Somewhere…
In a sprawling mansion bathed in opulence, soft music drifted through the air, mingling with the clinking of cutlery and warm, elegant chatter.
Guests waltzed beneath glittering chandeliers, their laughter light, their movements graceful. Others sipped wine and exchanged pleasantries, each one adorned in lavish attire and dazzling jewels that shimmered like stars in motion.
Away from the revelry, behind thick velvet doors, a lavish office glowed in hues of red and gold. Mahogany furniture gleamed under the chandelier's light, and the scent of aged leather and expensive cologne lingered in the air.
A man with dark brown hair stood near the wall, dressed in an impeccable black suit embroidered with gold thread. In his hand, he held a staff—black and gold, crowned with a carved black tulip at its tip.
His gaze was fixed on a painting.
A knight clad in silver armor stood atop a heap of dismembered soldiers, blood soaking the ground beneath him. He held a banner bearing the emblem of a golden horse mid-gallop on a white field, framed in a shield of gold.
"Interesting, isn't it?" a voice echoed from the doorway.
A man in his mid-sixties entered the room. His short black-blonde hair was neatly combed, his sunken black eyes sharp beneath thin brows. A flat nose, chubby cheeks, and plush lips gave him a deceptively gentle appearance. He wore a dark green suit, tailored to perfection.
He stepped beside the younger man, eyes settling on the painting.
"I bought it at an auction twelve years ago. I was the only bidder. The others found it too grisly—too horrific to hang in their pristine hallways." He chuckled softly. "But I found it… fascinating. A warrior standing victorious atop the corpses of his enemies. A portrait of triumph. I couldn't let it go."
The man with dark brown hair hummed in response, his expression unreadable.
"Ah, where are my manners," the older man said. "Let me pour you a drink. Please—make yourself comfortable."
He walked to the office cabinet and retrieved a bottle of whiskey and two crystal glasses.
The younger man moved to the chair near the desk and sat, watching as the older man poured the amber liquid with practiced ease.
He handed over a glass, and they clinked them together before taking a sip.
The older man settled into the chair opposite him.
"Ahh… seventy-year-old Louis's whiskey," the younger man murmured, savoring the taste. "It's been a while since I've indulged in a vintage this fine. Convenient, and quite nostalgic."
The older man smiled. "It was my father's. He had a deep love for the classics—music, food, drink. It's a pleasure to share it with someone who appreciates it. Thank you, Ricardo."
Ricardo flinched—barely.
He was used to being addressed as My Liege. His name was rarely spoken aloud. Those who dared often met misfortunes especially of the grisly kind.
'The old fart', he thought.
But their bond was more than business. It was blood. And so, for now, he swallowed his pride.
The man with the black-blonde hair sighed, his gaze distant. "I still can't believe Andrew is gone. It's a damn shame. I was planning a long weekend with him in Siberia. How sad."
"Very sad indeed," Ricardo replied smoothly. "But… I didn't know you two were that close, Uncle Gerald. When did that start?"
Gerald exhaled slowly. "Long before you were born. Your mother and I were Andrew's childhood friends. We grew up in the same neighborhood. She even had a little crush on him—used to dress up every morning just to impress him at school. I'd scold her for taking too long, nearly making us late by beautifying herself."
He chuckled softly, lost in the memory.
But then his eyes turned cold. The warmth vanished.
"But the bastard had it coming. Andrew was brilliant, yes—but foolish. His obsession with money got him killed. Bloody idiot. I was going to make his body swim with the fishes that weekend. Let their bellies feast on his flesh."
He paused, then smirked darkly.
"But I suppose you had it planned all along, hmm? My dear nephew… you are a Montenegra through and through. Your father's blood runs strong."
Ricardo's lips curled into a smirk. "Was there ever any doubt, Uncle?"
Gerald leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "No… of course not. But that grandmother of yours, Marita—she made my sister's life hell. I'll never forgive her for that. Too bad she died of a heart attack before I could take my revenge. You didn't like her either."
Ricardo swirled the whisky in his glass, the amber liquid catching the light.
"No," he said simply.
After a pause, he spoke again. "About our deal, Uncle. Have you been keeping an eye on her?"
Gerald sighed, finishing the last drops of his drink and placing the glass on the desk.
"Yes. But there's not much to report."
"She's training for the Derby Racing season. Every day, she's on the track—practicing, pushing herself. My sources say she's incredibly talented. A storm is brewing around her. After her tryout race video went viral, we saw over six hundred million dollars in bets flood in. If she exceeds expectations at the Derby… we'll see even more."
Ricardo listened intently, eyes fixed on the swirling whisky in his glass.
"Mmm… interesting," he murmured.
"So… what do you plan to do with her?" Gerald asked, voice low and wary. "Do you want her? She's Milton's daughter, Ricardo. You know the Montenegras and the Miltons have been at each other's throats for generations—ever since that incident. If you claim that girl, your ancestors will turn in their graves."
Ricardo smiled, slow and deliberate. "I'd love to see that," he murmured, draining the last drops of his whisky.
Just then—
"Father, may I please have a word with you?"
A new voice rang through the room.
A man stepped inside—short golden-blonde hair swept to the side, a sharp nose, and golden-brown eyes that shimmered like molten copper. Plush pink lips. A sculpted physique poured into a navy-blue suit that clung to him like armor.
