Rain fell in lazy, mocking streaks on the gleaming rooftop of the Slade mansion. Elijah Blackwood stood by the red-carpet entrance, soaked through his threadbare suit, hands clenched, jaw tight expression unreadable. The valet had already asked him three times to leave, but Elijah remained.
As the guests troupe in, Some glanced at Elijah in awkward silence; others offered smug smirks, clearly entertained. He was a known name, after all — the lowly bodyguard who somehow managed to marry into one of the most powerful families in the state. Rumors of his "lucky rise" had swirled for years, and now, the humiliating truth was clear: He still didn't belong.
He wasn't surprised.
He was never truly a Slade.
"You're not allowed in," said a young man in a tailored navy uniform
"I am Elijah Slade-Blackwood ,Lilian's husband," Elijah replied, his voice low and unyielding.
The guard snorted. "Yeah? And I'm the Duke of Cambridge. Orders from the top — no 'plus-ones' unless they were born Slade. Go wait out there, Mr. Black."
Inside the ballroom, Elijah could hear snippets of conversations through the open windows: investors, stock prices, upcoming mergers.
Then, her voice — Lilian's — rang with laughter. His wife. The woman who had once whispered promises of loyalty and love in their darkest hours, now surrounded by her family who openly despised him.He had nearly turned to leave when he saw her.
She hadn't even answered his last three texts.
An hour passed. Then two.
He leaned against the stone sculpted pillars, eyes fixed on the massive crystal chandeliers inside. That was when he heard the glass shatter.
Voices rose. Then a gasp — followed by someone yelling.
Panic. Commotion.
Ás if in trance,Elijah was already sprinted toward the entrance before the words fully registered. As he pushed past the surprised security, his eyes locked onto the scene unfolding inside.
A young waiter had tripped, spilling red wine all over Lilian's silver gown.
Standing in front of her was a rival heiress — Clarissa Dane — smirking maliciously. "Oh dear. What a shame," Clarissa purred. But at least we can all see how cheap your dress is . But then, what did we expect from the Blackwood side of things?"
Lilian looked frozen, humiliated.
Without hesitation, Elijah rushed into the gala room and moved to stand in front of his wife. His towering frame cast a shadow over Clarissa, his voice a low growl. "That's enough Clair."
Clarissa flinched, but before she could reply, a hand came out of nowhere.
Slap!
A loud sharp crack that echoed through the room.
Lilian. She had slapped him.
Gasps filled the ballroom. Cameras flashed. Phones were raised.
"Elijah," she hissed, her face twisted in feigned horror. "How dare you embarrass me like this in front of everyone!,I'm so sorry Clair forgive my husband's manners"
Elijah stared at her, stunned. Not just by the slap, but by the look in her eyes — not panic, not shame… strategy. She was trying to distance herself. Preserve the Slade name.
"Elijah Blackwood, leave now," She commanded
"You heard her,Leave.And stay out like the rest of your kind"came another voice.
Of course Jeremy would not let this type of moment pass by him.
As they threw him out,He hit the ground outside the ballroom hard, his back scraping against the gravel path as two guards loomed over him.
He stood slowly, brushing off the dust. His palms were scraped, and his pride was shredded.
The rain hadn't stopped.
It poured with a quiet rage now, turning the gravel beneath Elijah's feet to slick, treacherous mud. His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from his suit jacket, though there was little point. The once-black fabric clung to his skin, soaked and stained with grit. The echo of Lilian's slap still rang in his ears, louder than the murmurs of the curious crowd still watching from inside the glowing ballroom.
He turned his back to them.
The humiliation had already branded itself into his bones. There was no dignity in staying.
That was the Slade way — polished knives behind porcelain smiles.
Elijah walked, jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets to hide the raw scrapes. Each step away from the mansion was heavier than the last, weighted not by rainwater but by memories pressing at the edges of his mind. They had started creeping in lately — flashes of heat, metal, screaming — like fragments of someone else's nightmare. Only, they belonged to him.
He stumbled down the winding path, leaving behind the glittering gala and the laughter that haunted him. Trees loomed in the fog, dark and silent. A gust of wind knocked leaves loose overhead. One struck his cheek.
And then—
Pain.
White-hot. Sudden.
He collapsed to one knee, clutching his skull with both hands as a wave of agony tore through him.
"Ghh—!"
Images burst like static behind his eyes.
A dimly lit corridor. Screams muffled behind steel doors. Red lights flashing. A boy — no, He was the boy — strapped down, struggling, wires hooked to his chest. A man in a white coat barking orders. A needle. Cold fire in his veins. He was choking on something thick, metallic. A voice. A name.
"Subject E-07, begin exposure."
The name burned into his ears. A number. Like a lab rat.
Then a hand—someone's hand on his shoulder.
"Elijah."
