"What the hell is going on in this world?"
Mr. Richard Orlando's roar thundered through the room, echoing off the cold marble walls of his private study. His clenched fist slammed down on the table, rattling the crystal decanter and the neatly stacked files beside it. The bodyguards standing in front of him stiffened, their faces pale but disciplined.
"Sir," one of them began carefully, "there's absolutely no trace left. The CCTV footage from the bridge—every single camera in that area—has been hacked. The data was erased completely. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."
"Hacked?" Richard barked out a bitter laugh.
"You're telling me a city filled with surveillance is suddenly blind? You people were supposed to prevent this! Or at the very least, bring me answers!"
The lead bodyguard swallowed. "We traced the signal routes, sir. It was an unknown source. Military-grade encryption. No fingerprints left behind."
Richard paced the room, his expression darkening with every step. "We can't give up like this. Find out about those Mercedes. Black vehicles don't just disappear into thin air. Someone saw something. Someone always does."
"Yes, sir."
"And listen carefully," Richard said, his voice lowering into something far more dangerous. "If we can't uncover the truth behind this murder, then at least make sure those murderers never breathe again."
A heavy silence fell.
"If they noticed Rio," Richard continued, eyes blazing, "then they will come after him. That's not a possibility—it's a certainty."
He stopped pacing and faced them squarely.
"From this moment on, wherever Rio goes, he will be surrounded by the tightest security imaginable. I don't care if he complains. I don't care if he hates it. His life comes first."
The guards bowed in unison. "Understood, sir."
It was 11:30 p.m. when Richard finally left his study and headed upstairs. The long corridor felt unusually silent, each step echoing like a reminder of something long buried yet never forgotten.
He pushed open the door to Rio's room.
The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic and medicine. Rio lay on the bed, his body burning with fever, his face pale and damp with sweat. His usually sharp features were softened by unconscious vulnerability. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as though even breathing required effort.
Beside the bed sat Eve, her sleeves rolled up, a cool cloth resting on Rio's forehead. Her expression was calm, but her eyes betrayed concern.
"His temperature hasn't come down yet," she whispered. "The doctor said the fever should break soon."
Richard nodded, but the worry never left his face. He moved closer, gently brushing back a strand of hair from his son's forehead.
Fourteen years.
Fourteen long years since that bloody incident.
Nothing remained the same.
He had changed everything—the city, the people around him, the way he lived. He had buried the past beneath power, wealth, and control. And yet, tonight, it clawed its way back with merciless precision.
"I won't let the past devour the present," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Not again."
He leaned closer to Rio. "Sleep, son. Get well soon. Whatever this is… we'll face it together."
On the other side of the city, darkness ruled.
Arthur's room was submerged in shadows, illuminated only by the cold blue glow of a laptop screen. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room away from the outside world, as though light itself was unwelcome there.
On the screen played a CCTV video.
The footage showed a desolate concrete bridge, isolated and eerily quiet. No traffic. No pedestrians. No sign of life.
Then, without warning, two black Mercedes screeched to a halt.
The doors flew open.
Several men jumped out, dragging someone violently from the car. The victim's hands were tied, his eyes blindfolded. Even through the grainy footage, it was obvious—he had already endured hell.
His shirt was torn to shreds, fabric ripped apart as though clawed by sharp weapons. Blood soaked his clothes, staining the concrete beneath him.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen.
A slow, demonic smirk curved his lips.
The video continued.
One of Arthur's henchmen stepped forward, unveiling a tool. Without hesitation, he began ripping out the victim's fingernails—one by one.
The screams were muted, but the agony was unmistakable.
Arthur exhaled slowly, satisfaction flickering in his gaze.
Then something unexpected happened.
From the far end of the bridge, headlights appeared.
A Ducati roared into view.
The rider slowed, instinctively sensing something wrong. The bike came to a halt not far from the scene.
A young figure dismounted.
He stood frozen, staring.
The torture continued uninterrupted. None of the henchmen noticed they were being watched. The screams eventually faded, replaced by an eerie stillness.
The victim's body went limp.
Dead.
