The storm had wandered east, leaving only the residue of rain dripping against the glass walls of the Clock Tower. Lightning flared once, distant but bright enough to fracture the city skyline into shards of white. The echoing rumble followed, rolling low like the city's hidden heart.
Inside the penthouse suite, the contrast could not have been sharper.
Mira sat on a white leather sofa, posture upright even though the gala had dragged late into the night. Her gown of black satin clung still to her frame, its shimmer dulled by the hours, but her aura of elegance had not cracked. She had removed her necklace, the diamonds resting on the coffee table beside her half-finished glass of wine. Her hair, once pinned with perfect precision, now cascaded loose over her shoulders, strands tumbling with a careless beauty. She looked tired, yes, but also thoughtful—the kind of thought that narrowed her eyes at the horizon beyond the glass, not the champagne at her feet.
Across the room, Myra had already abandoned decorum.
She lay sprawled across the king-sized bed, her crimson slip of satin clinging scandalously as she propped herself on one elbow. A wine glass dangled between her fingers, swirling lazily with the last of its contents. Her bare legs stretched across the sheets, toes flexing idly to the rhythm of the rain outside. The playful curve of her mouth was as deliberate as her laughter at the gala—sharp, inviting, designed to sting if it needed to.
The silence between them was heavy, filled with the distant murmur of the city below and the soft ticking of the suite's clock. For sisters who had shared everything from birth, silence itself became its own weapon.
Finally, Mira broke it.
Her tone was cool, her eyes still on the storm outside. "What were you trying to prove tonight?"
Myra smirked, tilting her head just enough for her hair to spill over her shoulder. "Prove?" she echoed, voice light, mocking. She lifted her glass and drained it in one swallow, then set it down on the nightstand with a sharp little clink. "I wasn't proving anything. I was having fun."
Mira's gaze slid from the skyline to her sister. "On the dance floor. With him."
That earned a laugh. Myra rolled onto her back, arms spread across the sheets, staring up at the ceiling with a grin that bordered on defiant. "Ah. So it's about him."
Mira's lips pressed thin, the faintest sign of irritation. "You drew every eye in the room."
"That's what I do, dear sister." Myra turned her head, eyes glittering in the dim light. "And you can't tell me you didn't notice how he looked at you first, before me."
The words cut sharper than any blade. Mira's breath caught, so faint no one else could have noticed. But Myra did.
Mira rose smoothly, leaving her glass untouched. She crossed to the vanity, lifting a silver brush to her hair, the long strokes calm, precise, a mask over the storm tightening inside her. The reflection in the mirror showed her own steady face—and behind it, her sister lounging like a flame refusing to be put out.
"You mistake curiosity for intent," Mira said evenly.
"And you mistake intent for control," Myra shot back, grin widening. She rolled onto her side, cheek resting on her palm, eyes narrowing with feline mischief. "I touched him. I pressed him. And do you know what I found?"
Mira's hand paused mid-stroke.
"He hurts," Myra whispered, almost gleeful. "Behind that cold stare, that perfect stillness—he's carrying pain he doesn't want anyone to see."
Mira set the brush down slowly, her jaw tightening. "And you think that makes him yours?"
"No," Myra said simply, her smile softening into something more dangerous. "It makes him mine to play with."
The lightning flared again, flooding the suite in white for a heartbeat. Mira's reflection in the mirror sharpened, her eyes burning, her lips parting as if to argue. But she closed them instead, breathing slowly, mastering herself.
The storm was no longer outside.
It was in the room, split between two sisters, with one man at its center.
The rain had thinned to a mist by the time Arkellin reached the tower.
It wasn't gilded like the Clock Tower across the boulevard, where chandeliers burned until dawn and the penthouse floors glittered like a crown over Aurelia City. No—this building was a worker's hive, a tired skyscraper of glass and steel that once promised prosperity and now offered only routine. Half the lights inside were dead. The lower levels buzzed with the life of a shopping mall, late-night eateries still open, vendors wiping down counters while tired workers shuffled past. Neon signs flickered weakly against the drizzle, their glow pooling on the wet pavement.
Arkellin's black suit was damp from the walk across the street. The tie was gone, his jacket slung over one arm, the white of his shirt clinging faintly to his frame where rain had seeped through. Beneath it, the tight pull of bandages reminded him of the night's wounds. He ignored them.
Inside, the lobby smelled of floor polish and cheap coffee. Security guards at the desk barely glanced up from their screens—until they recognized him.
Their faces shifted in an instant. Eyes widened, spines stiffened. One guard nearly dropped his pen. The whispers began as he passed.
"…Boss?"
"…It's him."
Arkellin gave no nod, no acknowledgment. He simply strode past the elevators and into the private access hall. The metal doors slid shut behind him with a hiss, and the elevator climbed, groaning under its own age.
By the time the doors opened again, the air had changed.
The 21st floor was no longer part of the building's mundane shell. It was his.
