Chapter 1
"Clean it up. I don't want blood on the marble."
Ethan Cross's voice sliced through the room, sharp like a blade. The two men kneeling before him didn't dare move. Their breaths came in ragged bursts, the only sound beneath the low hum of the light bulb from above.
The body lay between them, a man whose name no one would remember by morning. His throat was open, the blood seeping into the cracks of the white Italian floor Ethan prized so much.
Ethan poured himself a glass of wine, his cufflinks catching the shine of light as he swirled it lazily. He didn't look at the corpse again. "Remind me," he said softly, "what did he steal?"
One of the lieutenants swallowed rather loudly. "Two million from the East Syndicate shipment, sir."
"Two million," Ethan repeated and turned, as if tasting the number. "And you thought it best to bring him here alive?"
The man stammered, "W-We thought you'd- you might want to…"
The shot cut him off.
A flash of light, a thud, then silence. Ethan's hand was still steady as he lowered the gun.
"Next time," he said, setting the weapon on the table, "don't think. Just do."
He turned away before the body that hit the floor, already bored. The room smelled of fear. His assistant, Marcus, stepped forward from the shadows with a towel and wiped the blood from Ethan's shoes like it was routine.
It was.
"Schedule the meeting," Ethan said. "Tonight. All regional heads."
Marcus hesitated, eyes flickering to the corpses. "After… this, sir?"
"Especially after this," Ethan replied. His lips curved slightly. "Fear keeps them loyal."
***
The meeting took place hours later in a high-rise penthouse overlooking the city, Ethan's kingdom of glass and fire and guns. Below, it flushed with his money: casinos, ports, data centers, the hum of illegal trades that funded the world's illusions.
He stood before the panoramic window, watching the city. Behind him, ten of his lieutenants murmured, their voices sharp, but low with restrained tension.
"Someone's been leaking intel," Ethan said, turning slowly. His eyes… pale gray, nearly silver… swept across their faces. "I want the name."
No one spoke. No one dared.
He walked toward the long glass table, his footsteps echoing. "Our shipment routes were hit twice this month. Our offshore account in Zurich was frozen. Someone is talking."
Still silence.
He smiled faintly, which was always more terrifying than when he shouted. "I built this empire with blood, gentlemen. My blood, mostly. I don't mind spilling more if it keeps the rest of you in line."
A nervous laugh came from the end of the table. Ethan's gaze landed on the man responsible. The laughter died mid-breath.
"Pour the wine," Ethan said.
Marcus stepped forward, uncorked a dark bottle, and filled eleven glasses.
Ethan picked up his glass last. "To loyalty," he said.
They repeated the toast, their voices trembling in uneven unison.
The first sip burned smooth. The second tasted wrong.
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Marcus," he said, tone calm, almost amused. "You poured this bottle yourself?"
Marcus froze, the bottle still in his hand. "Yes, sir."
"From my cellar?"
"Yes, sir."
Ethan studied him. Marcus had been with him five years, clever, disciplined, quietly ambitious. The kind of man Ethan would have killed long ago if he didn't need him.
"Strange," Ethan murmured, swirling the wine. "Because I don't recognize the scent, nor the taste."
He placed the glass down gently.
"Kill him," he said. Everyone obeyed immediately.
Every gun in the room cocked, not at Marcus, but at Ethan.
For a second, no one breathed.
Ethan's smile didn't falter. "You sure you want to do this?" he asked. His tone was almost gentle, a father humoring disobedient children.
Marcus stepped back, out of the circle. "You taught me everything, Ethan. How to lie. How to rule. How to survive. I'm just… applying your lessons."
Ethan laughed, a low, dark sound that filled the room like. "I should have shot you when you learned to think for yourself."
The first bullet grazed his ribs. The second shattered the glass beside his face.
Ethan didn't flinch. He ducked behind the fallen table, slid a knife from his sleeve, and hurled it with precision. It buried itself in a man's throat, a clean throw, efficient, final.
The air was smoke and gunfire. Bodies dropped, curses echoed, and Ethan's heartbeat became one with the chaos. His breath came in short bursts, measured, controlled. Even dying, he moved with purpose.
He grabbed the fallen man's weapon, spun, and fired three rounds in one smooth motion. Each shot landed where he wanted it. In three traitor's foreheads.
A shadow lunged from the left, one of his oldest guards, a man he had once paid to protect his life. Ethan caught his wrist, twisted, and slammed his head into the wall until bone cracked.