He flinched backward violently, eyes wide, breath heaving as the vision snapped. He blinked in the present, heart thudding like it was trying to punch out of his chest.
The hand didn't retreat. It remained firm. Gentle.
"I wouldn't recommend kneeling in a public garden during a storm, Mr. Blackwood. People might mistake it for a breakdown."
Elijah turned his head slowly.
The man standing over him was tall, elegant, and eerily calm — dressed in a black overcoat with a white silk scarf and matching gloves, pristine despite the rain. Silver hair was slicked neatly behind his ears, his smile subtle but knowing.
The stranger looked out of place. Too clean. Too prepared.
Too deliberate.
"I'm fine," Elijah said hoarsely, forcing himself to his feet. "Mind your own business."
The man's smile widened, not insulted in the least. "But you are my business. Whether you accept it or not."
Elijah stepped back. His head still pounded, his vision dancing at the edges.
"Who are you?"
"Arthur St. Clair," the man replied with a nod, as if he were announcing an invitation to tea. "Representative of a rather... exclusive collective interested in your particular talents."
"Not interested," Elijah muttered, already turning.
Arthur didn't follow. "Funny. I haven't told you what we're offering."
"You don't have to."
Elijah kept walking, but Arthur's voice trailed after him like smoke.
"Do the migraines come often? The visions? The heat in your veins when you're angry? The feeling that you've lived a dozen lives in shadows you can't remember?"
Elijah stopped.
His fists clenched at his sides. The rain masked the sting in his eyes, but not the tension winding through his muscles like a tripwire.
"What did you just say?"
"I'm offering you clarity," Arthur said gently, stepping forward now.
"Answers. Relief. Revenge. The choice to never be stepped on again by the Slades or anyone else."
He paused, watching Elijah's face closely.
"We've been observing you for some time."
"I'm not interested in being anyone's experiment," Elijah said through gritted teeth. "Not again."
Arthur's eyes gleamed. "So you *do* remember."
"I remember enough."
Elijah's voice cracked with restrained fury. He turned again, faster this time, but Arthur's voice called out once more — softer, but weighted.
"You know what your real problem is, Elijah?"
Elijah didn't stop, but he slowed.
"You think you're powerless because they made you believe it. You think walking away from me now is strength — it's not. It's pride. And pride won't save you when they come to finish what they started."
Elijah turned back. His expression had hardened to granite.
"You think I need a syndicate to protect me?" he spat. "Where were you when I was bleeding on the concrete outside their house? When they treated me like a stray dog in front of the world? Where were you when I needed saving?"
Arthur blinked. For a moment, something behind his eyes twitched — regret? Maybe not.
"You weren't ready to be saved," he said quietly. "Now, you are."
Elijah's laugh was dry. "You're selling a fantasy. A new leash with a shinier collar. No thanks."
Arthur's smile returned, colder this time. Less warm, more clinical.
"Fair enough. Rejection is part of the process."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small black card, flicking it between two fingers before letting it fall to the muddy ground at Elijah's feet.
"When you change your mind, that's where you'll find us."
Elijah didn't look down.
"I won't."
"Everyone does eventually," Arthur said with a slight bow of the head. "The Fold doesn't close its doors. Only tightens the price."
Without another word, the man turned and walked away, shoes oddly clean despite the puddles he crossed. His silhouette disappeared into the mist and trees, as though the earth had opened to swallow him whole.
Elijah stood alone again.
The card lay by his foot, rain trickling over its matte surface. He stared at it for a long while, then bent slowly and picked it up. No name, no address — just a symbol etched in silver: a closed eye inside a spiral.
He shoved it into his coat pocket.
Not because he would use it. But because something inside him already knew: this wasn't the last he'd see of Arthur St. Clair.
His headache dulled, but the ache in his chest didn't. Not yet.
---
He found himself in a cheap diner two hours later, nursing a black coffee he didn't touch. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the hum matching the low throb behind his eyes.
His phone lay on the table. Cracked. Silent.
Three unread messages to Lilian.
All left on read.
He let the screen fade to black.
Behind the counter, a teen mopped a spill without care. A man in a trench coat argued with someone on speakerphone. A couple argued quietly in the corner booth.
Elijah stared through it all, mind drifting again.
Not to the past this time.
To the future.
And what he was willing to become to escape this version of himself.
The version they threw out like trash.
A low beep from his phone startled him — battery dying.
He slid it into his pocket and stood, shoulders heavy. His reflection in the diner's glass door stared back at him. Not just beaten.
Empty.
He stepped outside, the rain finally letting up, but the streets slick and unforgiving.
He walked with no destination, hands deep in his coat, mind still spiraling.
Somewhere far behind him, buried in a pocket next to his broken phone, a black card pressed against his thigh like a loaded trigger.
And deep inside, he could feel something dangerous brewing.
Not just pain. Not just fury.
Something worse.
A cold bitter need for Revenge.