Chapter 2:
"Well done," Atticus said, his voice laced with a sly smirk. "Never thought you'd pull it off in such little time."
Magnus sat atop the hood of a sleek, obsidian sports car, the sheen of its polished body catching the overhead lights of the warehouse. Behind him, sixty more cars, each handcrafted, pristine, and battle-tested, lined the floor like trophies of a quiet war. The metal was still warm under his palms. He could feel the engine's ghost, humming through the chassis, waiting to roar.
He didn't look at his uncle right away. He couldn't. If he did, Atticus would see the exhaustion in his eyes, the sleepless nights, the blood he had washed off his hands just hours ago. Instead, he calmly pulled a cigarette from his suit's inner pocket, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a click of his silver lighter. Smoke curled up around his face like a crown of fire, hiding him for just a moment longer.
"How could I not?" Magnus said coolly, but his voice was rougher than he wanted. "I was in the business before I even hit puberty."
He took a long drag, then exhaled, the smoke escaping like a ghost from his lips. It burned his throat, grounding him. "And with that, I leave everything else to you."
As he slid off the car and began to walk away, Atticus's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"I'm afraid that's not how it works now, boy."
Magnus halted. His shoulders tensed. Without turning, he let out another puff of smoke before speaking, buying time to bury the anger that flared in his chest. "And why not?"
"Because you," Atticus said, stepping closer, close enough that Magnus could smell the whiskey on his breath, "are the heir to the Reinhart legacy." He plucked the cigarette from Magnus's mouth and brought it to his own. "And this..." he gestured at the room full of cars, "was your final trial as an Elite."
"You're being promoted. As of today."
Magnus said nothing. He only watched as his cigarette was stolen and savored by someone else. His fingers itched to make a fist, but he kept them loose at his sides. He had learned long ago that showing anger was the same as showing fear. Then a third voice rose from the shadows.
"You've done well, my grandson," came the deep, reverent tone of Titus Reinhart, emerging like a ghost from the edge of the warehouse. His footsteps were slow, measured, the walk of a man who had nowhere left to hurry.
"I've watched you evolve. You've shed the skin of a boy, but now it's time to spread your wings."
Magnus felt his throat tighten. Spread your wings. His father used to say that to him, back when Magnus was small enough to be lifted into the air, back when the world was still safe and bright. Now those words tasted like ash.
Atticus added, blowing smoke from Magnus's stolen cigarette, "You may have entered the game earlier than any Reinhart child, but your lack of understanding slowed you down. You're twenty-one and still don't have a territory. That's a weakness."
The words stung, not because they were wrong, but because they were true. Magnus's eyes narrowed slightly. "About that," he said, keeping his voice steady. "There's a place I'd like to claim."
Titus raised a brow. "Where?"
"Paris."
The room grew quiet. So quiet Magnus could hear the distant drip of water from a broken pipe.
His uncle and grandfather exchanged a puzzled glance, the kind of look two old wolves share when a pup growls at a bear. "That's your father's old domain," Titus finally said, and his voice was softer now, almost fragile.
"And currently a war zone," Atticus added, voice dry. "No Reinhart holds sway there anymore. We lost all ground in Paris years ago."
Magnus smirked, but there was no joy in it. His eyes burned with quiet determination, the kind that came from carrying a dead man's dream on your back. "All the more reason to take it back."
Atticus sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. I'll assemble a strike team..."
"No," Magnus cut in sharply. The word cracked like a whip. "This one's on me. No backup. No cleanup crew. Time to test my worth."
Before they could stop him, he turned and walked away without even a goodbye, leaving smoke, legacy, and silence behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, not with fear, but with something colder. Something that had been waiting eleven years to breathe.
(06:34 a.m.)
The airport buzzed with early morning energy. Trolleys rolling, voices murmuring, intercoms crackling. Magnus sat alone on a bench in the departure terminal, a single duffel bag at his feet, a black coat draped over his suit.