The corridor was dim, the hum of old fluorescent lights vibrating overhead. Cigarette smoke clung to the walls, mixed with the metallic tang of gun oil. Men stood waiting in lines against the wall—old lieutenants, faces carved with years of loyalty, and younger recruits, eyes hard but flickering with disbelief at what they were seeing.
The moment Arkellin stepped out, the room moved as one.
"Boss…"
Some lowered their heads in respect, others murmured his name, the sound rippling through the corridor like the rush of a tide. For them, Arkellin K. Andy had been a story buried in blood, a leader fallen under betrayal. And now he was walking again, alive, in the flesh.
Arkellin didn't smile.
He walked through them, slow, deliberate, his footsteps echoing against the cracked tiles. He noted every detail—the one man who couldn't meet his gaze, the one who stood straighter than the rest, the faint scent of whiskey on another's breath. Observation was a blade, and he wielded it as cleanly as any knife.
At the end of the hall, a door swung open into his old office.
It wasn't grand. A wide desk scarred with cigarette burns, a faded map of Aurelia City pinned across one wall, shelves stacked with files and bottles of half-finished liquor. A single lamp glowed dimly, casting the room in tired amber.
Arkellin stepped inside.
For a moment, he stood still, letting his gaze wander over the details—the chair pushed slightly back as if he'd only left yesterday, the ashtray still holding the stub of his last cigarette, the faint scratch marks in the wood where he'd once slammed a knife for emphasis. Dust had settled, but the weight of his presence lingered, as if the room itself had been waiting for him.
Behind him, his men filled the doorway, silent. None dared step past the threshold until he gave permission.
Arkellin turned, his eyes sweeping them. Cool. Calculated. His silence alone pressed them down harder than any shout could.
Finally, his voice came, low and steady.
"Still standing," he said. "Good."
Relief rippled through the men. Shoulders loosened. A few exchanged glances, pride glinting in their eyes.
Arkellin stepped behind the desk, lowering himself into the chair. The leather creaked under his weight, the familiarity of it grounding him. He placed his jacket across the armrest, leaned back, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
From here, he could see the Clock Tower through the window across the boulevard. Its upper floors burned bright against the night sky, a beacon of power. His eyes narrowed.
Different world. Different empire.
And yet, his shadow had already begun to stretch toward it.
Lightning split the sky again, white veins tearing across the black. For a heartbeat, both towers—theirs and his—were illuminated together, locked in silent opposition.
Arkellin exhaled once, steady, his gaze fixed on the storm outside.
The city was beginning to turn.
The rain had slowed to a whisper against the glass walls of the Clock Tower. The storm lingered, reluctant to leave, each distant rumble of thunder vibrating faintly through the high-rise like the echo of a giant's breath. Lightning forked across the night sky, its glow briefly bleaching the city into bone-white silence.
Mira stood alone at the window of her bedroom.
The robe she wore was pale satin, soft against her skin, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, darkened by the faint mist she had walked through when returning from the gala. The scent of roses still clung faintly to her, mingling with the cool breath of the storm pressing in from the cracked window.
Behind her, the suite was quiet. Myra had long since drifted into restless sleep, sprawled across her bed in scarlet silk, her glass of wine still half-full at her bedside. The only light came from the city outside and the occasional burst of lightning that carved the world into sharp relief.
Mira's eyes were fixed on the building across the boulevard.
It was nothing compared to the Clock Tower—an older skyscraper, tired and utilitarian. Its windows were dark for the most part, except for one floor where a faint amber glow burned like a secret candle against the storm. She could see the silhouette of a figure there, seated, unmoving, yet radiating a presence she could feel even from this distance.
Her chest tightened.
The image of him tonight—his composure, his silence, the way he had turned the ballroom's weight against itself—flashed through her mind. But beneath it, something else stirred. Something older.
She closed her eyes.
The memory came unbidden: a summer afternoon in the city park, fifteen years ago. She had been seven, small and frightened, cornered by older children who thought the daughter of wealth was fair game. She remembered their mocking voices, the shove that sent her to the dirt, the sting of tears she hadn't wanted to shed.
And then—him.
A boy. Ordinary in clothes, extraordinary in defiance. He had stepped between her and the bullies without hesitation, taking the blows meant for her, standing unshaken until they scattered. His cheek had bled, his shirt had torn, but his eyes—dark, steady—had been the first she had ever seen that did not look at her as a name, but as a person.
He hadn't even waited for thanks. He had simply smiled once, brief and quiet, before walking away.
She had searched for that boy in every face she met since. And tonight, for the first time, she had felt it again—the same weight, the same steadiness.
Her fingers pressed lightly against the glass, breath fogging the pane. The storm outside flashed, and for an instant the silhouette in the opposite tower sharpened—seated at his desk, head tilted as if sensing her gaze.
Her lips parted, and a whisper slipped free, soft but resolute, carried only by the storm.
"Finally… I found you."
The lightning crashed again, illuminating her reflection in the window—diamonds of rain on the glass, her eyes alight with recognition.
The city held its breath.
And the triangle's storm was only just beginning.