The headlights sliced the dark, gliding up the private drive as the Harrison family's black Maybach purred to a stop. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The villa loomed before them — grand, immaculate, untouched.
Alex Harrison stepped out first, adjusting his cufflinks, wine-warmed and smug after a long dinner. His wife followed, heels clicking against the stones.
He opened the back door and gently leaned in, unbuckling her daughter's seatbelt.
She yawned, rubbing her eyes. "Daddy....Can I go straight to bed?"
He smiled faintly. "Of course, sweetheart." cradling her in his arms, murmuring something about marshmallow dreams.
That's when the porch light flickered.
Just once.
And Then-
A thunderous burst lit the eastern wing in orange fire, the windows bursting outward like a cannon blast. Heat whooshed across the driveway, setting the trees trembling.
Alex whipped around, shielding his daughter. His wife screamed, frozen near the front bumper, eyes wide with horror.
A second explosion.
A deeper, louder one.
The villa's heart burst open, flames punching through the upper floor like a fury long withheld.
"Get back in the car!" Alex barked.
Still holding his daughter, he shoved the door open with one hand. His wife scrambled in. He laid the girl across the seat, snapped the belt around her, then jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door.
Engine screamed.
Gravel spraying behind the wheels.
Behind them, the villa burned with unnatural precision.
They screeched to a halt outside the front gate.
Alex jumped out. He stood still. Smoke-stained. Ash-dusted. His white shirt was open at the throat, a faint blood smear on his cuff from where glass had grazed him.
Then—
Lights.
Engines.
Voices.
Five minutes.
That's all it took for the world to arrive.
A sharp screech of tires, and a news van pulled up, almost clipping the curb. Another followed. Then a third. Drones buzzed overhead, some already streaming live.
Cameras, drones, microphones — and questions.
"Mr. Harrison! What happened here?"
"Were you inside when it happened?"
"Were the Harrisons targeted?"
"Is this linked to the recent allegations—?"
Alex blinked.
Just five minutes ago, he was lifting his daughter from the backseat.
Just five minutes ago, her breath had warmed his neck.
Now there was glass in his collar and his house was a statement.
He turned slowly, as if finally aware he was on stage.
"Back. All of you. Back up!" he shouted.
"Villa Kreslin, home of Alex Harrison — known philanthropist and executive board member of the Harrison Foundation — suffered a devastating fire tonight. Fire officials are calling it targeted..."
He pulled out his phone, rage boiling under the surface. "Where's my security team? Where the hell is Marcus?! Call him." He spoke through gritted teeth, like every word was wrestled into obedience.
There was a twitch at his temple — a dangerous sign in a man like him.
He hung up and turned just as a reporter's drone buzzed too close.
He noticed that.
Security arrived seconds later, black SUVs flooding in like a dark tide and gleaming under the wash of red-blue emergency lights. One of them leapt out, earpiece glinting.
Too late.
Alex stormed toward them, soot on his cheek, and a rage so feral it made even the captain take a step back.
"You're supposed to be on night watch rotation—on site! Where were the motion sensors? The thermal flags?"
"Sir, the feed was clean. No breach alerts, no external—"
"Do I look like someone who gives a damn about clean feeds?!"
His voice cracked against the night like a whip.
The media, just yards away, zoomed in.
"My wife and daughter were in that car. That fire went off less than ten seconds after I parked—ten seconds, and you didn't know a thing?"
Captain Rivas held his ground, but barely.
"Sir, it's possible they used a cloaked entry—heat-suppressed, probably pre-planted—"
"Don't. Tell. Me. 'Possible.' You were paid to prevent this. All of you—get inside, secure what's left, and sweep every inch of footage from the last seventy-two hours."
He took a threatening step forward, voice lowering.
"And if I find out one of you was paid off—if even a wire was touched from the inside—you won't walk again."
Then—
A flicker.
He felt it more than saw it.
Drones.
Red record lights.
The unmistakable hum of live-stream feeds.
Dozens of lenses trained right on him.
The press was eating it up — broadcasting a billionaire's breakdown in real time.
Alex's jaw tightened.
He glanced over his shoulder — saw one of the closer reporters mouthing something to her cameraman.
His hands dropped.
His voice shifted. Cold. Controlled.
"Check the perimeter. Secure the scene. I want thermal scans and external breach analysis run now. No statements to media. No leaks."
Rivas nodded sharply, grateful for the pivot.
