The scent of roasted beans hung in the air as Miles sat alone at a corner table, nursing a cup of black coffee—silent, still, unreadable.
Across from him, at a separate table near the windows, Celina, Becky, and Rose sat together with trays of half-touched lunch. The buzz in the cafeteria wasn't about assignments or weekend plans today.
It was all about one name.
"The Paradise Club."
Whispers slithered between students like smoke.
"Did you hear? It burned down last night."
"I saw pictures online—nothing but ashes."
"Someone said it was targeted. Like, a real hit."
"Do you think it's connected to that gang violence from last year?"
Celina quietly sipped her juice, eyes occasionally darting toward Miles. Becky leaned closer and whispered, "Hey… isn't this the same club we were at last night?"
"Shhh—don't say it out loud," Celina whispered back.
Rose smirked. "You think they'll guess we were involved?"
"God, I hope not."
Miles didn't have to look to know what they were talking about. The tension was unmistakable. He could hear every word across the floor. Every voice, every murmur, every breath. But he remained stoic—gaze locked out the window, lost in thoughts far darker than rumours.
The bell rang, signaling the end of another lecture. Books closed, chairs screeched lightly against the floor, and students began to pour out of the classroom in small waves.
Miles stood up slowly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. Celina walked beside him, adjusting the strap of her handbag as they moved through the hallway.
"Is your father at home today?" Miles asked, his voice calm but purposeful.
Celina nodded. "Yeah. He usually doesn't keep a tight schedule for himself unless it's urgent. I think he cleared the day for you, actually. That's why he asked me to invite you over."
Miles simply nodded in return, processing her words. There was a quietness between them, not of tension, but anticipation.
As they reached the front courtyard of the college, Becky and Rose came trotting up behind them.
"Hey! Don't forget us now!" Rose chirped, giving a playful bump to Celina's shoulder.
Becky grinned, "We'll catch you two later. Let us know if your 'mystery guest dinner' becomes a thing."
Miles gave a slight wave. "See you later."
They all exchanged goodbyes, and Celina turned to head toward her parked car. Miles, on the other hand, made his way to the nearby bus stop.
The afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows as Miles stepped off the bus near the elementary school. A light breeze rustled the trees, and the usual buzz of children's laughter filled the air.
In front of the school gates, two familiar faces lit up at the sight of him.
"Big brooo!" Hope shouted, waving wildly.
Asher followed close behind, his small backpack bouncing on his back. "You're late by exactly three minutes!"
Miles chuckled softly, kneeling down for a second as they ran up. "Sorry, Commander Asher. I got held up by some 'important intel'."
Hope giggled, clutching his arm. "Did you bring snacks?"
"Nope," Miles replied, standing up, "but there might be cookies at home if you behave."
As they walked the familiar streets of Star Harbor, hand in hand, Miles felt something settle quietly inside him. Amid all the weapons, plans, and shadows from his past, these walks—this simple peace—was real.
The afternoon light filtered through the trees above, and the gravel crunched under their shoes as the trio made their way back home, laughter and playful bickering trailing behind them like echoes of a childhood Miles never got to have.
After returning home, Miles dropped his bag by the door and was immediately ambushed—by a paper airplane. It clipped his shoulder and fluttered to the floor.
"Direct hit!" Asher cheered from behind the couch, goggles on his forehead like a little mad scientist.
Miles chuckled and picked up the plane."This thing barely flew, kiddo."
"It's a stealth bomber," Asher defended. "Invisible to big brothers."
Hope darted into the room next, a crown made of gold foil on her head."Ignore him. I've declared myself queen of this house while you were gone."
Miles raised a brow. "And what's the queen's first decree?"
She grinned. "You owe us three days' worth of tickle tax."
Before he could react, both twins lunged at him. The living room turned into a battlefield of laughter, pillow attacks, and shouted royal edicts. Elena appeared in the doorway, arms folded and smiling as she leaned against the frame. Her eyes followed Miles—not in disbelief anymore, but in gratitude. In quiet awe.
But then, his phone buzzed.
"Monica"
He stood up, stepped onto the balcony, and answered the call.
"Yes, Monica. What's the update?"
Her voice came through steady but tense. "Boss, Dan finally opened his mouth... but he only gave us a name—'Old Master.'"
Miles narrowed his eyes, pacing slowly along the balcony rail. "Who?" he asked, voice sharp. "I've never heard of this man."
