The Grand Aurelia Hotel had been scrubbed to brilliance for the evening, every chandelier dripping with light, every marble pillar polished until it gleamed like ice. The air was thick with perfume, champagne bubbles, and the sharp clicks of designer heels against the red-carpeted stairway. Strings played somewhere above the chatter, but even the music sounded tight, as though it too felt the weight pressing down on the city.
Arkellin stepped into the ballroom flanked by Mira and Myra.
Mira wore silver tonight, a gown that caught the light with every movement, her shoulders bare, her posture sharp enough to cut glass. She smiled as cameras turned, poised, practiced, but her eyes gave her away—too still, too careful, scanning the crowd behind every flutter of lashes.
Myra was the contrast, draped in crimson silk that clung and flowed, her hair loose, her arm hooked through Arkellin's as though daring the world to try to pry him from her. She leaned close enough that only he could hear, her whisper brushing against his ear:
"You feel it too, don't you? Something's coming."
Arkellin didn't answer. His expression was carved into calm, a faint curve at his mouth that could almost be mistaken for amusement. But his eyes moved constantly, sweeping the room the way a predator measured the brush for movement. He caught the twitch of a waiter's wrist, the nervous glance of a man too close to a service door, the way security flinched every time a camera flash went off.
The atmosphere was already fractured. Gossip hissed like steam.
"…that's him—the outsider…"
"…Council has their claws in Clock, I heard…"
"…why are the sisters letting him walk in with them?"
Arkellin's steps didn't falter. He led the heiresses forward with the steady rhythm of someone untouchable, each movement precise, measured. Mira held tighter to her composure, every smile at a guest just a little too tight. Myra pressed herself closer, fingers curling against his sleeve, her grip warm and possessive.
Above them, chandeliers blazed, scattering the light across rows of crystal glasses and gold-plated cutlery. Waiters in white gloves glided between the tables, and yet the room didn't feel celebratory—it felt like glass stretched too thin, waiting for the first crack.
Arkellin's hand brushed the inside of his coat where the pistol waited, hidden but ready. Outwardly, he looked the perfect escort, his suit cut clean, collar open at the throat. Inwardly, every muscle was tuned to the inevitability.
The gala had begun.
But beneath the glitter and champagne, everyone could already feel it—death was waiting at the door.
The ballroom shimmered, all chandeliers and polished marble, but beneath the glitter was something sour—like perfume masking smoke. The whispers had grown bolder now, no longer just shadows along the walls but threads of gossip winding across the tables.
"…that's him, the man in the photo…"
"…if Clock's tied to the killings, this gala is a farce…"
"…what's to stop the Council from walking right through those doors?"
Arkellin heard every word without turning his head. His eyes swept the crowd, unhurried, dissecting each corner of the ballroom. The waiters moved with too much stiffness. The guards near the exits scanned the room, but not the shadows above them. A pair of guests whispered behind champagne flutes, their glances darting toward him.
Predator's eyes. He marked each weakness, each fault line, as if sketching out a map no one else could see.
Beside him, Myra pressed closer, her crimson silk brushing against his suit. She tilted her head up, her lips almost brushing his jaw as she murmured, loud enough for those nearby to hear:
"Relax, darling. You're making them nervous."
Her fingers slid around his arm, nails grazing the fabric as if to stake her claim. Gasps rippled from a nearby cluster of matrons, scandal painted across their faces.
Arkellin didn't smile. But his hand shifted just enough to pat Myra's wrist, subtle, firm—a silent warning, Not now.
Mira, on his other side, was already in motion, her silver gown catching the chandelier light as she stepped forward to greet an approaching guest. She extended her hand, her smile precise, her voice steady as steel wrapped in silk.
"Thank you for attending tonight. We at Clock Corp are proud to continue supporting Aurelia's future."
It was flawless, every syllable perfect PR polish, but Arkellin could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flicked at the crowd between sentences. She was holding the facade together for everyone else—for the board members watching from the edge, for the reporters scribbling every detail—but underneath, she was as aware of the fracture as he was.
The whispers didn't stop. If anything, they sharpened.
"…the silver one looks rattled…"
"…the red one's flaunting him like a prize…"
"…how long until the outsider tips them both into ruin?"
Arkellin's gaze cut to the far corner of the room. A waiter froze under it, the tray in his hands trembling for a fraction of a second before moving on.
He exhaled slowly, steadying the storm under his ribs. His thumb brushed the edge of his concealed pistol, a gesture invisible to anyone but deliberate enough to remind himself: when the door finally opened to death, he'd be ready.
The gala sparkled, glasses clinked, laughter rose.
And yet, beneath the music, Arkellin could already hear it—
the silence before a blade is drawn.
The orchestra faltered. A violin note stretched too long, jagged against the flow of champagne chatter.
Then the chandeliers flickered. Once. Twice.
Gasps rippled across the ballroom as the thousand crystals above them trembled, their golden light stuttering like a heartbeat out of rhythm. For a moment, the glittering hall fell into a hush.
A waiter near the central table stumbled, his silver tray tipping, champagne glasses shattering against marble in a sharp, crystalline scream.
But Arkellin's eyes were already on him.
The stumble wasn't clumsy—it was deliberate.
The waiter's hand dipped beneath the tray, fingers closing around something too angular to be glass. A second later, the hiss of a smoke pellet filled the air, white vapor spewing across the polished floor.
Screams erupted. Guests scrambled, heels slipping on spilled champagne. The chandeliers flickered harder, the strings snapped silent. The glittering veneer of the gala shattered in a heartbeat.
