Inside the glittering marble hall of the Presidential Tower, the atmosphere was thicker than smoke. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, diplomats whispered nervously, and the foreign president sat stiffly on his throne-like chair.
Classic sat boldly across from him, legs crossed, chin slightly raised like he owned the entire tower. His presence screamed royalty, even though Chris, the true king, was nowhere to be seen—at least not in anyone's eyes. He stood quietly among the guards, dressed in plain uniform, helmet shading his face. He was invisible, deliberately so.
The president cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward Chris.
"You—guard," he ordered, his voice dripping with authority. "Before this meeting continues, you must kneel and apologize to me. In this house, you bow before power."
The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to Chris. He stood straight, his posture firm, unmoving, like a soldier carved from stone. His silence wasn't disrespect—it was defiance.
Slowly, Chris tilted his head just slightly, his voice deep but calm, carrying the kind of weight that unsettled men without them knowing why.
"I kneel to no man," he said flatly. "I take orders only from my commander."
The president's eyes flared. He slammed his palm on the table. "This is my country! My palace! Here, my word is law!"
Classic leaned forward, his gaze cold but laced with a dangerous smile.
"My men do not kneel," he said softly, each word striking like a blade. "If you want their loyalty, earn it. If you want their obedience, buy it. But force?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "That's a game you cannot win."
A ripple of unease spread across the room. The guards around Chris tightened their grip on their weapons, but none moved. The president's advisors whispered among themselves, some sweating, others glancing at the towering guard who had just refused the order of a head of state.
The foreign president leaned back, visibly unsettled but hiding it behind a crooked smile.
"Impressive loyalty," he muttered, his tone bitter. "But loyalty can be misplaced."
Chris, still hidden under his disguise, said nothing more. He simply stood tall, eyes forward, as though nothing in the world could bend his spine.
Classic, recognizing the shift in power, tapped the table twice with his finger, drawing every gaze back to him.
"You invited me here as a guest," Classic said. "Do not mistake my presence as submission. I came to speak as equals. Not to watch my men humiliated."
The president's jaw clenched. He wanted to push further, to break the pride standing before him—but something in his gut told him that if he kept pressing, the tower itself might collapse under the weight of Blackwood wrath.
And so, he leaned back, forcing a smile, while his mind raced.
Who truly holds the crown here? The boy called Classic… or the sis nt shadow standing behind him?