The rain had finally stopped.
Aurelia City gleamed as if scrubbed clean overnight—streets still wet, neon signs sharper in reflection, traffic a steady hum beneath the high towers. At the city's heart, the Grand Aurelia Hotel rose like a monument to excess: forty stories of glass and light, its entrance flanked by marble columns and a red carpet rolled out across the steps. Crystal chandeliers blazed behind the revolving doors, their glow spilling into the night.
Arkellin stepped out of the car that had carried him here.
It wasn't a limousine. It wasn't even new. A steel-gray sedan, years out of date, polished just enough to catch the lights without hiding the dents. The valet's smile faltered as he reached for the door, his eyes darting to the contrast between the gleaming luxury cars behind and this one relic that dared to take its place.
Arkellin ignored him.
He straightened slowly, leather jacket replaced by a tailored suit. It wasn't new—borrowed, repurposed—but it clung to his frame with an ease that made it seem cut from his own shadow. The shirt beneath was crisp white, buttoned high enough to hide the faint bandage still binding his ribs. His hair was pulled back loosely, the streak of white stark against the black, falling forward just enough to draw the eye.
The valet murmured something polite. Arkellin's gaze flicked once, cold and detached, and the man's words died in his throat.
He ascended the marble steps at his own pace.
Cameras flashed. Paparazzi lined the edge of the carpet, their lenses hungry for the familiar faces stepping from limousines—the old families, the councilors, the stars of finance and fashion. Their chatter faltered when Arkellin moved into frame.
"Who's that?"
"Which house does he belong to?"
"No escort, no name on the guest list…"
Their curiosity hung like smoke. Arkellin walked through it without slowing, his stride measured, predatory, the faintest wince in his chest masked by the precision of each step.
At the doors, two doormen in immaculate uniforms blocked his way, their expressions practiced neutrality. One cleared his throat. "Sir, your invitation?"
Arkellin reached into his breast pocket, produced a black envelope with the golden insignia of a clock dial stamped into its seal. He held it between two fingers, effortless, as if presenting a knife instead of paper.
The doorman's eyes widened, just enough to betray surprise. He stepped aside immediately, bowing slightly as the revolving doors spun open.
Inside, the world changed.
Warmth rushed over him, thick with the perfume of orchids imported from half a world away. The air vibrated with the low hum of strings from a live orchestra tucked into the corner of the grand lobby. Guests swirled in gowns that glimmered like molten silk, suits pressed so sharp they looked cut from diamonds. Champagne glasses clinked in delicate hands, laughter chimed brittle and bright.
Arkellin paused just past the threshold, taking it in. The polished marble floor reflected the chandeliers above, so bright it threatened to blind. His shoes left faint tracks of water that disappeared as quickly as they formed.
Eyes turned toward him.
Not because they knew him. Because they didn't.
He wasn't draped in silk or diamonds. His aura wasn't gilded. It was carved from something rougher, sharper, more dangerous. In a room where everyone was trying to shine, he walked in like the shadow that reminded them light was never safe.
A waiter passed, silver tray balanced high. Arkellin plucked a glass of champagne without looking, the stem cold and fragile in his hand. He lifted it slightly in acknowledgment to no one in particular, then sipped. The fizz stung his tongue, sweet and sharp, but beneath it he could still taste iron—the ghost of the alley that hadn't yet left his mouth.
He lowered the glass, eyes sweeping the room.
This wasn't his world. Not yet. But tonight, it would become his hunting ground.
The ballroom opened like a cathedral of wealth.
Ceilings soared, crystal chandeliers dripped gold light, and walls gleamed with mirrors framed in silver. An orchestra's strings floated above the murmur of hundreds of voices. The air was thick with perfume, champagne, and the faint spice of cigars carried in from the balcony.
Arkellin moved through it at his own rhythm. Every step deliberate, every breath measured. His suit, though borrowed, settled on him like armor; his shoulders rolled as if he owned the marble underfoot.
Eyes followed. Some curious. Some wary. None welcoming.
He threaded past clusters of guests—men in tuxedos, women in silk gowns that glittered like liquid light. Conversations faltered as he passed, then resumed in whispers pitched just low enough to pretend discretion.
Near the buffet table, an older man in a silver waistcoat turned, glass of Bordeaux in hand. His jaw was square, his posture sharpened by years of boardrooms and backroom dealings. A figure who clearly relished being recognized.
He stopped Arkellin with a look, the kind men use when they believe everyone in the room owes them attention.
"And you are?" the man asked, voice carrying just enough to draw the ears of those around him. His smile was polite, his eyes testing.
Arkellin let the words hang, sipping the champagne, letting the fizz bite his tongue. He set the glass down on a passing tray without breaking eye contact. Then he leaned a fraction closer, his voice low, steady.
"The man you should've killed when you had the chance."
The older man's smile cracked. His throat worked around a swallow. The color in his face shifted, pale under the chandeliers. He stepped back half a pace, bumping into a waiter who barely kept his tray balanced.
Around them, the small circle of onlookers went still. A woman's fan snapped closed. A younger executive's hand froze halfway to his tie.
Arkellin straightened again, calm, the faintest trace of amusement tugging one corner of his mouth. He turned his head, sweeping his gaze across the others who had paused to watch. No challenge. No invitation. Just a reminder: he saw them.
