Ryan hit the ground hard. Gravel bit into his palms as rough hands shoved him down like a sack of trash. His head reeled, the taste of iron thick in his mouth, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of a groan.
The sack over his head was yanked off, and the world came back into focus. They were in an abandoned warehouse. The walls were stained with rust and oil. It was the kind of place no one stumbled into by accident. There was no escape.
The men surrounding him sneered, their fists already bloodied from taking turns at him.
"Still not begging?" one spat, kicking Ryan in the ribs. "You think you're tough? You're nothing!"
Ryan wheezed but bit back the sound, forcing his lungs to hold onto breath and dignity alike. They wanted him to crawl, to break. Three years with Clarissa had already tried to grind him into the dirt. He had endured worse, just without fists involved. He had endured humiliation, silence, and betrayal. If he could survive that, he could survive this.
Another fist cracked across his cheek, sending him rolling to the side. Blood trickled warm from his nose.
"Say it!" one of them barked, pressing a boot on his chest. "Say you surrender!"
Ryan spat blood instead, meeting the man's eyes with something close to defiance. "Go to hell."
The man snarled. He pulled out a knife, the steel flashing under the weak light. "Fine. Have it your way."
Ryan stared at the blade. His body trembled from pain and exhaustion, but something in him--the last scrap of pride--stayed rooted. He wasn't going to plead. If this was his fate, he'd meet it standing, even if he was on his knees.
The knife lifted.
"Enough."
The voice was deep, commanding, cutting through the room with a calm authority. Every head turned.
At the warehouse entrance stood an older man in a dark coat. His hair was silver at the temples, his eyes sharp with a depth that unsettled. He didn't look like much maybe a little weathered but he carried himself like someone who owned every inch of the ground he stepped on.
"Old man, this ain't your business," one thug sneered. "Walk away before you leave here in pieces."
The stranger's lips curved in the faintest smile. "Pieces? You first."
Ryan's battered heart clenched. He tried to shout, his voice breaking, "Get out of here! They'll kill you!"
But the older man didn't flinch. He stepped forward with a slow, almost lazy confidence.
The first thug lunged. Ryan barely saw the old man move. The thug crumpled, gasping on the ground, clutching a broken arm. Another swung a bat. The old man sidestepped, fluid as water, and a casual strike to the jaw dropped him like a puppet with its strings cut.
Chaos erupted. Men rushed at him, curses filling the air. Ryan blinked through swollen eyes, disbelieving. The older man moved like the fight was a dance choreographed long ago, ducking, striking, turning bodies into weapons against each other. Not a bead of sweat formed on his brow.
Within minutes, the warehouse floor was littered with groaning bodies. The thugs who could still move scrambled for the exit, dragging their injured comrades, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders at the stranger who had dismantled them so easily.
Silence followed.
Ryan lay still, chest heaving, his mind trying to catch up. The old man hadn't even looked winded.
Bootsteps approached. Ryan tensed, expecting a blow, but instead a firm hand reached down.
"On your feet, boy."
Ryan blinked up at him. The older man's gaze was steady. Hesitant, Ryan gripped the hand and was pulled up, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
"You… who are you?" Ryan rasped, his throat raw.
The man regarded him for a moment, then gave a small bow of his head. "They call me the Gentleman." His eyes narrowed slightly, as if studying Ryan's soul itself. "And you--" his voice dipped lower, carrying weight, "you fought when every reason told you to surrender. That's what I needed to see."
Ryan stared, still catching his breath, blood dripping from his chin. "What… what are you talking about?"
The Gentleman's grip on his shoulder tightened just enough to steady him. His next words fell like thunder.
"Now you're ready to know who you are--heir of the Ardyn bloodline."
Ryan froze. The words made no sense, yet every syllable seemed to burn into him.
The man continued, his voice calm but heavy with unshakable certainty. "Wealth, power, a legacy older than this city--it's yours. If you're ready to claim it."
Ryan's mouth parted, but no sound came. The world swayed around him, his thoughts scattered like broken glass.
This had to be a dream. It was the only explanation. A fever dream in the aftermath of blood and fists.
His voice was a whisper. "I… I must be dreaming."
The Gentleman's expression flickered with something almost like pity. "No, Ryan. You're waking up."