Without ceremony, the men lifted the corpse and hurled it over the bridge. A loud splash echoed as the body hit the water below.
Almost immediately, movement stirred beneath the surface.
Hungry crocodiles surged forward, tearing into the flesh with savage precision.
The young figure by the Ducati didn't scream.
Didn't run.
Didn't intervene.
His face drained of color as if something inside him had shattered. He stood there like a statue, caught in a silent war within himself.
Moments later, figures emerged from behind him—professional bodyguards. One of them placed a hand on his shoulder.
The young man collapsed.
They caught him before he hit the ground and carried him away.
At the same time, Arthur's men restarted the Mercedes and vanished into the darkness, leaving no trace behind.
Arthur paused the video.
His smirk faded into thoughtful silence.
"That look…" he murmured. "An ordinary man would panic. Scream. Run. Call the police."
But this boy?
"He looked like a lost puppy," Arthur mused. "As if he had seen this before."
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Arthur's fingers tapped against the desk as unease settled in.
Something was off.
There was something about that boy.
Arthur picked up his phone. "Jane. Come to my room. Now."
Within minutes, Jane appeared. He was tall, sharp-eyed, with fingers that never seemed to stop moving even when idle. Arthur's most trusted ally. His closest friend for over a decade.
Arthur pointed at the screen. "Get me everything on that kid. Fast."
Jane raised an eyebrow. "This one? Seriously, boss? Your ego got hooked on a pretty petal now?"
Arthur shot him a warning look.
"Is he really that dangerous?" Jane continued teasingly. "Or are you planning to kill him just to satisfy your so-called curiosity?"
"Why do you keep calling me boss?" Arthur snapped. "We're not at work."
Jane smirked. "You are the boss. I'm just being respectful."
"Don't test me."
Arthur's voice turned cold. "I'm not killing him. Not yet. Something about him is… familiar."
Jane leaned closer to the screen.
"He reminds me of someone," Arthur continued quietly. "Someone who should be this age if he's still alive."
Jane stiffened. "Arthur… how long are you going to cling to that ghost?"
Arthur's jaw tightened.
"It's been years," Jane went on. "We searched everywhere. No trace. Not even a body."
"That's because he's alive," Arthur snapped. "I can feel it."
Jane sighed. "You came back, trained yourself, took over the mafia world, eliminated every threat—just to find him. He was a child, Arthur. Severely injured."
"Shut up," Arthur growled.
His aura darkened, filling the room with suffocating pressure.
"He can't be dead," Arthur whispered, eyes glistening. "He just can't."
Jane stared at him, startled.
The king of the underworld—crying.
Jane pulled him into a rough hug. "Don't cry like this. If you do, I'll start crying too, you bastard."
Arthur let out a shaky breath and pushed him away. "Find the boy."
Jane nodded. "Alright. First, let me analyze the footage."
He replayed the video several times, zooming in, enhancing frames.
"Limited-edition Ducati," Jane muttered. "Expensive watch. Designer shoes. High-end clothes. And look—bodyguards."
Arthur leaned in.
"Oh hell," Jane said. "Look at his neck.
That's an identity card."
"But it's flipped."
"Doesn't matter. The ribbon design gives it away."
Jane smirked. "XX University."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "A student?"
"Yep. And judging by the timing, he was coming back after class."
Arthur clenched his fist. "Hack the university database."
Already typing, Jane replied, "On it."
His fingers flew across the keyboard. With the help of high-tech facial recognition and iris scanning from the CCTV footage, the system cracked open.
Jane's eyes widened.
"Arthur," he said slowly. "You might want to sit down."
"Just tell me."
Jane turned the screen toward him.
"Name: Rio de Orlando. Age: 23. Son of Richard Orlando."
Arthur froze.
"An exceptional student. Skilled in multiple sports."
Jane swallowed. "And yes… this is the same Orlando Corporation we're here to sign a partnership with."
Silence swallowed the room.
Arthur's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
"So," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "the sole heir of the Orlando empire… is the boy who fainted at my crime scene."
His gaze darkened.
"And I was planning to kill him."
The past had found its way back.
And this time—
It would not be ignored.