"You are not a good mother because you are not a good human!" Keith's voice was hoarse, trembling with rage that had been caged for too long. "You might care for me as hell, but you feel nothing for the people you hurt!"
Dina blinked, stunned into silence, but Keith didn't let her breathe.
"I've told you so many times—your and Father's cruelty toward the servants, the workers… it breaks me! I feel their pain, their helplessness, their silent screams!" He struck his palm against the table, making the cutlery jump.
"Keith…" Dina murmured, but he sliced through her words.
"No! You need to change—both of you—or I'll leave this mansion. But I won't stay silent anymore!"
He tugged his navy-blue coat back into place, his movements stiff with anger, and without another glance, he strode away, his footsteps hard and unyielding as they echoed toward the door.
That day, Dina realized Keith was not merely an oversensitive boy prone to fleeting emotions. There was a quiet fire within him—a core of belief so strong it refused to bend under the weight of their world. He was no longer just a child reacting to cruelty; he was someone taking a stand, however small, against the unshakable order of their society.
And that terrified her.
For in a world where the line between Nobles and Needies had been etched into stone for generations—unchallenged, unquestioned—rebellion was not just dangerous; it was fatal. To defy the unspoken laws was to invite ruin. Dina felt the cold press of dread settle in her chest, knowing that if Keith continued down this path, his courage might cost him his life.
She could not ignore it anymore.
She decided that she would speak to Keith all about their barbaric rituals and the reasons behind them. She would make him understand that the things he had been overreacting at, were actually normal. Every Noble child was given this education upon reaching the age of twelve, for it was around that time they began to feel an intense internal desire—a dark craving that could only be satisfied by physically torturing others, but she had understood that Keith needed this education before that time in a genuinely effective way.
To ease their children into accepting these growing, savage impulses, Noble parents would deliberately beat servants, maids, or other workers in front of them. It was meant to normalize the behavior, to ensure the children felt no guilt or doubt as their own desires awakened.
But Keith had always reacted differently. Where other Noble children watched in silence—or even delight—he had shown unease, resistance, and quiet defiance. His parents had been worried about him for a long time, knowing his heart did not align with the cruel legacy of their kind.
Michael returned to his apartment that night, slipping off his coat and hanging it on the stand. Dina followed him silently into their bedroom.
"What's wrong? You look… off," Michael asked, noticing her subdued demeanor.
"It's Keith, Michael. We have to do something about him," Dina said, meeting his gaze.
"Oh, that." Michael's lips curved into a faint smile. "I forgot to tell you—Dr. Frenzo prepared a special drug to awaken his hunting instincts. I told him everything."
"A drug? Is it even safe?" Dina frowned.
"Of course. Once Keith makes his first hunt, his sensitivity will vanish." His excitement was unsettling.
Dina hesitated, but his certainty left no room for debate.
The next morning, after breakfast, Keith was summoned to the laboratory. He entered to find a thin man in a white coat adjusting a syringe beside his father—Dr. Frenzo.
"Why am I here? My vaccinations are done," Keith said flatly.
"You need an additional one," the doctor replied, drawing the fluid.
"Why?" Keith's eyes narrowed.
Michael stayed silent, his gaze unreadable. Keith's pulse quickened. "No! You're not injecting me without my consent!" he shouted, fear creeping into his voice.
But Keith's cries were useless. The syringe pierced his skin, and within seconds his body slackened, consciousness slipping away.
He slept for thirty-six hours, unmoving on a pristine bed in the Mansion's private hospital. When he finally woke, the room was silent, empty, suffocating. Memories trickled back, disjointed and hazy.
He glanced at his palms—normal. He felt… normal. What had changed? What was that drug meant to do? No answers came.
Unlocking his phone, the time glared back: 1:40 a.m. He should have been asleep, yet he felt restless, awake. Sliding into his slippers, he began a slow walk through the dim corridors.
Then—voices.
"Mr. Janes, you'll have to hand over your third son, as promised," an unfamiliar man said.
"I will… but it needs time," Michael's voice was tight, tense.
"Time? For what?"
"Time for him to unlock his supernatural ability. Only then will we know if he stays or goes."
Footsteps neared. Keith hid at the corridor's edge, peering out just in time to glimpse the stranger—a man with long braids framing an unreadable face, sharp mustaches like daggers, and a coat brushing his ankles.
Who was he? And worse—why had his Dad promised Watson to anyone?
A cold dread spread through Keith. His father's choices were unraveling him piece by piece, and he was powerless to stop it.
The next morning, a man in his thirties entered the Mansion. He was neatly dressed, with a trim beard and a modest cowboy hat that gave him a quiet charm. His presence carried an air of calm confidence.
Michael introduced him with an approving smile. "Keith, this is your new physics tutor, Mr. Kennedy. Be polite."
Keith tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Hello, Mr. Kennedy. I hope you can break the… tradition of tutors mysteriously disappearing after a few weeks here," he said with a bitter little chuckle.
Michael forced a soft laugh, and Mr. Kennedy followed suit, though his sharp eyes caught the weight hidden in Keith's tone.
Later, during their lesson, Mr. Kennedy was explaining the laws of force. His words were patient, deliberate, as he watched Keith scribble absentmindedly. Then, he suddenly asked, "What do you think is the greatest force in the world?" His gaze brightened, expecting an insightful answer from the boy who already seemed far beyond his years.
