—Some empires are built with names, others with silence.
Midnight, Hamburg — Abandoned Dockyard, District 9
The storm hadn't started yet, but the air smelled of one. The night was thick, the sky a blanket of iron-gray cloud, and the moon—if it was out at all—remained hidden behind the smoke and filth of Hamburg's underbelly.
Three men ran through the yard, footsteps echoing against the rusted containers and gravel. Their breath came in short gasps, desperation etched into every muscle. The soft click of boots followed behind them—measured, cold, unhurried.
Then—
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Three bullets.
Three bodies.
Falling like puppets cut from invisible strings.
The echo of gunshots faded into the night like it never happened.A sleek black car sat quietly at the edge of the scene—like a serpent in the dark. The driver didn't move. The windows were tinted so dark they mirrored the night, but the rear passenger door was slightly open, just enough for one detail to stand out:A hand. Pale skin. A eagle-tattoo on the wrist And between the fingers—a half-burnt cigarette, glowing faintly red.Two men in black suits stepped forward quickly. They didn't dare speak. They bowed low and extended a dark leather file toward the open door.Silence stretched for a few heartbeats. Then a voice emerged—low, husky, and laced with menace:
"I want that bastard dead before I leave to Berlin.""Clear his empire like it never existed.""No trace. No memory. Just ashes."
The cigarette's ember flared as a long breath was drawn in.Smoke curled into the air, slow and ominous, like a warning sent to the world.The men nodded, tension thick around them.The hand flicked the cigarette out the door. It landed near the dead bodies—still smoldering.The door clicked shut.
The car pulled away, tires slicing through puddles, vanishing into the belly of Hamburg.Just as it turned the corner, a phone began to ring inside the car.
The screen glowed faintly:
"Dad."The man answered calmly, with none of the ice from before. His tone was colder in a different way—controlled.
"Hello, Dad."On the other end, a firm, older voice responded.Gregor Richard, 50, known only to a few and feared by even fewer. A man of power, silence, and shadows. His tone was dry but precise. "Everything is arranged as you asked. You'll be registered as an IT department professor at Heinrich Von Falken University in Berlin." "Private dorm, false records, and staff documents… under the name Dr. Lukas Schneider."
The man in the car—silent for a moment—finally replied, "Good."Gregor's voice came again, slower this time. "Are you sure about this, Lukas?"Lukas's eyes narrowed as he stared out the window at the dark city bleeding past."I didn't come back to teach," he said flatly."I came to finish what he started… and make sure the prince of that empire never sees the next sunrise."
Gregor didn't respond.Lukas ended the call.
The reflection in the glass showed only a vague silhouette of his face.
But his eyes—dark, sharp, burning with a mission—said enough.
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Meanwhile, in Berlin — Heinrich Von Falken University
The storm finally began.
Raindrops struck windows, students ran with books over their heads, and deep inside the elite university, Henry Vinson leaned against the vending machine, laughing with Felix and Timo about the new girl who fainted just because he winked at her.He didn't know the storm that was heading his way.
He didn't know a ghost from his childhood had returned.He didn't know—
That someone had entered Berlin with only one purpose:To erase him And his time had just started ticking.