The door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous echo. Jonathan stood in the dimly lit study room for a second, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned bone white. The silence that followed Emilia's words rang in his ears like a siren. Her voice, her defiance, it all clawed at his mind.
Then—
CRASH.
A heavy glass decanter shattered against the wall of his study, shards exploding like gunfire across the marble floor.
Jonathan didn't even blink.
He moved like a storm — calculated destruction. Papers went flying off the desk. A crystal globe shattered under his heel. One of his antique chairs toppled with a guttural crack as he kicked it aside.
He was loosing it
But it wasn't just Emilia. It was everything.
His father's voice echoed in his head from earlier that day:
> "Sometimes I regret giving the Overlord title to you. You're weak—"
Another bottle hit the wall.
He didn't care anymore.
He grabbed the nearest framed photo — one of the only ones he kept — a black-and-white image of himself and his mother, years before everything turned to ash. Before he became this version of himself.
CRACK.
The glass splintered under his fist.
Breathing hard, he stared at the blood forming across his knuckles — dark, dripping, beautiful.
He liked the pain.
It reminded him that he was still human… barely.
---
> Thirty Minutes Later — Underground Arena (Location: The Pit)
Blood. Smoke. Violence.
It was exactly what he needed.
The place pulsed with raw aggression, underground lights casting everything in a filthy orange glow. Shirtless men circled the ring, bets flying, adrenaline high.
They all turned when he walked in.
Silence.
Respect. Fear.
He didn't have to say a word — they parted for him like wolves bowing to the alpha. They knew who owned the Pit. Who owned them.
Jonathan stepped into the ring.
His suit jacket was already gone. His white shirt — now streaked with his own blood — stuck to his body, taut with rage.
"Who's first?" he growled.
No one moved.
"Ten million," he said coldly, eyes scanning the ring.
"If you can beat me."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Then finally — a desperate fool stepped forward, thick with muscle and ego, probably thinking it'd be the easiest money of his life.
Jonathan grinned — not with joy, but with something darker.
He rolled his neck, blood still drying on his knuckles, a twisted smirk tugging at his lips.
This wasn't for the money. This was for control. For chaos. For the part of him that needed to be fed.
And tonight —
he was starving.
--
> Ten minutes later
The man lay crumpled on the floor, groaning, bloodied and broken.
Jonathan stood above him, chest heaving, knuckles split open. His lip was cut, blood trickling down his chin — but it only made him look more feral. More alive.
Someone handed him a glass of whiskey.
He downed it in one gulp.
"Again," he snapped, eyes scanning the crowd. "Twenty million to the next one." As he spat blood and barked his next challenge...
Emilia sat in the dark of her bedroom as the message from an unknown number stared back at her:
> "I'M WATCHING YOU, ÀMARA."
She blinked multiple times as her stomach dropped
Àmara.
Not Emilia.
No one had called her that in years—not since her parents died. Not since the accident. Not since she'd buried that name along with her past.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Her fingers trembled as she tapped at the screen, hoping—praying—for a clue. An IP. A number. A trace.
Nothing.
Just unknown sender. No contact. No history. No metadata.
Like it had come from a ghost.
> "Fuck…" she muttered, under her breath.
She swiped again. And again. Pointless. Whoever sent the message was careful. Professional.
She started pacing.
Back and forth across the cold marble floor. Bare feet, no sound. But her mind was screaming.
Should she tell Jonathan?
"No," she said aloud, shaking her head violently as if to shake the thought loose.
"Not after what just happened."
She sat down hard on the edge of the bed. The phone still gripped like a lifeline.
Her thumb hovered over Katherine's name — the only contact she had.
Should she tell her?
She clenched her jaw, curled her knees up to her chest, trying to make herself smaller — like she could shrink the anxiety away.
Then she made her choice.
She locked the phone and tossed it onto the nightstand with a sharp exhale.
> "No," she whispered, voice barely audible.
She wasn't going to involve Katherine.
But the name... that name. Àmara.
It wasn't a slip. It was a message. A warning.
Whoever sent that text had done their homework.
They wanted her.
---
BUZZ.
The phone lit up again.
Mia's head snapped toward it. Her heart thudded once—hard—then went still.
She reached for it with shaking fingers.
Another message.
Same number. Same blank profile.
This one was colder.
> "YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER."
Mia's blood ran cold.
The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow from the moon bleeding through the curtains. Emilia sits on the bed, legs curled up under her, staring blankly at the wall. The phone with that chilling message lies untouched on the nightstand.
She swallows hard. Her chest tightens.
Then —
KNOCK. KNOCK.
Her heart jumps.
She quickly wipes her face and forces her voice steady (quietly) "Yes?"
The door opens just a crack.
"Forgive the intrusion, Miss Emilia. I… I just wanted to check on you." Sir Gary spoked
Mia hesitates, then clears her throat "I'm fine. Thank you."
Sir Gary doesn't step in. He stays in the doorway, respectful. "I've known Master Jonathan since he was a boy. I know the sound of slammed doors and raised voices in the Blacksmith's home, They… don't usually end well."
Mia tries to smile. It barely holds. "it was just a misunderstanding."
Sir Gary nods slowly, reading right through her but not pushing. "Of course. Still… if you need anything — tea, a warm meal, or just someone to listen — I'm always around."
Mia's lips part, like she wants to say yes, please — but the words never come out. "You're very kind, Sir Gary." she finally said
Sir Gary chuckled softly, "Kindness is the only thing that seems to survive longer than anger. I try to keep it alive."
He starts to close the door, but hesitates again. "And Miss Emilia…?"
She looks up.
"whatever happened tonight," Gary said quietly, "just know… it's okay to feel everything you're feeling. You're not wrong to want freedom," Gary added
Emilia stares at the space where he stood, her eyes glassy. Her throat tightens.
He nods once, then quietly shuts the door. As she lies back on the bed, pulling the blanket over herself like armor.
For the first time in hours, she exhales — long, quiet, and maybe just a little lighter.
--
Back in the VIP lounge
Jonathan sat alone, shirt off, bruised and blood-smeared. His back rested against the cracked leather of the booth. One hand gripped a half-empty bottle of whiskey. The other pressed against the side of his jaw where the last fighter had actually landed a hit.
The ache grounded him.
His phone buzzed once.
Unknown Number.
He picked it up.
> "Sir. We traced where Miss Emilia was tonight."
He blinked once — just once — but his grip on the bottle tightened.
> "She went to a She went to a house in West Bay – District 4. We tracked her route from the CCTV. The house was registered under the name: Gabriel Salvador".
Jonathan's eye twitched.
Her uncle.
So she had lied.
He tossed the bottle aside. It rolled across the table, spilling amber down the side.
> "Should we approach him?" the voice spoke
Jonathan stared into space for a long, cold second.
Then spoke:
> "No. Not yet."
He dropped the phone on the table and leaned back, jaw tight, pulse ticking at his temple.