"It seems to be more of an internal term," Monica replied. "Nothing concrete in our databases. We're digging through Dan's communications now—calls, texts, offshore servers, everything."
Miles paused, staring at the horizon. He hated ghost names—figures powerful enough to be whispered but never confirmed.
"Keep pushing," he said. "What about the vials we found in the club vault?"
There was a brief silence, then Monica spoke carefully. "It's complicated. The drug's composition is dormant on entry. Inject it, and the subject shows no reaction. But…"
"But?"
"Something triggers it later—maybe a signal, a chemical catalyst, or even a sound frequency. We're not sure yet. Our lab's working around the clock."
Miles gritted his teeth, staring down at the floor.
"So someone could already be poisoned and not know it…"
His voice dropped cold. The thought chilled him deeper than he expected. A weapon like that wasn't just deadly—it was psychological warfare. Anyone, anywhere, could be walking time bombs.
He exhaled slowly. "Send me everything the moment you get a clearer picture."
"Yes, sir." Monica's voice faded as the line disconnected.
Miles stared into space for a moment, letting the implications wash over him. His fists clenched, jaw tense. This wasn't just a club or a trafficking ring. This was part of something engineered. Precision. Control. Fear.
And now, someone named "Old Master" was behind the curtain.
He glanced at the time. It was nearly time to meet Victor.
Miles turned, slipped back inside, and told Elena he had somewhere to be.
She nodded gently, as if she already knew. Hope and Asher were too busy fighting over a TV remote to notice.
Miles grabbed his coat and walked out.
The tires of Miles's sleek black car rolled onto the stone-paved driveway of the Wraithbourne estate, the afternoon sun casting golden reflections on the smooth polished hood. The massive wrought-iron gates had already opened for him, slowly creaking apart with a regal air, as if they recognized who he was.
At the entrance, two security guards in crisp black uniforms stood at attention. The older one stepped forward slightly, offering a respectful nod. "Welcome, Mr. Sterling. We've been expecting you."
Miles nodded silently and drove forward.
The mansion loomed ahead—an imposing yet elegant structure made of pale stone, ivy crawling neatly along its pillars and second-story balconies. The architecture was old money—Victorian with modern touches, large windows framed with carved granite, and a domed rooftop inlaid with shimmering black tiles. The front porch was wide, with marble steps leading up to a tall double-door entry, guarded by twin lion statues.
As the engine stopped, the serenity of the estate settled around him. The birds chirped faintly in the distance. A soft breeze rustled the trimmed hedges lining the circular garden.
The door opened before Miles could knock.
"Come in, Miles," Celina said, smiling warmly, dressed in a light-blue casual blouse, her hair loosely tied back. She looked calm, but there was a flicker of nervousness in her eyes.
Miles stepped inside, his boots clicking against the polished dark-oak floor.
The interior of the mansion was a quiet symphony of wealth and taste. High ceilings arched above them, painted in soft cream with golden trim. A sweeping staircase curved to the right, its railing carved with vines and roses. A massive chandelier sparkled above the grand hall, refracting light into diamond shapes that danced on the walls.
Antique furniture—oak cabinets, silk-upholstered chairs, and carved tables—was arranged with deliberate precision. A fireplace crackled gently in one of the sitting rooms off to the side, and the faint scent of aged books and lavender hung in the air.
But then Miles stopped.
Something on the wall caught his eye—a portrait.
It was large, regal. The man in the painting sat in a high-backed chair, dressed in a tailored black suit, a gold watch barely visible on his wrist. His posture was upright, proud, yet not arrogant. His hair was graying but thick, his eyes sharp as blades. And yet—there was something deeply familiar in the way he looked into the distance, a sort of powerful stillness.
Miles stepped closer. The air around him grew still. His gaze locked onto the portrait.
"Him…" he muttered under his breath.
A memory stirred—faint, like fog lifting on a forgotten morning. That face… not fully remembered, but felt. A presence he had encountered long ago… or perhaps a shadow in the stories he heard growing up in the Graveyard.
His hand unconsciously clenched.
Celina noticed his reaction and paused beside him. "That's my grandfather… my dad says he was once a very close friend of your grandfather."
Miles didn't speak immediately. His eyes remained on the painting.
"I've seen that face before…" he whispered.
[A/N: Dear readers, I sincerely apologize for the irregular update schedule and varying chapter lengths. It's been an exceptionally busy week due to work commitments. I promise to make it up to you this weekend.]