The Veylor estate stood on the cracked hills just outside Swandani City.By day, the place looked like a forgotten fortress: pale stone, rusted railings, windows like dead eyes staring toward the distant skyline.By night, it was worse.
Inside, the mansion hummed with tension—quiet, suffocating, the way a house feels when too many people want too many things.
Ten-year-old Serik Veylor sat at the top of the stairs, listening.
Downstairs, voices clashed like knives behind the half-open doors of the study.
"—My children will not grow up in a house where he exists!"A woman's voice. Sharp, poised, dangerous.
Elaria Feizen, daughter of the Feizen Family—one of the mid-tier mafia groups from York City. She wasn't just beautiful; she was political power wrapped in silk. And her marriage into the Veylor Family had tightened their alliances.
Serik had known from the beginning that she hated him.
But tonight, she wasn't hiding it.
"He is not even your legitimate child," Elaria continued, voice like poison honey. "When people hear that the Don kept a bastard in his household, what do you think they'll say about my sons?"
A pause.Then something slammed—maybe a glass on the desk.
Serik's father, Damar Veylor, spoke low, almost growling."Serik is still my blood."
"And my sons are mine," Elaria snapped back. "And I will not allow some gutter-born relic from your past to stand between them and their inheritance."
Serik froze.
Inheritance.Don.
He hadn't thought that far. He knew who his father was—one of many mafia leaders in the region—but he'd always stayed far from that world.
Elaria pressed on, voice rising."If he remains here, the families will question everything. They'll wonder who your successor will be. Who you favor. They will assume the worst. They will assume war, Damar. My family will not tolerate that."
Silence.
Serik's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
Elaria lowered her tone, each word a blade."Remove him. Now. Before the other families smell weakness—and tear all of us apart."
Another long silence.Long enough that Serik began to believe—hope—that maybe his father would say no.
Then he heard the soft sound of someone exhaling in defeat.
Damar spoke.
"…Fine."
The world tilted.
Elaria's heels clicked across the floor. "Handle it quickly. And quietly. He leaves tonight."
A Knock on the Door
Serik ran to his room before anyone could see him. He had already begun stuffing clothes into his old backpack when the door opened.
His father stepped in.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Damar looked tired. Older than Serik remembered. The kind of tired that wasn't from lack of sleep, but from years of bending for the wrong people.
"You were listening," Damar finally said.
Serik didn't deny it."What does she care? I'm not hurting anyone."
"That's not the point."Damar closed the door behind him. "You're a complication she cannot afford."
"So you're choosing her."
Damar flinched—just slightly."It's not about choosing. It's about—"
"Politics?" Serik spat. "Your alliances? Your precious family name?"
Damar's jaw tightened.
"You don't understand the world we live in."
"No," Serik snapped back. "You never let me."
Damar didn't argue.
He pulled an envelope from his coat and placed it on the bed.
"There's money," he said quietly. "Enough for food and a place to stay. You'll survive if you're careful."
Serik stared at the envelope like it was a knife."That's it? You're throwing me out because she said so?"
Damar ran a hand through his hair. "Elaria isn't wrong. You are… dangerous."
Serik stiffened. "To who?"
"To her sons," Damar said, voice low. "To the Feizen Family. To their future. As long as you exist, you complicate everything."
Serik's throat tightened."I never wanted your stupid mafia throne."
"I know."Damar's voice cracked—barely noticeable, but Serik heard it."But the world doesn't care what you want. They care about power, blood, and inheritance."
Serik felt something cold settle in his chest.
Damar reached into his coat again and handed him a small, worn card.
His ID.
"Keep it safe," Damar said. "You'll need it… wherever you go."
Serik's eyes narrowed. "You think this makes you a good father?"
"No."Damar looked down."I'm trying to be a practical one."
Serik stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then he said the one thing he'd never dared before:
"You're a coward."
Damar's expression froze—like someone hit him with cold water. He stayed silent for a few seconds and then. He just said:
"…Maybe."
That hurt more than anything else.
After saying what he wanted to say, Serik's father quietly walked out of the room.Serik watched his silhouette disappear behind the closing door, the final click sounding like a lock on his chest.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then the anger drained, leaving something heavier behind.
His hands trembled as he looked at the envelope. A few tears hit the paper, darkening the corners. He squeezed it until it crumpled in his fist.
"…Tsk."He wiped his face with his sleeve.
After a minute, he forced himself to breathe, slow and steady. He had to pack. There was no time to fall apart—not here. Not in this house.
He grabbed the few things he owned: a folded shirt, an extra pair of socks, his toothbrush, his old shoes. And then—carefully—he reached for his favorite book.
The one his mother had read to him until her voice grew too weak.
The hard cover was worn, edges frayed. He opened it to a page where the spine naturally bent, and there it was:
A small photograph, faded at the edges.
A much younger Serik sat on his mother's lap, laughing at something out of frame.She was barely in her twenties then—black hair cascading in soft waves, eyes bright and alive, the color of deep forest jade. Her face had that delicate, doll-like softness people commented on, but Serik remembered something else too:
Warmth.
Her smile filled the whole picture, the kind of smile that made the world feel safe. She wore a simple white blouse, sleeves rolled up, and her fingers were gently curled around the pages of the book as if it were a precious relic.
Serik brushed his thumb over the photograph.
"These were better times…" he whispered.
He let himself smile—small, fragile, real.
Then he slid the photo back into the book and closed it with a soft thud.
He took one last look around the room—the room that had never really felt like his—and stepped outside, backpack slung over his shoulder.
The door shut quietly behind him.It was the last sound of his old life.