His eyes were closed. Breathing steady. Meditating. Or trying to. But every time he reached for peace, he saw the crash again. The fire. The gun.
"Magnus Reinhart...?"
The voice was soft, feminine, pulling him back from the edge of memory.
He opened one eye, mildly curious. Or maybe just tired.
Before him stood a woman, blonde hair that shimmered under the white lights, skin like porcelain, and eyes like pink fire. Her lips were glossed and delicate, her posture elegant yet casual. She looked like she belonged in a perfume ad, not in the same world as him.
"I'm sorry, who's asking?" he said flatly, closing his eye again. He didn't have the energy for small talk. He didn't have the energy for anything.
"It's me... Julia. Julia Wade. From high school."
The name clicked like a key in a rusted lock. Julia Wade, former student council president. The annoying perfectionist who had constantly hounded him back then, always correcting his uniform, always reporting his absences. Her family had minor business ties with the Reinharts. She had been a ghost in his past, harmless and forgettable.
"Right. I remember you." He said this still not opening his eyes. He didn't want her to see what was inside them.
"Oh, come on," she said, half-laughing, half-hurt. The hurt surprised him. "It's been years. Mind if I sit?"
"Suit yourself."
She sat beside him, smoothing her dress. The bench creaked. "So... heir to the Reinhart clan, huh? That's wild."
"That's right."
Julia smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hard to believe. You were such a troublemaker. A royal pain."
Magnus chuckled under his breath, a dry, hollow sound. "Did you expect the heir to be polished and polite?"
"Maybe not polished. But not... you," she teased. Then her smile faltered. "And to think you're Winston and Helena's blood. After what happened..."
Her voice trailed off.
And then he opened his eyes.
They were filled with something... deep. Quiet rage, lingering sorrow, years of weight unspoken. Julia felt it instantly, like stepping into a freezer. The air between them turned sharp and brittle.
A boy lay sprawled across the marble floor of the grand living room, drawing lazily with crayons as maids bustled around him, paying him no mind. The crayon in his hand was red. He was drawing a dragon. His mother had said dragons were brave.
"Dear... get up. We're leaving," said a soft, motherly voice.
Magnus sprang to his feet and ran toward the black car waiting outside. Inside, his father was already seated, reading a document, glasses perched on his nose. The driver gave a subtle nod and started the engine. Magnus didn't know it then, but he would never see that living room again. He would never finish that dragon.
Ten minutes later...
Twisted metal. Fire. Glass.
The world became noise and heat and pain. The boy had been flung from the wreck, his small body tumbling across wet asphalt. Dazed, he lifted his head just in time to see a figure walking through the smoke. A man. His face obscured by shadow and swirling ash. A gun in his hand, black and gleaming.
He approached the motionless forms of Magnus's parents. Raised his weapon. Fired. Twice.
The sound was not loud like in movies. It was flat. Final. Like a door closing forever.
Then he turned and calmly walked away, only stopping a few meters away to shoot the car again.
BOOM.
Flames swallowed everything. The heat peeled the paint off the road. Magnus, too shocked to scream, too young to understand, stood frozen... watching everything he knew burn. The red crayon was still in his pocket. He would find it days later, melted into a shapeless lump, and he would keep it for years.
"And that," Julia said softly, breaking the silence, her voice trembling, "is why I never understood why you hid your identity until you were eighteen. Why wait?"
Magnus stood up, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. His hands were steady, but his insides were shaking. She had no right to ask. She had no right to remind him.
"You're a drag, you know that?" he muttered.
He paused, turning just enough to offer one last look at her. Her eyes were wide, wet, sorry. "Still, thanks. You reminded me why this mission matters."
And with that, he walked away toward the boarding gate checkpoint, handing over his ticket without a glance back. His jaw was set. His heart was a stone.
The storm was heading to Paris.
And Magnus Reinhart was bringing war with him.