The elevator doors slid open to the ground floor with a muted chime.
Arkellin stepped out first, his stride unhurried, the cut of his black suit catching the lobby lights. The scent of polished marble and fresh varnish clung to the air, but underneath it was something sharper—anticipation, tension, the buzz of too many eyes waiting.
Myra followed, her scarlet dress shimmering under the chandeliers. She didn't walk behind him, nor at his side—she timed her steps so that when they reached the glass doors of the lobby, she was already brushing close enough for her perfume to bleed into his space.
The doors hissed open.
A wall of noise crashed in.
"Mr. Andy! Who are you to the Clock family?"
"Miss Myra—are you confirming the rumors?"
"Consultant or lover? Which is it?"
Flashbulbs exploded, white-hot against the polished glass. The air outside smelled of rain on asphalt, mixed with the tang of cheap ink from newspapers clutched in waiting hands. Dozens of cameras jostled for a clear line, their shutters snapping like gunfire.
For a heartbeat, Arkellin stood still, his gaze sweeping the sea of lenses and microphones. His expression didn't shift, didn't crack. He might as well have been carved from stone.
And then Myra moved.
She slid closer, looping her arm through his with practiced ease, pressing herself into his side as though she had always belonged there. The scarlet fabric of her dress brushed against his suit, vivid against black, a fire clinging to shadow.
The crowd erupted.
"Confirmed! She's with him!"
"Clock heiress caught with mystery man!"
"Love triangle between the sisters?"
Arkellin's jaw flexed once, subtle, the only sign of discontent. He didn't pull away. His eyes narrowed slightly against the camera flashes, the calm in them more dangerous than any denial could have been.
Inside the lobby, staff whispered in corners, pretending to focus on screens while their eyes tracked every move. Some exchanged glances, already imagining tomorrow's headlines.
Myra tilted her head up at Arkellin, her smile sweet enough for the cameras but sharp in the way only he could feel. She gave his arm the faintest squeeze, voice barely a whisper beneath the roar of the press.
"Relax," she murmured. "They'll write the story either way. Might as well let them have a good picture."
Arkellin's gaze shifted down to her for half a second—no words, no expression—but the weight of it carried more than silence.
Then he guided her forward, cool and unhurried, straight through the chaos.
The storm was already out in the open.
Morning broke over Aurelia with a different kind of storm. No thunder, no rain—just screens and ink.
Across the skyline, digital billboards flashed in looping succession, each one replaying the same captured moment:
Arkellin, sharp in black, expression unreadable.
Myra in scarlet, her arm threaded through his, smile burning brighter than the city lights.
HEADLINES SCREAMED:
"CLOCK HEIRESS AND MYSTERY MAN—IS THIS LOVE OR STRATEGY?"
"WHO IS MR. ANDY? CONSULTANT, LOVER, OR BOTH?"
"TWO SISTERS, ONE SECRET: CORPORATE TRIANGLE SHAKES AURELIA."
In coffee shops, baristas paused mid-pour to glance at the morning tabloids. In subway cars, commuters whispered behind folded papers, eyes darting to the glossy image spread across front pages. And in the marble lobby of Clock Corp, gossip traveled faster than the elevators.
Clusters of staff huddled near the reception desk, voices low but urgent. Some tilted screens toward each other, others muffled laughter behind coffee cups.
"Did you see? She was holding his arm like a trophy."
"But wasn't he with Mira yesterday? In the boardroom?"
"If this blows up, it won't just be scandal—it'll be war."
The hiss of whispers followed Arkellin as he entered the lobby. He moved through them like a shadow through glass—measured steps, spine straight, gaze forward. His presence drew eyes as surely as gravity, but his expression never shifted. No denial, no defense. Only silence, cool and absolute.
Above him, the billboard outside the glass doors lit his figure in cruel symmetry: Arkellin below in flesh and blood, Arkellin above frozen in scandal.
On the sixty-eighth floor, behind sealed doors, Mira sat at the head of the obsidian board table. Alone.
A tablet glowed in front of her, the headline sharp against the dark glass. Her hand rested on it, fingers splayed, nails tapping once, twice, too controlled. Her face was perfect—composure sculpted into every line—but her knuckles had gone white where they pressed against the frame.
The image mocked her: Myra smiling, Myra victorious, Arkellin at her side.
The jasmine diffuser in the corner hummed quietly, its sweetness filling the silence like a lie.
When an assistant slipped in with a stack of reports, he froze mid-step. Mira didn't look up, only flicked her eyes once in his direction. That single glance sent him retreating with a muttered apology, door closing quickly behind him.
Mira exhaled slowly, lips barely parting. Her voice was almost inaudible, a whisper not meant for anyone.
"Reckless…"
She didn't swipe the screen away. She stared at it again. And again. As though sheer force could bend the headline, erase the smile, rewrite the picture.
Outside, Aurelia buzzed with scandal. Inside, Arkellin walked untouched, a storm at his heels.
