"Ten years after his death, he comes back to life"
The deep roar of a luxury engine shattered the cold night air as a sleek black car glided to a halt outside the imposing iron gates of the Voss Estate.
Even in the soft glow of the streetlights, the estate radiated an undeniable presence—elegant, commanding, and unassailable. Towering walls stood firm, guarding its secrets, while the magnificent mansion loomed like a silent king, reigning supreme over its domain.
The back door of the car opened with a quiet click. A man stepped out.
Tall. Lean. Unshaken.
Damien Voss.
His black shirt clung to his body, his dark jeans simple yet refined. There was no sign of wealth in his appearance, but his presence alone sent a ripple through the air—something cold, something unreadable.
He stood there for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the mansion, the place he had once called home.
But he wasn't home.
He was standing before the house of a man who had erased him.
No one recognized him.
The guards stationed at the gates didn't even glance his way. To them, he was just another stranger, another uninvited guest who had no business being here.
Good.
He turned away from the estate, walking down the shadowed path that led to the graveyard at the far end of the land. His boots crushed the dry leaves beneath his feet as he moved, but in his mind, all he could hear was the past—his past.
His father's words.
His fiancée's promises.
His mother's laughter.
Gone.
Damien's fists clenched as he approached the forgotten corner of the estate's private graveyard. His steps slowed as he reached a single gravestone. A small, cracked, and neglected slab of stone.
The name carved into it was barely visible under the overgrown weeds and dust.
Eleanor Voss.
His mother.
The woman who had given everything for this family. The woman who had loved him more than anyone else ever had. The only woman who stood by him when everyone accused him and deserted him. And now, she was nothing but an afterthought—buried in a place that no one visited, abandoned like a piece of history best forgotten.
A long, sharp breath left his lips as he crouched beside the grave, fingers brushing over the cold, lifeless stone. He had already heard of her death but seeing her gravestone made tears form in his eyes.
"They didn't even bother to take care of your grave, Mother. That's how much they cared." For a second his hands trembled on the gravestone as he tried to control his emotions. Just a second and then the cold steel of vengeance swallowed the warmth of grief.
His jaw tightened and he sighed.
The Voss family had always been ruthless, but this? This was a different level of cruelty.
Damien closed his eyes for a brief second, letting the rage settle inside him like a dormant storm. When he opened them again, they were unreadable, calm yet dark.
Then—
A noise.
Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
Damien didn't move.
He felt them before he even saw them.
A group of men. Five, maybe six. Their voices were low, but their intentions were clear.
They weren't here for prayers.
"Oi," one of them called out lazily, his voice thick with amusement. "What do we have here?"
Damien rose slowly, turning to face them.
Six men. Broad shoulders. Tattoos peeking from under their shirts. Knuckles cracked, smirks in place.
Hired muscle.
Not a single intelligent thought behind their eyes.
"This is private property," another sneered, stepping forward. "You don't belong here."
Damien tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
The leader chuckled. "Graveyard ain't for strays, buddy."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, Damien spoke.
"I'm not a stray." His voice was smooth. Controlled. Dangerous.
The leader smirked. "Yeah? Then what the hell are you?"
A small, humorless smile curved Damien's lips.
"The rightful heir."
The air turned ice-cold.
For a moment, the men hesitated. They didn't know who he was, but something about the way he stood, the way he spoke—it was enough to make them uneasy.
Unfortunately, fear wasn't always enough to keep fools from making mistakes.
One of them scoffed. "Listen, buddy, we don't care who you—"
He never finished that sentence.
Damien moved like lightning.
A single step forward. A brutal punch straight to the gut. The man's breath left him in a sharp wheeze as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach.
The others barely had time to react before Damien was already on the second guy. A swift kick to the knee—crack—and a follow-up elbow to the jaw. The man went down with a painful grunt.
The rest charged at once.
Big mistake.
Damien sidestepped the first swing effortlessly, grabbing the attacker's wrist and twisting it behind his back before slamming him face-first into a headstone.
The remaining two hesitated now, realizing too late that they weren't dealing with some lost visitor.
Damien's gaze locked onto them. Cold. Empty. Unforgiving.
One of them took a shaky step back. "W-We were just following orders—"
Damien moved again. A sharp, clean hit to the throat, followed by a ruthless knee to the stomach. The man dropped.
Now, only one remained.
The leader.
He was trembling. His confidence had been shattered in the span of minutes. Blood dripped from his split lip, his eyes darting around desperately for a way out.
Damien grabbed him by the collar, pulling him in close until they were inches apart.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Go tell them… the dead have returned."
Then he let go.
The man stumbled backward, gasping for air, before turning and running as fast as his legs could carry him.
Damien stood there, watching him disappear into the darkness.
A slow exhale left his lips as he rolled his shoulders, dusting off his shirt as if nothing had happened.
He glanced down at his mother's grave one last time.
And then, without another word, he walked away as it was the right time to return.
Because tonight wasn't just about revenge.
Tonight was a warning and a party of blood and cake.
Damien Voss was back. And this time, they wouldn't be able to erase him.