Then he whispered. Behind his eyes, the storm still burned.
"Get my daughter out of this circus. Take her and isadora to the safehouse in Belmonte. And lock it down. Triple code."
He turned slowly toward the media wall — and for a moment, gave them the face they were used to.
The transformation was instant — from fire to stone. Just standing still, facing the flames.
Every movement became calculated, like a chess piece choosing not to strike — yet.
Three fire engines stood in the gravel circle, hoses cutting arcs of water over the scorched rooftop.
Dozens of red and blue lights flashed across the estate walls, giving the whole property the surreal look of a battlefield rave.
The villa still hissed as water hit embers. Smoke clung low to the ground, heavy and bitter. Flashlights flickered across blackened marble and twisted steel.
A fireman in a soot-covered helmet moved carefully through the rubble, sweeping with his gloved hands.
Then — something caught the beam of his torch.
Metal. Oddly shaped. Half-buried near the remains of a scorched pillar.
He crouched, brushing the ash aside, fingers closing around the object.
He held it up.
A silver-black broken circle.
A diagonal slash, like a silent blade.
At the center — a faintly raised flame.
Beneath it — a thin dark line, like a shadow crossing beneath.
He turned it over, puzzled, squinting through the smoke.
Then—
"What is that?"
The voice was low. Controlled.
He turned, startled — and met the eyes of Captain Rivas.
The captain's face was unreadable, lit by the pulsing red of emergency strobes. He stepped forward slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"Sir, I just—"
"Hand it over."
The fireman hesitated.
"I thought it might be evidence—"
Rivas held out his hand. Gloved. Firm.
The fireman placed the medallion into it reluctantly.
Rivas looked down at the symbol. He recognized the symbol.
He'd only seen it once — in a buried file from years ago. A name spoken in hushed tones among high-risk operatives. No photos. Just whispers.
"You didn't see this."
"But shouldn't I report—"
"You didn't see this."
He closed his fist around it and looked out at the wreckage — the scorched trees, the blinking lights, the reporters still pressing against the barriers.
The fireman watched him go, uneasy.
His boots crunched over wet gravel, ash trailing behind him, emblem hidden inside his coat — the mark of a ghost organization no one dared speak of.
Tharosin.
"Justice from the shadows."
They don't just burn houses.
They burned masks.
Miles away, the espresso machine hissed.
Steam curled upward as Eric poured the dark, bitter liquid into a matte-black ceramic cup. No sugar. No milk. Just black coffee, the way he liked it — sharp and clean.
Behind him, the large screen in the living room played muted footage from the breaking news:
Villa Kreslin — Engulfed in flames.
He didn't glance at it right away.
He stirred the coffee once.
Twice.
Set the spoon down.
Lifted the cup.
Sip. No expression.
A soft glow from the screen reflected faintly in the polished kitchen tile.
Then—
He turned, just slightly.
His eyes didn't blink.
A news chyron flashed silently:
BREAKING: EXPLOSION ROCKS PROMINENT HARRISON ESTATE
He didn't flinch.
The angle shifted. New footage.
A black SUV. Speeding in.
Doors flew open.
Alex's daughter. His wife. A flash of panic and hands.
She stumbled from one car toward another, lifted hurriedly by her mother.
Eric blinked.
Paused the footage.
The frame froze:
Alex's daughter. No more than six.
Her arms curled around her mother's neck.
Looking back once, wide-eyed, toward the flames.
Alex's wife was shielding the girl's face.
Eric's eyes narrowed, something shifting behind them.
He walked forward, setting the cup down beside the remote.
Muted screams flickered on screen. Flames licking the sky.
Emergency crews. Sirens. A flash of red lights across Clara's pale face.
The child who once called him "the candy general."
Who always ran to him with sticky hands and soft smiles.
Memory.
Quick and uninvited, like a match struck in darkness.
A garden party.
Bright sun. Lemon slices floating in glasses. Laughter somewhere far off.
"Uncle Eric," she said, holding something up with pride.
A tiny wrapped candy, half-melted in her palm.
"You always look like you need something sweet."
He blinked at it. His hands remained at his sides.
"I don't eat candy," he said flatly, already looking past her.
But Clara didn't budge. She tucked the candy into his jacket pocket and patted it twice.
"Don't tell my dad," she giggled. "He says candy ruins warriors."
And. Now.
He didn't look away.
Not yet.
His jaw tightened slightly.
But he said nothing.
Did nothing.