Mark POV
The morning sun filtered through the cracked window and hit my face.
I groaned and rolled over, knocking an empty coffee cup onto the floor. It shattered, but I didn't react. The smell of burnt paper lingered in the room, mingling with the scent of cheap coffee and smoke. Another night wasted trying not to think. Another morning I didn't want to face it.
I am the third son of a man who built an empire from nothing and demanded everything in return.
In our house, love wasn't free. It was a currency, and I was always broke.
My brothers understood the rules. They followed schedules, wore tailored suits, and spoke carefully chosen words. They earned our father's approval and wore it like armour.
I learned early that silence was safer.
That silence ended at breakfast.
The dining room was massive, polished, and cold; it felt too quiet for a family this large. My mother sat at the far end of the table, scrolling through her phone, pretending not to notice me.
My father sat opposite me, hidden behind his newspaper like always. He liked control, even over the air we breathed.
The paper lowered.
"Mark," he said, not looking up. "We need to talk."
My stomach tightened. Those words never meant anything good.
He folded the newspaper carefully, smoothing the edges as if it were part of some ritual. He always did that before judging someone.
"Your school called," he said calmly. "Missed deadlines. Skipped classes. And the internship I arranged—you walked out after two days."
"Yeah," I replied.
His eyes lifted slowly, cold and assessing. "Yeah?"
"What do you want me to say?" I snapped. "Am I sorry?
That I'll suddenly turn into them?" I nodded toward the portraits lining the wall—family photos frozen in fake smiles. "You already have two perfect sons."
"Then stop watching."
The silence that followed was sharp.
The newspaper slammed onto the table. "You think this is a joke?" he said quietly. "You're my son. Act like it."
I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Maybe I don't want to be."
The room went completely still.
"If you walk out that door," he said, his voice calm and final, "don't come back."
I didn't hesitate.
Outside, cold air slapped my face, sharper than any of his words. I walked quickly, letting the city swallow the mansion behind me. The streets buzzed with life, honking cars, shouting vendors, flashing lights, but I felt detached, like I was watching someone else's life fall apart.
I ended up at Larius's café, the only place that still felt human.
Larius looked up from behind the counter and grinned. "Rough morning?"
"Same story," I muttered, dropping into a chair. "Different threat."
He laughed and slid a cup toward me. "Your dad is still trying to run your life?"
"Always."
As I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, I noticed something through the window.
A black car.
It sat across the street, engine running, windows tinted so dark I couldn't see inside.
I frowned. "Has that car been there long?"
Larius glanced outside and shrugged. "Didn't notice it."
The moment I looked directly at it, the car pulled away.
My chest tightened.
I told myself it was nothing. Rich neighbourhoods had black cars everywhere.
But the feeling stayed.
That night, when I returned to my room, something was off.
My desk drawer was slightly open.
Inside lay a brown envelope. No name. No address. Just the seal of Callen Industries stamped on the corner.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Photographs split out.
Larius sitting in the café laughing, talking
And a single note, typed neatly.
You're being watched.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
I stared at the door, half-expecting it to open.
That was the moment I realised something terrifying.
This wasn't just about disappointing my father anymore.
I was already part of something dangerous, and I had no idea how deep it went.