The next morning, the storm had left only its fingerprints—puddles clinging to the pavement, a metallic taste still sharp in the air, clouds dragging low across Aurelia's skyline.
Clock Corp's headquarters loomed at the heart of the financial district, a tower of glass and steel that caught what little light the day offered and bent it into knives. Its lobby was a cathedral of power: floors veined in white marble, ceilings soaring above crystal chandeliers, walls lined with towering digital displays of quarterly triumphs and global expansions.
Arkellin stepped inside, his pace steady, measured.
The difference was immediate. Workers in their pressed suits and polished shoes glanced up from their phones and clipboards. Eyes caught on him—first on his tailored black suit that seemed cut too sharp for the morning, then on the streak of white in his otherwise dark, messy hair. There was something off-beat about him, something unpolished compared to their corporate neatness. And yet, that very difference drew their stares.
He didn't care. He walked as if their gazes were air.
From the mezzanine above, two figures emerged.
Mira Aurelia Clock, her stride precise, clad in a dove-grey business suit tailored to perfection. Her hair, swept back into a low chignon, gleamed under the chandeliers. Even here, among marble and gold, she carried herself as if the building were hers alone—which, in many ways, it was.
Beside her, Myra descended at a slower pace, her maroon silk blouse tucked into a short pencil skirt that mocked the formality of the place. Her hair tumbled free, a counterpoint to her sister's restraint. She walked as if the tower itself had been built for her amusement.
"Mr. Andy," Mira said as she reached the lobby floor, her tone calm, formal, yet touched by something softer only he could have noticed. "Thank you for accepting our invitation on such short notice."
Arkellin inclined his head, no more than that. "Curiosity brought me."
Mira's lips curved faintly—an acknowledgment, not a smile. She gestured toward the row of elevators, already guarded by biometric gates. "Curiosity has always been the first step to opportunity."
Before Arkellin could respond, Myra closed the distance between them with a grin sharp enough to draw blood. She brushed past her sister, her perfume cutting sweet against the sterile lobby air.
"And opportunity," she said, looping her arm through Arkellin's before he could refuse, "is what Mira is too polite to call by its real name: trouble. Which you seem very good at attracting."
The employees nearby froze, mouths parting. The heiress of Clock Corp rarely touched anyone in public, much less a stranger whose name had only just entered their rumor mill. Murmurs rippled like a breeze through reeds.
Arkellin let her cling for half a heartbeat, then gently disengaged his arm with a motion so controlled it could not be read as rejection, only inevitability. His eyes, cool, unreadable, slid to hers. "Careful," he said evenly. "Not all trouble comes with warnings."
Myra's smile only widened, eyes glittering. "Mm. Now you sound exactly like the kind of consultant we need."
Mira's gaze flicked briefly between them, her expression unreadable, before she turned toward the elevators. "This way."
The three of them crossed the lobby together—Mira leading, composed; Arkellin in the center, silent, his presence a gravity of its own; Myra at his side, every step a playful counterpoint to her sister's formality. The elevator doors slid open, mirrored walls reflecting them back as a trio no one in the lobby would forget.
As the doors closed, whispers swelled behind them.
"Who is he?"
"Did you see—Myra touched him—"
"Mira called him… consultant?"
The voices faded as the elevator climbed, carrying Arkellin deeper into the heart of Clock Corp.
The storm last night had been one kind of battlefield. This—this tower of glass, whispers, and boardroom daggers—was another.
And Arkellin was walking into it with the same calm, inevitable stride.
The elevator sighed open at the seventieth floor.
The boardroom of Clock Corp stretched like a temple of power: a long table of black walnut polished to a mirror sheen, high-backed leather chairs aligned with military precision, walls of glass that bared Aurelia's skyline like a living mural. Clouds dragged low over the city, stormlight still lingering from the night before. The faint smell of lemon polish clung to the air, mixed with the muted scent of expensive cologne.
Arkellin stepped in behind Mira and Myra.
The directors were already seated—men and women in their forties and fifties, armored in suits tailored within a hair's breadth, their expressions honed from years of mergers and bloodless battles fought with contracts instead of bullets. Their eyes, however, were not on the sisters. They were on him.
The stranger.
Their stares lingered on the streak of white cutting through his otherwise black, messy hair. On the cut of his suit that looked precise but carried no brand pin. On the way he walked—not deferential, not eager, but steady, cool, as if he had chosen this room rather than been invited into it.
Mira glided to her place at the head of the table, placing a slim folio in front of her with quiet precision. She radiated calm authority, her posture a perfect example of corporate composure. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice smooth, clear, commanding without rising, "allow me to introduce Mr. Andy. He has agreed to serve as a consultant for our ongoing expansion project."
A stir passed through the directors. Eyes darted from Mira to Arkellin, from Arkellin back to Mira. A few exchanged glances heavy with silent questions. A man with silvered hair and sharp cheekbones cleared his throat. "A consultant?" His tone balanced on the line between skepticism and challenge. "Forgive me, but we've yet to be informed of Mr. Andy's credentials."
Mira's gaze flicked to him, then past him, never breaking rhythm. "Credentials are useful," she said evenly. "But perspective is invaluable. Mr. Andy brings the latter."