The moment he entered, his gaze locked onto his father—then shifted to the masked man in the black and gold embroidered suit, glass of whisky in hand.
Gerald cleared his throat. "What is it, Bernard? I'm in the middle of a meeting, son. Can it wait?"
Bernard's eyes lingered on Ricardo, unreadable.
"It's fine, Father. I'll wait for you on the porch."
He cast one final glance at Ricardo—sharp, probing—then turned and exited, closing the door behind him.
Ricardo sat frozen.
Confusion and fury twisted inside him.
His grip tightened around the glass, knuckles whitening.
One name echoed in his mind.
'Plumberry!!'
'How?'
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
A storm rumbled in a distance, looming in and fast.
.....
Meanwhile....
Two WFAB agents sat across from each other at a steel desk, the air thick with silence.
Between them rested the familiar black velvet box—ominous as ever. But tonight, something had changed.
A faint blue glow shimmered beneath it, casting an eerie, pulsating shadow across the desk. It looked alive. Like it was breathing.
"How long has it been like this?" Isaac asked, his voice low.
Roy cleared his throat. "Since the thunderstorm last night. It started glowing while I was observing it. And then when I touched…" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Everything froze. Time itself… stopped."
Isaac's pupils dilated. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Captain. For a few moments, everything was locked in place. No sound. No movement. Then, as soon as I pulled my hand away, time resumed. But when I tried to touch it again—to confirm what I'd seen—it zapped me. A bolt of electricity shot out from the box and struck my hand. It was real. It hurt. This isn't just some artifact. There's something inside it. Something powerful. Dangerous. And I don't like it. Not one bit."
Isaac exhaled slowly, the weight of Roy's words settling over him like fog.
"Did you tell anyone else?"
"No. Only you."
"Good. Keep it that way. No one else needs to know—at least not yet. Until it's… convenient."
"Yes, Captain."
Isaac turned his gaze back to the box. The glow seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. Goosebumps prickled his skin.
Something inside was calling to him.
Alluring.
Manipulating.
Controlling.
He didn't know why. But ever since the box arrived, the dreams had started—strange, vivid, impossible dreams.
Now, with Roy's account, things began to make a twisted kind of sense.
Or maybe not.
He sighed, rising from his chair and heading toward the exit.
"I'm going to speak with the chief specialist. I want a full report on our 'Sleeping Prince.' Keep observing the box. And keep me updated."
"Yes, Captain," Roy replied.
Isaac paused at the door, casting one last glance at the glowing box.
"Good. Hopefully this mist of mystery clears soon… and I can finally get some well-deserved sleep in my Sweeches' arms."
He smiled faintly.
But just as he was about to open the door,
"Not another step, Phillips."
Isaac froze.
The voice behind him was sharp, youthful—and definitely not Roy's.
He turned slowly.
A boy stood there, golden-blonde hair gleaming under flickering candlelight. His golden-brown eyes shimmered like molten copper behind a porcelain mask. He wore fencing attire, crisp and ceremonial, and in his hand, a gleaming sword hovered inches from Isaac's throat.
The world around Isaac shifted.
He was no longer in the sterile office.
Now he stood in a lavish chamber—ancient, regal. A fire crackled in the hearth. Candles flickered in brass holders. Rich vintage furniture lined the room, and the air smelled of old parchment and rosewood.
The boy's voice rang out, formal and venomous.
"That is very bold of thee—to step foot in thy mansion without shame."
The blade pressed tighter against Isaac's skin.
"Well, too bad. Tonight thou shalt taste punishment. My blade shall slice thy throat, and perhaps teach thee a lesson, runt. That the Plumberry Manor is no place for petty thieves."
The boy raised his sword.
Isaac closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable—
BOOM!
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
Thunder cracked like a gunshot inside his skull.
"Captain… Captain… I need assistance—now! Captain...Captain."
Roy's voice echoed, warped and underwater.
Pain surged through Isaac's head and chest—sharp, unbearable.
Lightning flashed again, followed by another rumble. It felt like the storm was inside him, tearing through his nerves.
He heard Roy's voice falter, then stop.
Isaac turned his head slowly.
Roy stood frozen, eyes wide with horror.
Isaac tried to speak, but his tongue was heavy, paralyzed by pain.
He turned toward the steel cabinet—caught his reflection.
His breath hitched.
Eyes also widening with horror.
Blue veins, glowing like bioluminescent roots, snaked across his neck and hands. He tore off his shirt.
His chest was marked too—veins pulsing with unnatural light, like something had branded him.
Roy staggered backward, breath shallow.
They both turned toward the box.
Slowly.
It glowed brighter than before.
Ominous.
Alive.
"What… the… hell…" Roy whispered.
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
...
Elsewhere…
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
"AAAH!"
Patricia gasped, clutching her chest due to a sharp pain, one hand gripping the bathroom sink for support.
Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
Then—silence.
The pain vanished as suddenly as it came.
She straightened, dazed, and reached for her toothbrush.
"What the hell was that…" she mumbled, brushing her teeth with trembling hands.
Unbeknownst to her, faint blue veins glowed at the nape of her neck.
They pulsed once.
Then faded.
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!