The moment stretched—then broke, covered by the orchestra's swell as the violins climbed. Conversations resumed in hurried fragments, laughter sharper, forced. But the whisper traveled quick: Who is he? What did he mean?
Arkellin retrieved another glass from a tray and drifted onward. The crowd parted just enough, as if the marble itself had shifted to make way.
The champagne was sweet, but in his chest, he still tasted the bitterness of the alley. And beneath it all, in the back of his mind, Kindrake's cold arithmetic clicked into place:
Every word. Every glance. Every tremor of fear.
All of it was leverage.
Tonight, the ballroom wasn't theirs anymore. It was his board.
The orchestra fell silent.
A hush rippled through the ballroom, cutting across the chatter and forced laughter like a knife through silk. Glasses were lowered, heads turned, and every pair of eyes was drawn toward the stage at the far end of the hall.
Spotlights bloomed.
Two figures stepped into the light.
Mira Aurelia Clock. Myra Aurelia Clock.
The sisters descended the steps of the stage together, their presence so synchronized it felt rehearsed—yet different enough to set them apart.
Mira moved with elegance carved from marble, her black satin gown flowing like liquid shadow. Diamonds traced her neckline, catching the chandelier light in cold sparks. Her expression was composed, serene, the kind of face sculpted for photographs and board meetings. Every step of hers whispered authority.
Beside her, Myra burned brighter. Her gown was crimson silk, slit high, shimmering with each playful sway of her hips. Where Mira's gaze was steady, Myra's eyes danced, alight with mischief as she waved lightly to the crowd. Her laugh rang clear, too raw to be staged, like the spark that could set dry kindling ablaze.
Two halves of the same coin—control and chaos, shadow and flame.
The ballroom erupted in applause. Cameras flashed, a strobe storm bouncing off glass and jewels. The orchestra struck again, softer this time, violins weaving a veil around their entrance.
Arkellin stood still amidst the swell.
He watched not as a man dazzled, but as a predator marking patterns. He saw the way Mira's eyes never lingered too long on one face, how Myra's gestures distracted while her glance flickered sharp to the corners of the room. They weren't just heiresses paraded on display—they were masks, polished and dangerous in their own ways.
Something deep inside stirred—Kindrake's cold recognition of corporate heirs, Arkellin's instinct to read fighters in disguise. Together, they whispered the same thought:
They are not my enemies. But they will change my war.
Mira's gaze swept the hall, gliding over men in tuxedos, women in silk, never breaking the rhythm—until it landed on him.
For a breath, her composure wavered, the tiniest flicker of curiosity breaking through.
At the same moment, Myra's laugh faded as she followed her sister's line of sight. Their eyes—two mirrors of different fire—met Arkellin's across the ballroom.
He didn't look away.
He held their gaze, steady, unblinking, champagne glass loose in his hand. The murmur of the room dimmed in his ears, the orchestra's notes blurring into background. For a heartbeat, it was only him and them, predator and storm, three fates colliding under crystal light.
Then the applause swelled again, shattering the moment. The sisters moved forward, escorted by corporate dignitaries, swallowed by the adoring crowd.
But the connection lingered—thin, invisible threads stretched across the room, tying him to the twins in a way neither the city's wealth nor its shadows could sever.
Arkellin lifted his glass, tasted the fizz, and murmured under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear:
"The storm has found its messengers."
The orchestra returned to life, soft strings rippling under the chatter as the crowd swelled around the sisters. Champagne flowed like water, and the scent of roses mingled with the warmth of too many bodies pressed into one glittering hall.
Arkellin moved to the edge of it all, standing near a marble pillar that framed the ballroom like a throne room of glass and wealth. From here he could see everything—the swirl of gowns, the hungry smiles of old men, the flashing cameras. His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished stone, a shadow draped in black among jewels.
He raised his glass again, though the champagne had lost its taste. The fizz felt hollow against his tongue. His eyes never strayed far from the sisters on the stage, watching them play their parts with flawless ease.
That was when he felt it.
A presence at his side. Subtle, practiced.
A waiter had approached, silver tray balanced with precision. The man's uniform was immaculate, his bow deferential—but when the tray dipped toward Arkellin, only one item rested on it. A slim black envelope, the paper thick, wax seal stamped with the same golden clock dial he had seen before.
Arkellin's hand hovered, fingers brushing the smooth surface. The waiter met his gaze only for a second—long enough to confirm this delivery was no accident—before melting back into the sea of guests without another word.
Arkellin cracked the seal.
Inside, a single card. White. Clean. The handwriting in dark ink curved elegant across it, deliberate strokes that wasted no motion.
"We know you're alive. Let's talk."
His grip tightened. The paper crinkled faintly.
The chandelier light caught in his eyes, flashing across pupils that shrank sharp. His breath left slow, steady, though his pulse thudded once, heavy in his ribs.
He slid the card back into its envelope, slipping it into his suit pocket as though tucking away a blade. His gaze returned to the stage.
Mira was speaking now, her voice calm, her presence commanding. Myra laughed beside her, drawing the room's focus with ease. But neither could hide the fact that their eyes—both of them—found him again, even through the wall of bodies between.
For the second time that night, the world shrank.
Arkellin lifted his chin slightly, letting the corner of his mouth curl in something that wasn't quite a smile. His fingers drummed once against the stem of his glass, the sound lost in the symphony.
The game was no longer being played around him. It was reaching for him.
And he was ready to answer.
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