Before the man could respond, Myra leaned forward with a grin, elbows propped carelessly on the table. She wore a scarlet blouse today, its sleeves slightly too sheer for boardroom etiquette, and she toyed idly with the chain of her pendant as if the directors were an audience rather than colleagues.
"Oh, don't look so grim," she purred. "You should be grateful Mira's finally brought someone interesting into this room. You've all been boring me to death with quarterly reports." She turned her eyes toward Arkellin, letting them linger like heat. "At least this one looks like he knows how to keep me awake."
A ripple of discomfort ran through the directors. A few coughed politely. One woman adjusted her glasses to mask a smirk. Mira, for her part, didn't glance at her sister, though a faint tightening at her jaw betrayed annoyance.
Arkellin remained unmoved.
He slid his hands into his pockets, his stance casual but precise, as if even his stillness was measured. He let their eyes weigh him, let Myra's provocation hang in the air, and gave them nothing in return.
When at last he spoke, his voice was low, calm, and left no space for argument.
"You don't need to know who I am. You only need to know I see things you don't."
The words weren't loud, but they landed. The room shifted, ever so slightly—postures tightening, brows furrowing. Even the silver-haired director who had challenged earlier found his lips pressed into silence.
Mira's eyes slid toward him, cool but glinting with something deeper: approval. Myra, meanwhile, broke into laughter—bright, delighted, as if she had been waiting for that exact reply.
The boardroom projector hummed to life. Figures lit the wall: graphs, maps, expansion charts. Mira began her presentation, her voice clear and controlled, her hand tracing the lines of growth, the next steps for Clock Corp's dominance.
Arkellin didn't sit. He stood slightly behind the sisters, arms folded loosely, his gaze traveling the length of the table. Each director who dared look at him found his eyes waiting, sharp and unblinking, until they turned away. He said nothing, but in the silence of his presence, every whisper of discontent dulled, every murmur died in the throat.
The storm outside grumbled, lightning flashing faint against the glass wall.
Inside, the storm wore a black suit and spoke little.
The meeting ended with the quiet scrape of chairs against marble. Papers stacked, tablets slipped into sleek leather cases, polite handshakes exchanged like currency. The board filed out one by one, their shoes clicking against the polished floor, their eyes still cutting sideways at Arkellin—measuring, calculating, failing to pin him down.
Mira closed her folio with deliberate calm, the gesture of someone who had already decided how the narrative of this morning would be remembered. Myra, on the other hand, stretched languidly in her seat, the scarlet fabric of her blouse catching the light, her smile suggesting she had enjoyed every moment of disruption.
Arkellin said nothing. He followed when they led him out, his footsteps echoing steady in the high-ceilinged corridors of Clock Corp.
By the time the trio reached the ground floor, the lobby was busier than before. Employees crossed paths with tablets in hand, receptionists fielded calls with bright rehearsed tones, the air carrying the mingled scents of polished stone and roasted coffee. The moment Mira and Myra stepped into view, the flow of people shifted like a tide parting for royalty.
And at the edge of the tide, vultures waited.
Paparazzi.
They had hovered outside the building since early morning, lenses long and hungry. One had slipped in with a fake pass, lurking behind a column. Another crouched by the revolving doors, camera poised at thigh level. They weren't looking for Arkellin—they had come for the heiresses, as always. But today they found something far juicier.
The moment Arkellin appeared between Mira and Myra, the air filled with clicks like hail on glass.
Klik. Klik. Klikklikklik.
Flashbulbs burst in staccato. Voices rose.
"Mira! Who is he?!"
"Myra, is this your date?!"
"Sir, sir, can we get your name—?"
Security moved in too slow; the storm was already breaking.
Mira ignored them all, her face a mask of elegance carved in ice. She walked with her chin high, each step measured, her silence more eloquent than denial.
Myra, however, turned her head just enough to let her hair spill across one shoulder, lips curling into a wicked grin. She didn't answer either—she simply tightened her pace so that her shoulder brushed Arkellin's arm, letting the cameras catch the angle they craved.
Arkellin neither flinched nor acknowledged the chaos. He moved straight through, eyes fixed ahead, every inch of him radiating the same cold calm he carried into boardrooms and blood-soaked alleys alike. His presence beside the sisters transformed the image: no longer two heiresses leaving their empire's tower, but a trio—elegance, fire, and shadow.
Outside, the car door was opened by one of Arkellin's men. He slipped inside without pause. Mira followed, composed, Myra last, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the paparazzi as though daring them to spin their stories.
The doors shut. The engine purred. The cameras still screamed.
Hours later, as the car rolled toward the heart of the city, the first alerts began to ring.
Screens lit across Aurelia: gossip sites, newsfeeds, social media.
"Mystery Man with the Clock Sisters — Consultant or Lover?"
"Heiresses Spotted With Dark Stranger: Who Is He?"
"Twin Flames, One Shadow — Aurelia's Power Trio?"
The photographs spread like wildfire. Arkellin stepping out between the sisters, Mira's cold elegance framing his left, Myra's playful smirk pressed close on his right. His white streak glinted beneath the stormlight, his expression unreadable, his aura unmistakable.
In the penthouse that night, Myra laughed aloud as she scrolled through the headlines, wine glass in hand. Mira sat silent on the opposite sofa, her face unreadable, her eyes sharpened to flint as she read the same words.
The city had seen.
The world had begun to whisper.
And Arkellin's shadow was no longer his alone.