A soft knock at the door broke the silence. A plush white bathrobe wrapped around his body, he walked toward it. When he opened the door, Aarav stood there, masked and impassive as ever. In his hands, he carried a room service tray.
On the tray, three silver-domed dishes gleamed under the warm light, and a chilled bottle of wine rested beside a polished glass. The sight was almost humorous—a luxurious, domestic gesture delivered by a stoic, armored knight.
He took the tray, the simple weight of it grounding him after the heavy burden of the past. Pausing before stepping back inside, a flicker of curiosity crossed his eyes.
"Would you care to join me?" he asked quietly, a gentle invitation.
Aarav shook his head. "I must decline, sir. My duty is to remain at my post."
The man nodded, acknowledging the professional boundary. He stepped back into the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Aarav remained in the quiet hallway, vigilant.
He set the tray on a small table, the silver domes catching the light. With practiced ease, he opened the bottle of wine, pouring a modest amount into a glass. He sipped, letting the rich, complex flavor wash over him—a forgotten pleasure, a taste of life reclaimed.
But a single glass would not suffice. Not tonight. He set the glass down, lifting the bottle to drink directly, each gulp a fiery reminder of both indulgence and escape.
He moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath him, veins of neon pulsing through the night. The sight was breathtaking, overwhelming, a metropolis alive and ordered, yet distant.
As he stared, his mind flickered elsewhere. Within the dark liquid of the wine, he glimpsed a different city—a brutal, broken place of alleys, flickering neon signs, and desperate survival. A city he had built in his youth, from the ground up, a mirror of his own ruthlessness and cunning.
He recalled the boy he once was: a middle-class engineering student with a family, a little brother, and a future that felt impossibly wide. That life ended abruptly. Survival demanded another path. He found it on the streets, joining a gang to make it through each night. His talent was natural, preternatural even—a sixth sense for his opponents' movements, the ability to mimic them flawlessly after a single observation.
He rose through the ranks not with fists alone, but with a mind honed for strategy. He gathered a loyal group, visionaries and pragmatists alike, and together they forged an organization. Funded by a brutal but elegant business model, they dismantled rival criminal empires and absorbed their assets and influence.
The Black Dragon Society emerged from shadows and chaos, seen by the world as a righteous force—a light against the darkness of organized crime. But the truth was far murkier. Saints were absent; their foundation rested on the backs of former mafia bosses, gangsters, and criminals. They were willing to do what others could not, willing to walk paths others dared not tread.
The bottle of wine, once a vessel for pleasure, became a tool for escape. He drained the remaining liquid, the rich warmth burning down his throat, then set it aside with a soft clink.
He turned to the food on the tray, the silver domes still warm, but only nibbled a few bites. Flavor was lost amidst the haze of memories and wine. Exhaustion, held at bay by adrenaline and emotion, finally claimed him. He swayed slightly, then collapsed onto the plush bed, surrendering to a long, dreamless sleep.