Blood splattered across his shirt, but his expression didn't change. His mind was already calculating escape routes, angles, weaknesses.
His empire was burning, but Ethan Cross wasn't the kind of man who begged. He was the kind who dragged hell down with him.
Marcus shouted, "Don't let him reach the door!"
Ethan was already there. He slammed a shoulder into the frame, splintering wood. His body screamed in pain, his blood hot in his veins. The hallway outside was empty, but he knew escape was pointless. They had planned this.
Poisoned wine. Locked exits. Ten guns.
He staggered against the wall, breathing hard.
"Marcus!" he roared. "You think you can kill me and walk away clean?"
Marcus's voice echoed back, cold and confident. "I'm not killing you, Ethan. I'm freeing everyone else from you."
Ethan laughed… or maybe it was a growl. "You think freedom exists without power?"
He shoved open the door to the inner corridor… his private hallway lined with portraits of men he had ruined and women who had worshiped him. Now it looked like a mausoleum. The lights flickered, footsteps echoed somewhere ahead.
"Marcus!" he roared.
No answer. Just the soft drip of blood from his own hand.
He staggered forward, leaving red smears on the wall, every step heavier than the last. The poison had crawled deep into his veins, tightening around his heart.
And still, he pushed on.
He reached the weapons vault, steel-reinforced, soundproofed, the safest room in the mansion. But, the door was already open.
Waiting inside, was Marcus.
He stood behind Ethan's own desk, sleeves rolled up, a pistol in hand. His face that was once loyal, once eager to please, was now unreadable.
Ethan leaned against the doorframe, smirk tugging at his lips. "You look comfortable there."
Marcus's fingers tightened on the gun. "It was never about comfort. It was survival."
"Survival?" Ethan stepped closer, blood dripping from his fingers. "I made you, Marcus. I taught you everything, how to crawl, how to rise, how to kill. And this is how you repay me?"
Marcus's voice trembled only slightly. "You taught me how to rule through fear. I just learned faster than you expected." He shrugged.
Ethan chuckled low. "Is that what this is? A student's rebellion?"
He took another step forward. Marcus aimed higher.
"You're bleeding," Marcus said softly. "You won't make it out of this alive."
Ethan's eyes glittered with something between amusement and pride. "Maybe not. But I'll make sure you go first."
He lunged. A little too fast for a poisoned man, too precise for someone dying. His hand gripped Marcus's wrist, slammed it against the desk, and the gun skidded across the floor. Ethan's other hand went straight for the throat, his signature move, brutal but, efficient.
Marcus struggled, gasping, clawing at Ethan's blood-slicked arms. The student and the master locked in the kind of battle that had no winners.
Ethan's face hovered inches from Marcus's. His breath came out ragged but full of dark laughter.
"Look at you," he hissed. "You really thought you could dethrone me?"
Marcus's knee shot upward, slamming into Ethan's side. Pain flared white-hot. Ethan's grip faltered, just for a second.
It was enough.
Marcus shoved him back, reached for the fallen pistol, and fired.
The shot echoed through the vault like thunder. Ethan's body jerked once.
He staggered, looking down at the spreading red bloom across his shirt. His expression was cold, detached and didn't match the wound he was spotting.
For a moment, he just stared at Marcus, as if studying the betrayal like a business transaction. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Good," he whispered. "You finally learned to strike first."
Marcus's face twisted in pain, not triumph. "You left me no choice."
Ethan took one stumbling step forward. "There's always a choice. You just didn't have the stomach for mine."
Then his knees buckled. The gun slipped from his hand.
He hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The world blurred, light and shadow blending together. He heard his own heartbeat fading, each 'ba-dum' slower than the last.
Marcus said something, maybe a curse, maybe a goodbye, but Ethan barely heard it. The sound around him dimmed, as though the air itself was retreating.
His fingers twitched, trying to close around something that wasn't there.
And then, it came.
A voice.
Not from the room. Not from Marcus.
From everywhere.
Cold. Smooth. Inhuman.
["Your reign ends here, Ethan Cross. But your lesson begins."]
Ethan's pupils dilated. "Who… the hell are you?"
No answer.
He tried to breathe. Nothing came.
["You ruled through fear," the voice said, tone void of emotion. "Now you will learn thr
ough powerlessness."]
His hand reached weakly toward the ceiling, fingers stained red, trembling.
Marcus's face blurred.
["Your trial begins at dawn."]
The voice faded. The world went silent.