mei Xue.
Alone in a conference room. Her hair was tied in a low bun, her blazer crisp, her posture calm. The room was half-dark, but the whiteboard behind her was filled with figures and arrows. She was clearly finishing a pitch—her voice cool and clipped as she presented to a trio of senior analysts through video conference.
Tian didn't hear the words, but he saw the precision.
The control.
He leaned against the glass, watching.
There was something unsettling about her.
She didn't fawn like the other interns. She didn't fear the Marvel name like the rest of the company.
He couldn't tell if she was naive or dangerous.
And that made her fascinating.
The call ended. Jin leaned over, making a quick note, then turned slightly—and stopped.
She looked through the glass.
Eyes met.
Not surprise. Not curiosity.
Just awareness.
For a long second, neither moved.
Then she turned off the lights in the conference room and walked away without acknowledging him.
No smirk. No greeting.
As if she'd already calculated that speaking to him was unnecessary.
Tian tilted his head, amused.
She was playing the long game.
Maybe he would too.
Marvel Estate – Tian's Bedroom, 4:06 AM
The lights of the city bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tian lay on the silk-covered couch, not the bed, shirtless, feet crossed.
He was staring at the photo.
Han Yulan, seated like a queen.
Vivian behind her like a ghost.
He flipped it over. Something was scrawled faintly in ink:
"To build without truth is to die without legacy."
—Y.
He didn't recognize the handwriting.
But the message was clear.
They thought they had buried her.
But ashes burn too.
Tian set the photo down beside him and stared out over Shanghai's skyline.
They thought he was just a spoiled heir. A crimson crown with no weight.
But now?
He had a reason.
And that made him dangerous.