Zeke has just sent Bakar off and was still in his study when a knock came . It was from his stepmom Kira. He looked at her and then looked back at the files he was studying , "um, food is ready." Your grandfather said you should come down for dinner, she continued . He looked at the clock, and he was shocked by the amount of time that has passed.
It was already 6 p.m. So it's time for dinner he didn't answer and continued to read his files .Kira saw that as a cue for her to leave and then turned around and closed the door softly with a click .
Zeke finished his work, tidied the documents on his desk into a neat, unreadable stack, and left the study. When he came downstairs, the family was already seated at the dinner table, engaged in the kind of light, useless talk that filled the air but meant nothing. He greeted his parents and grandfather with a curt nod, took his seat, and began to eat, the weight of the coming war making the comfortable ritual feel like a performance.
Old Man Black clapped his hands sharply, commanding the attention of everyone at the dining table. Conversations faded into immediate silence.
"My nephew—my brother's son—is getting married next week. We shall all attend," he announced.
A wave of pleasant surprise rippled through the family, followed by polite applause and murmured congratulations. Glasses were raised, smiles exchanged.
"Speaking of marriage," the old man continued, his shrewd, age-clouded eyes shifting deliberately toward Zeke, "I also have good news for you. I've arranged your blind dates."
The table went still.
"How is that any good news?" Zeke muttered under his breath, low enough to pretend it was private, yet loud enough that every ear caught it.
His grandfather didn't flinch. Didn't acknowledge the remark. He simply held Zeke's gaze with the quiet, immovable authority of a man who had long ago stopped entertaining defiance.
"Get ready," Old Man Black said, his voice calm and absolute. "You start tomorrow."
No applause followed. No one dared.
"My secretary will send you the list," Old Man Black continued, his tone brooking no argument. "Their professions. The restaurants. The times." He paused, his aged eyes boring into Zeke with cold precision. "You will treat them nicely. I don't want to hear a single complaint. And I will be watching you—24/7. So don't try anything foolish. Or else..."
Zeke's hand stilled. The soft clatter of his cutlery against the fine china was deafening in the sudden silence.
Then, deliberately, he set down his fork and knife. The sound was quiet, but it carried the weight of a decision.
"I have an announcement," Zeke said, his voice calm, steady—dangerously so. He looked not at his grandfather, but at his father. "I'll be leaving this house tomorrow. I'm moving into my new residence."
Edward Black blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Why?" he asked, his tone caught somewhere between confusion and reproach. "You can stay here with us. There's no need—"
"I didn't ask," Zeke cut him off, not unkindly, but with a finality that silenced the table. "The decision is made."
Old Man Black said nothing. His expression remained carved from stone. But his grip on his walking stick tightened, the aged knuckles whitening.
No one dared to fill the silence.
"Although I will miss you," Old Man Black said slowly, his tone unexpectedly measured, "as a man, I understand. You need your own house. Your own business." He nodded once, a gesture of approval that felt more like a verdict than a blessing. "Good. After all, if you finally choose one of these girls—when you marry—you'll need a home for the two of you. You won't be staying in the family house forever."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table.
"So, yes. I approve."
Zeke said nothing. His grandfather had just taken his act of defiance and neatly repackaged it as compliance with the very fate he was trying to escape. There was no winning, only different cages.
Edward Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Kira busied herself with her wine glass. The rest of the family exchanged glances they were too afraid to voice.
Old Man Black lifted his own glass, a rare, thin smile curving his weathered lips.
"To Zeke," he said. "A man stepping into his future."
The toast was echoed, hesitant and muted. Zeke did not raise his glass. He simply sat there, surrounded by family, feeling more alone than ever.
The next morning, Zeke prepared to leave the family house. He had already instructed Bakar to arrange for a moving service to transport select belongings to his new apartment; he would return for the remainder later that evening. It was a clean, surgical extraction—not an escape, but a repositioning.
He had also ordered Dex one of his men to sweep both his current quarters and the new apartment for any surveillance devices as Bakar was still busy with digging information . In the current climate, paranoia was simply good strategy.
Upon arriving at Black Consolidated headquarters, he was met with the usual ripple of deference—employees straightening, greetings offered in respectful unison. But something was off. The bows were a fraction too deep, the smiles held a beat too long. News of his move, and perhaps his grandfather's arranged dates, had clearly traveled.
Zeke acknowledged none of it. He walked through the marble lobby with his usual composed, unhurried stride, stepped into his private elevator, and disappeared behind the closing doors.
The elevator rose in silence, carrying him toward the floor where the real work__and the real war