Keith twirled his pen in his fingers, barely looking up. "I suppose it's the brain… the mind. It commands everything else."
Mr. Kennedy smiled faintly and shook his head. "Oh no. It's love. Love outweighs even the mind. Have you ever loved someone, Keith?" His voice was gentle but curious, probing deeper than a simple academic question.
Keith paused. His eyes flicked away. "That's… a personal question." His tone was guarded, almost cold.
Mr. Kennedy chuckled softly. "At your age, children usually only love their parents. But that's not the kind of love I mean. That's just nature's bond, not the kind that shakes your soul." He leaned back, running a hand absently through his hair.
Keith tilted his head, curiosity creeping into his otherwise stoic expression. "And at your age? How does it look then?"
Mr. Kennedy's gaze drifted for a moment, as if staring through invisible memories. "It feels like a purpose… the reason you breathe. It's the ache and the bliss all at once. A valley you willingly lose yourself in." His voice grew softer, like he was speaking to himself more than to Keith.
Keith's face stayed unreadable, but his eyes held a flicker of intrigue. "So… is it truly that powerful?"
Mr. Kennedy gave a faint, almost melancholic smile. "Yeah… or maybe…" He hesitated, as if there was more he wanted to say—something darker, more complicated.
But before he could finish, his phone rang, cutting through the fragile moment. The spell broke. Mr. Kennedy glanced at the screen, and for a fleeting second, his expression tightened with something Keith couldn't name.
Keith watched as Mr. Kennedy tilted his phone and silenced it with deliberate calm.
"You know why Mr. Richard was suspended from this Mansion?" he asked, his face stiff and unreadable.
The question sent a chill down Keith's spine. The name Mr. Richard was a wound—still raw, still bleeding with memories of recent horrors and the crushing weight of his own helplessness.
"Because he fell in love," Kennedy said, his tone edged with something between mockery and reverence. "Do you still believe love isn't the greatest force in this world?" His brow arched ever so slightly.
Keith's voice was barely a whisper. "Who… who was it?"
Kennedy's smile widened. "Evelene Janes. Your aunt."
Before Keith could react, Kennedy leaned closer and winked. "Keep that a secret."
Then, as if the moment had never happened, he straightened, grabbed his phone, and walked away, his voice fading into the distance.
"Hello… yeah, apologies. I was in a class with an Elite kid…"
Saturday night draped the Mansion in a shimmering cloak of opulence. The Royal Hall, vast and echoing with silent grandeur, welcomed the guests through its four towering doors, each framed with golden archways and engraved with delicate floral patterns. The marble-tiled floor gleamed like polished diamonds, reflecting the soft glow of the immense crystal chandeliers suspended above. They cascaded light in dazzling rainbows, scattering over velvet curtains that blanketed the walls in deep crimson, embroidered with silver threads that caught the eye at every turn.
Guests glided through the hall in gowns of silk and velvet, tails of tuxedos sweeping behind them like whispers of power. Jewels sparkled on slender necks and gloved fingers, the air humming with the faint fragrance of rare perfumes. Elegant music swelled from a live orchestra hidden behind the curtains, violins and cellos weaving a melody that felt both haunting and majestic.
Waiters in immaculate white gloves and sharp, tailored uniforms moved briskly yet gracefully, balancing trays lined with crystal glasses of vodka, champagne, and fine wine. Silver platters of delicate hors d'oeuvres shimmered in the dim golden light, passed from one laughing noble to another.
This was no mere party—it was a ritual of influence, a gathering of the most powerful bloodlines. The Janes family, masters of the textile and fabric empire for generations, hosted with calculated elegance. Other royal families mingled in their own silken circles—those who ruled over sports empires, automobile dynasties, electronic industries, and luxury kitchen goods. Each conversation was a transaction cloaked in charm, each handshake an unspoken promise of mutual gain.
The Royal Hall was alive, a theater of wealth and ambition, where every glance held a secret and every smile hid an agenda.
But the glamorous night turned into a nightmare.
A sharp creak, then a thunderous crash—one of the chandeliers fell from the ceiling, scattering shards of crystal like a deadly rain. Evelene Janes was struck in an instant. Her body crumpled, blood staining her silk gown as her wide eyes stared lifelessly into the void.
The hall filled with gasps and screams. Nobles rushed around her, trembling. Michael dropped to his knees, his grief erupting.
"AAAAHHHH! NO! MY EVELENE! MY DEAR SISTER! YOU CAN'T DIE! WAKE UP!!" he cried, shaking her still body. Dina tried to hold him but broke into tears herself.
No one noticed the details, veiled as they were by panic and intense grief—Evelene's body bore the same twenty-one cuts, in the exact same places as Mr. Richard's, executed with meticulous precision. Their length, depth, angles, and patterns all exactly mirrored his.
That night, the wind blew fiercely, then howled against Keith's apartment. Irritated by the eerie whistling at his window, he opened it. The wind rushed in like an uninvited guest, flipping through the pages of his Physics textbook with restless urgency.
Watching the pages flutter beside the dimly lit lamp on the table, he smiled. Leaning comfortably back in his revolving chair, feet propped casually on the table, he whispered, "Rest in peace, Mr. Richard," before gently closing the book and putting it into the draw.