The iron gates of Blackridge Prison clanged open with a groan that echoed across the morning air.
Ethan Ward stood paralyzed, gazing at a world he had been severed away from for three long years. The air tasted different — too clean, too loud, and just too free.
The guard behind him murmured, "Ward, you are lucky. Most who walk out of here don't last long outside."
Ethan never replied. He chose to readjust the worn strap of his duffel bag and took his first step.
Lucky was an understatement.
Different, maybe. The man who walked in was not the same one walking out.
He was back then just a foolish lover, a man who thought love was worth any sacrifice.
Now he knew better.
The city bus rumbled along the dust-laden road. It clamored with a roar as Ethan boarded — took a seat near the window, and gazed at the skyline of Eastbridge far away — a city clad in glass, money, and lies.
His pocket felt the cold edge of a metal ring — old silver with the engraving of a phoenix spreading his wings.
It had come from a man called Victor Vale, who was once the most feared name in the southern underworld.
They thought the world had long seen Vale die behind those walls.
Not Ethan.
Vale ruled from behind those prison gates in silence — powerful even in chains. He'd taught more than just fighting or survival. He showed Ethan how this world really worked: who pulled the strings, and who ended up choking on them.
Days before Ethan's release, Vale had pressed the ring into his palm.
"When the fire dies, light it again. The city will come for you — be ready."
Ethan hadn't understood back then. But now, when the city was in steerage, he could feel the truth burn underneath his skin.
He got off the bus somewhat near a little café he used to frequent before everything went down. The sign still read Harbor Street Coffee, and the smell of roasted beans was like a memory crashing before him.
Ethan ordered a black coffee, seated by the window, gazing out at the moving crowd.
So many people. So much noise. Not one of them for him.
Until he saw her.
Claire Hart.
The lady that once promised forever — and turned him over to the police instead.
She walked beside another gentleman — tall and confident, dressed in an expensive charcoal suit.
Damian Locke.
Heir to Locke Group, Eastbridge's golden boy.
Ethan's jaw clenched. He had not expected to see her this soon. She looked different now — sharper, older, but still radiantly so in a way that twisted his chest.
Claire laughed at something Damian said. Her gaze drifted and locked on Ethan.
For one second, her smile faltered.
Recognition flashed across her face — shock, then guilt, then something resembling fear.
Damian followed her gaze.
Ethan remained still. He raised his coffee to his lips calmly and took a long sip.
Then, he smiled.
It was not warm. It was not friendly.
It was the smile of a man who had buried all memories but was choking on the soil of that grave.
Afterward, Ethan had waited five full minutes before stepping out. Did he want revenge? Would closure be enough? Whatever the feeling, something in this city owed him.
As he turned the corner, a black vehicle came to a halt beside him. The window was tinted; it slid down to reveal a young woman with sharp gray eyes and a calm, dangerous confidence.
"Ethan Ward?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Who's asking?"
"Someone who knows what you're carrying," she said. "Get in. Now."
Ethan grimaced. "I think you've got the wrong-"
The screeching of tires interrupted him. A van swung around the corner — too fast — and dropped armed men in masks.
"Move!" the woman commanded.
Ethan dove into the car just as the first bullet struck the pavement. The woman hit the gas hard as the car pitched toward traffic.
"Who the hell are you?" Ethan shouted.
"My name's Natalie Quinn," she said, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "And if you want to stay alive, don't lose that ring."
Ethan's hand went instinctively to his pocket. The Phoenix Ring burned against his skin — like it was alive.
Natalie turned sharply, making a left turn down a side road, parking the car in an alley.
She turned to face him. "Ethan, you've just inherited Vale's legacy. Every enemy he made now thinks you're the new king of the underworld."
He stared blankly at her as her words sank in.
"I didn't ask for this," he said in a low voice.
She afforded him a tight smile. "Neither did Vale. But destiny does not ask for permission."
As Ethan leaned against the seat and stared outside the window, the light of the city beyond the alley flickered on.
The old him had died in prison.
The man who walked out carried something else: something heavier, something dangerous, and a fire that has never ceased to burn.
Natalie broke the silence. "Welcome back to Eastbridge, Mr. Ward. The city has been waiting for you."
Ethan stared at the skyline reflected in the glassy shell of the car — tall, bright, untouchable.
His lips turned up ever slightly in a cynical smirk.
"Then let's remind it who I am."