From the smoke came shapes—black-suited, too fluid, too disciplined to be hotel staff. Knives glinted in the half-light, pistols raised with silencers screwed tight.
The second wave had come.
"Get down!" someone shrieked.
But Arkellin was already moving. His coat flared as he shoved Mira and Myra low behind the banquet table, his voice cutting cold through the chaos:
"Stay here. Don't move."
The first bullet whispered past his ear, biting into a pillar behind him. Another hissed through the smoke. The assassins didn't roar or threaten. They came silent, precise, every strike meant to kill fast and leave nothing but bodies in silk gowns and blood on marble.
Arkellin's eyes narrowed, breath steady even as panic swarmed the hall.
The gala's golden glow was gone. What remained was smoke, broken glass, and death stepping calmly into the room.
And Arkellin—blade hidden in plain sight—was waiting for them.
The smoke crawled low over the marble, turning chandeliers into pale, ghostly halos above. Screams echoed from every corner, glasses toppled, chairs crashed. But at the center of the storm, Arkellin moved with a predator's calm.
An assassin lunged first—blade flashing through the haze. Arkellin sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and slammed it against the marble pillar. The knife clattered to the floor. In the same motion, Arkellin drove his elbow into the man's throat. The body collapsed, choking, before silence claimed it.
He bent, scooped the fallen knife, and let the weight settle into his grip like it belonged there.
Another figure emerged through the smoke, pistol raised. Arkellin grabbed a decorative stand lamp—the golden rod taller than him—and swung it with brutal precision. The rod cracked across the assassin's ribs, a sound like breaking timber. The man's gun went off once, wild, before he hit the floor gasping.
The ballroom floor was chaos: shattered crystal, toppled champagne, blood already spattering across white marble.
Arkellin didn't falter.
He flipped the banquet table on its side, the crash echoing like thunder. Plates, wine bottles, and roasted delicacies scattered across the floor. Behind its cover, Mira gasped, Myra's hand clutching her sister's wrist. Arkellin planted himself between them and the storm.
Bullets whispered through linen and wood. Arkellin waited for the rhythm, counted the silenced cracks, then surged forward. He slammed the banquet table into two attackers, pinning them against the wall. The knife in his hand plunged once, twice, finishing the job before their muffled cries faded into the smoke.
A third man charged with a katana hidden beneath waiter's cloth. Arkellin caught the blade on the stand rod, sparks flying as steel scraped steel. With a twist of his body, he drove the rod upward, snapping the assassin's jaw, then ripped the katana free. The blade gleamed crimson as it cut its owner down in a single strike.
Now armed with steel, Arkellin became a shadow of blood and silence. He flowed between pillars, slicing, striking, his coat torn and stained but his movements precise. Each kill was ruthless, efficient—bone breaking, steel cutting, bodies collapsing like marionettes with strings severed.
The air reeked of gunpowder and spilled wine. The white marble floor was streaked in red, footprints smeared through blood and champagne alike. Guests crawled for cover, sobbing, dragging torn dresses and broken shoes through the mess.
Mira's hands shook behind the table, eyes wide at the man she thought she knew—Arkellin was no longer just cool or mysterious. He was lethal, the mask of civilization stripped away. Myra pressed closer, her breath fast, but her gaze never wavered.
When the last shot echoed, silence slammed back into the room. Smoke drifted in torn ribbons.
Arkellin stood at the center of it all, katana in one hand, the golden rod still dripping blood in the other. His chest rose steady, his hair streak catching the broken chandelier light.
A man who had just turned a ballroom into a battlefield.
The smoke thinned, drifting like torn veils through the chandelier light. The music had long since died, replaced by the ragged sobs of guests crouched in corners, the whimper of glass heels scraping across marble as survivors scrambled for safety.
The once-pristine ballroom was wreckage—white tablecloths torn and soaked in wine and blood, crystal chandeliers reflecting only chaos now.
And in the middle of it stood Arkellin.
His suit was streaked crimson, sleeves darkened, one hand still wrapped around the katana, its blade dripping in slow, heavy beads. The golden rod leaned against his leg, bent at the center, its surface smeared red where it had broken bodies. His chest rose and fell once, steady, as if the massacre had barely pulled breath from him.
He turned his head, slow, deliberate.
Mira was the first thing his eyes found. She had risen from behind the banquet table, her silver gown torn at the hem, one trembling hand pressed to her lips. The poise she wore in every boardroom cracked here, pupils wide, her heartbeat visible in the hollow of her throat.
Beside her, Myra clutched the edge of the table, eyes wide but unflinching, lips parted as though she couldn't decide between horror and awe. Her crimson dress looked as if it had been dipped in the very blood pooling at their feet.
Arkellin took a single step forward. The marble echoed under his boot, sharp and final. He lifted the katana, letting the blood drip free in a crimson arc before lowering it, his gaze never leaving the sisters.
His voice cut through the silence, low and cold, carrying to every corner of the ruined hall:
"This was only a warning."
The words fell heavy, undeniable, more chilling than the bodies strewn around them.
And from the broken double doors at the back, a camera flash burst white against the smoke. A paparazzo, hidden in the chaos, caught the image: Arkellin, bloodstained, katana in hand, with Mira and Myra in the background—heiresses framed against ruin.
The shutter clicked again before security caught him, dragging him out, but the damage was done. The picture was already burned into the lens, already racing toward the headlines of tomorrow.
Arkellin lowered the blade, exhaled once, and turned his back on the dead. His eyes swept the hall one last time—at the terrified guests, at the shattered crystal, at the blood soaking through the carpet—and then returned to Mira and Myra.
He didn't smile. He didn't soften.
Only the predator's promise remained.