The hallway outside the conference room buzzed faintly with distant voices and the muffled rhythm of polished shoes striking marble.
A tide of chatter swelled, then dimmed, as Matteo walked ahead with the unhurried deliberation of someone who did not need to rush to be obeyed.
His suit clung sharp to his frame, every line pressed to precision, but Bianca—following just a step behind—recognized that pace. It wasn't urgency. It was weight.
Her heels clicked lightly against the stone, the tablet pressed tight to her chest as though bracing against the silence radiating from his back.
Inside his office, the glass door shut behind them with a soft click that sliced away the noise of the building.
The room exhaled quiet.
The faint hum of the city bled through the tall windows, a low chorus of car horns and distant engines beneath the steady glow of the skyline.
Matteo drifted toward the bar cart in the corner. He didn't pour anything.
He just stood, fingers resting against the polished edge, eyes fixed on the horizon like it held answers no one else could provide.
Bianca lingered near the desk, hesitant to disturb the atmosphere that seemed fragile enough to shatter with a word. "You were sharp in there," she said finally, voice soft but steady. "They didn't expect you to lead the numbers and the pitch."
He inclined his head slightly, still watching the city. "They don't know me."
Silence settled again. Bianca shifted, nerves prickling against the cold restraint in his tone. "Do you want me to review the follow-up documents before they're sent?"
"No," he said flatly. "I'll do it myself."
She blinked once, but did not argue. "Of course."
A beat passed. He didn't move, his reflection a dark silhouette against the glass.
Then his voice came, so low she almost didn't hear it. "Bianca…"
Her shoulders straightened. "Yes?"
"Give me the room." His tone was even, almost gentle. "Please."
Bianca's fingers curled tighter around her tablet. She wanted to ask—wanted to say something that reached him past that wall—but she read the quiet steel in his posture and knew better. She nodded once.
"Of course, sir."
She turned, heels whispering across the rug. At the doorway, instinct tugged her into one last glance. Matteo hadn't moved an inch. Still standing. Still staring at nothing.
The door closed. Silence returned.
But it didn't last.
Matteo pressed the intercom on his desk. His voice was low, controlled. "Secure line. Bring me Qiang."
Seconds later, the screen on his desk flickered alive. A man in his forties appeared, coat buttoned to the throat, fog curling faintly around the alley behind him. Qiang's voice was crisp.
"Boss."
Matteo leaned forward, elbows braced against the desk, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His eyes were cold, deliberate. "Status."
Qiang shifted slightly, gaze darting to the side before returning. "The Fox hasn't resurfaced. But we've tracked movement near Lin'an—quiet exchanges, low-level meetings. No direct sighting yet. The patterns… they match his old methods."
Matteo didn't blink. "No contact. No interference."
"Yes, sir."
"Every breath he takes," Matteo murmured, "I want it written down. Keep the tails rotating. Never the same face twice."
"Understood."
Qiang hesitated, then added carefully, "Your father ordered restraint. He doesn't want The Fox touched yet."
Matteo's jaw flexed once, a muscle tightening along the edge. His voice stayed calm. "I'm not touching him. I'm watching him. Until the time is right."
"And if the trail goes cold?"
"Then we wait in the smoke," Matteo said evenly, "until he chokes on it."
The words hung heavy. Qiang bowed slightly. "I'll update you in twenty-four hours."
The screen went dark.
Matteo sat back, stillness sharpening into something dangerous. His gaze wandered briefly across the room—to the shelf where a single photo frame leaned at an angle. Felix, mid-laugh, hair falling into his eyes. Alive. Unaware he was being photographed.
Matteo's throat tightened. He looked away.
Later that evening, he found himself outside Felix's room.
The hallway was dim, quiet. He stood there too long before his hand touched the doorframe, fingertips brushing wood like it might give him an answer.
The room smelled faintly of dust and piano polish. Untouched.
The piano itself sat waiting, its lid half-open, keys catching the low light.
Felix had always left it that way, as though music might slip back into the air at any moment.
Matteo's chest rose. He stepped inside.
Then—music.
Soft, delicate, the opening notes of a melody Felix used to play when silence between them was too heavy. The keys whispered like breath, hesitant, alive.
Matteo froze.
On the bench—Felix. Not broken. Not pale. But as he had been: vibrant, hair tousled, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glanced back over his shoulder with that boyish smirk.
"Come join me."
Matteo blinked. The bench was empty. The room was still.
The silence roared in his ears. He turned away quickly, retreating as though distance could unmake the illusion.
The door clicked shut behind him with a sound too final.
Back in his room, his eyes caught on the calendar pinned to the wall.
Five months. Three weeks.
Almost six months since the accident.
Six months of silence. Six months of waking up to a faint thread of hope and going to bed with despair. Six months of new mornings that began with aching and ended the same way.
At work, the rhythm unraveled.
Once, Matteo's presence was enough to sharpen a boardroom into silence. He was precise, exacting, deadly with numbers and strategy. But now, mid-sentence, his gaze drifted.
A chair. A beam of light across the floor. The shape of a man leaning against the window.
Felix. Always Felix.
Sometimes smiling faintly. Sometimes just watching. Sometimes lips parting like he might speak.
Matteo would blink, look again. Nothing.
In meetings, his pen slipped. His signature sprawled across the wrong line. Last Tuesday, he signed off on Shanghai with half the report missing.
No one dared mention it. But Bianca noticed.
She watched him now across the boardroom table. Matteo's eyes weren't on the quarterly graphs—they were fixed on the glass wall behind her, unfocused.
"Sir?" one of the project heads asked cautiously. "Shall we proceed with the Korea expansion?"
Matteo blinked once. "Hm?"
"The proposal. Should we greenlight the next step?"
He looked down at the folder in front of him. The numbers blurred. His fingers tightened once, then he closed it quietly.
"Put it on hold."
He stood. Left the room without another word.
Later that night, Bianca opened his office door carefully.
The curtains were drawn. His jacket lay abandoned across the back of the couch. The desk was untouched.
"Sir," she said softly, stepping inside, "you forgot the Germany call today. You've barely touched anything this week. That's not like you."
He didn't answer.
She saw him in the half-dark—sitting in his chair, turned slightly toward the window, a photo clutched in one hand. Felix again. The same photo, the same laugh frozen in time.
"I see him," Matteo whispered, voice low, fragile. "Even when I close my eyes."
Bianca's throat tightened. She didn't speak. She simply stepped back, letting the door close with a crack of light left behind.
Alone, Matteo sat with the photo, the silence wrapping around him like a vice.
And in that silence—Felix's laughter echoed faintly. Not real. Not gone.
Just enough to break him.