Elijah adjusted his collar for the fourth time in the rearview mirror. The tie was smooth. The blazer clean — second-hand, but pressed to precision. He'd even shaved. A fresh scar near his temple peeked from under his hair, but he left it. Let them see what he'd been through.
He wasn't trying to impress.
He was trying to remind them he was still standing.
The Slade mansion glowed like a palace under floodlights. Expensive cars lined the courtyard. Staff in tailored black waited by the doors. The air smelled like money and old pride.
The birthday of Gregory Slade — founder, godfather and powerful
Elijah exhaled slowly and stepped out.
People turned. Whispered.
He smiled anyway.
---
Inside, everything was gold.
Gold trim. Gold frames. Even gold-dusted desserts passed around on silver everything was just as he could remember. Live jazz floated from the balcony, drowning out the lies people told in clinking glasses and fake laughter. It felt a little sickening.
"Elijah," a voice drawled behind him.
He turned.
Lilian stood there, Jeremy beside her in a crisp white tux. She wore crimson silk — sleek, slitted, and cold like her smile.
He wasn't too surprised to see Jeremy at the party or how unbothered everyone seemed to be at their coziness. Jeremy had been her childhood friend. Born of a wealthy home as well. Everyone had always thought they would be the perfect match—until he came along. Well… looks like they just might get the ending they want.
"You made it," she said. "We were wondering if you'd actually show."
"I was invited," Elijah said.
"Pity," Jeremy muttered, sipping his drink. "Would've been a better night without the PR nightmare in the room."
Elijah's jaw tightened. But he didn't flinch.
"Lovely seeing you both," he said, stepping past them.
---
The party went on. Laughter, toasts, speeches. Gregory Slade beamed at the attention, cigar in one hand, glass in the other. A grey headed man with a mile that almost seems rehearsed. He looked quite charming and agile despite the seriousness of the age he was turning.
Everyone there was gathered to celebrate an icon. If only they knew how filthy he was
Elijah drifted through the glittering crowd like a ghost in his own skin.
They didn't want him here.
He was the story everyone pretended not to be whispering about — the ex-con son-in-law, the hacker, the charity case. This wasn't an olive branch. It was a publicity move.
He didn't belong.
He'd never belonged.
Near the back of the room, his eyes locked on something — someone.
Arthur St. Clair.
He stood near Gregory, dressed in charcoal with a folded hat under one arm. Two men in matching uniforms flanked him — military, but not quite.
The Fold.
Elijah felt his pulse spike.
Arthur turned slightly, and for a fraction of a second, their eyes met.
Then Arthur turned back to Gregory, continuing his conversation like nothing had happened.
Elijah said nothing. Pretended not to see.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
---
It happened after the cake.
Gregory made a toast. People cheered. Fireworks cracked in the garden.
Then a murmur.
Then confusion.
Then silence.
"My watch," Gregory barked suddenly. "Where's my watch?!"
The crowd stilled. Security fanned out.
It wasn't just any watch — it was the vintage Rolex, platinum, one-of-a-kind. A Slade heirloom. The kind of thing no one could afford to lose… or steal.
Jeremy's voice rang out like a dagger.
"I saw Elijah holding it earlier. Near the bar."
Elijah turned toward him slowly. "What?"
"Yeah." Jeremy nodded. "Said he was admiring it. Guess he liked it too much."
Elijah stepped forward. "You lying piece of—"
Security guards surrounded him. One of them reached into Elijah's inner coat pocket.
And there it was.
The watch.
Elijah stared at it. Stared at his coat. "That wasn't—someone planted that—"
Gasps rippled across the room.
A woman whispered, "Unbelievable."
A man muttered, "Trash always shows its color."
Jeremy smirked, eyes gleaming with false pity. "I really thought you'd changed, man."
Elijah snapped.
He lunged at Jeremy, fist cocked, rage searing through him like fire.
Jeremy barely reacted.
The guards did.
They tackled Elijah mid-swing, shoving him to the floor.
He struggled. Kicked. But more arms joined in, lifting him like a sack of rage and regret.
"Don't just throw him out," Jeremy said, brushing invisible dust from his lapel. "Teach him some respect."
The last thing Elijah saw was Lilian sipping champagne, eyes cold and glassy, the same blue eyes that once twinkled in pure admiration for him now looked at him in complete disgust.
Then—
Black.
A rough cloth pulled over his head.
Darkness.
He didn't know where they took him.
Somewhere underground. Somewhere wet. Cement walls. No cameras.
They beat him.
Fists. Boots. A baton to the ribs. Another to his stomach. His jaw cracked against the floor.
They didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
He wasn't supposed to get up.
He was supposed to disappear.
And for a while, he almost welcomed it.
Until the blood in his mouth mixed with something bitter — and hot.
Something alive.
As the edges of his vision began to blur, a light flickered across the room.
No, not a light.
A projection.
A hologram.
It hovered above his bloodied chest, cold and blue and silent — until the words appeared.
MISSION: JOIN THE FOLD. GET YOUR REVENGE.
His head throbbed. He couldn't tell if it was real.
But something inside him stirred. Something deeper than pain. Deeper than rage.
It was choice.
The first real one in weeks.
Elijah blinked through the blood, lips parted.
"…yes," he whispered.
Then everything went dark.