And Mira's ice began to crack.
The buzz of scandal outside only made Myra's office feel more like a trap—warm, dim, intimate by design. Where Mira's office had smelled of jasmine and discipline, Myra's was drenched in velvet shadows and perfume, the air thick enough to taste.
Arkellin closed the door behind him, the sound echoing like a lock on a cage.
Myra sat on the edge of her desk, one heel dangling lazily, the scarlet slit of her dress drawn high along her thigh. A glass of red wine turned slow circles in her hand, catching the lamplight. Her smile bloomed as he entered, playful but edged with intent.
"You came," she said, voice soft, teasing. "I thought you'd vanish with the headlines. Or hide behind Mira's calendar."
Arkellin's gaze swept the room—velvet curtains, amber light, the curve of her body against polished wood. Then back to her. "You said it was business."
"It is business." She slid down from the desk, the wine glass still in her fingers. Her heels clicked as she crossed the room, each step unhurried, practiced. She stopped close enough that her perfume—sweet, heady, unapologetic—wrapped around him. She tilted the glass, watching the wine swirl like blood. "Business of survival. You need me. And I—" she leaned in, her lips curling—"I like the way you look when you're cornered."
Arkellin didn't move. His face was unreadable, carved in stillness. "You dragged me here for that?"
"You make it sound like punishment." Myra's laughter was low, threaded with mischief. She set the glass down, freeing her hand. Her fingers brushed his sleeve, then traced deliberately along the line of his forearm, slow, testing. "Relax, Mr. Andy. The city already thinks you're mine. Why not make it true?"
Arkellin's jaw flexed, the muscle twitching once. His eyes locked on hers, dark and steady. "Not here. Not now."
The rejection only widened her smile. She tilted her head, gaze glittering. "Then later? Or do you only answer when my sister calls?"
The words hung sharp between them.
For a moment, the room held nothing but the clash of their breathing, the faint hum of the city through the curtains. Myra's eyes searched his, her smile daring him to break first.
But Arkellin didn't. He shifted just enough to the side, the space between them suddenly heavy with what hadn't happened. His voice came quiet, final. "Careful, Myra. You're playing a game you can't win."
Her lips parted, then curved into a grin that was equal parts promise and challenge. "Good. I never liked easy games."
The perfume, the dim light, her laughter—all of it clung to him as he turned away.
And though she'd been denied, Myra's eyes followed him with the certainty of someone who had only grown more determined.
By nightfall, Aurelia was humming with the aftermath. Billboards still glowed with scandal, shopfront TVs replayed clips of flashes exploding outside Clock Tower, and the city's gossip had settled into every café and every glass-walled office. Headlines weren't dying—they were multiplying.
But Arkellin had chosen silence. He slipped into the safehouse before dusk, a forgotten building tucked between a shuttered mall and a row of repair shops. The kind of place where people minded their own business.
Inside, the rooms were stripped bare: concrete walls, faint smell of old varnish, the hum of a single ceiling fan circling dust. The only furniture worth mentioning was a battered leather chair pulled near the sliding balcony doors, and a narrow table where his phone and a pistol sat like twin sentinels.
He stood on the balcony, shoulders squared against the night. The city stretched out before him in a sprawl of neon arteries, traffic weaving like fireflies, sirens wailing somewhere far below. The scent of rain was sharp in the air, metallic, laced with exhaust fumes drifting upward. His cigarette glowed faint in the dark, ember curling red before fading into smoke that the wind carried away.
Arkellin inhaled once, slow, steady—then ground the butt out against the rail, flicking it into the night. His hand lingered there on the cold steel, the scar across his knuckles catching the city light. His shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows, revealing forearms marked with faint lines of old fights, memories carved into flesh. The jacket he'd worn through the boardroom storm was folded neatly over the back of the chair, as if he'd shed the weight with it.
The phone buzzed.
Short. Sharp. A vibration against metal that cut through the silence more than any shout could.
Arkellin turned, footsteps heavy on concrete. He picked it up without hurry, his reflection ghosted in the black screen before the message lit up.
Unknown Number:
"You think you survived the Dock? Think again. Someone inside is already selling you out."
The words burned white against the glass.
He read them twice, the buzz of the city bleeding faint through the sliding door behind him.
His jaw tightened, the muscle shifting once. He didn't type back. Instead, he lowered the phone onto the table—right beside the matte-black pistol, its barrel glinting in the light of a flickering neon sign across the street. For a moment, both objects reflected in the glass door: the weapon of steel and the weapon of information, lying together like choices waiting to be made.
Arkellin stood still, the hum of the fan above him, the scent of rain thickening in the air, the taste of metal on his tongue.
And then, slowly, his lips curved—not a smile of humor, but of recognition. A predator's acknowledgment.
Some storms came from outside, loud and messy. Others slipped inside walls, carried by voices that pretended to be allies.
And this one? This storm was already inside, waiting to break.