The glass didn't lie anymore. Or maybe it had just become a better accomplice. Xavier stood there, hands steady, fumbling slightly with the silk of his tie—a small, human hitch that reminded him he wasn't a machine, not yet. A year back, those same knuckles were split open, caked in shipyard filth. Now, they were wrapped in a charcoal suit that cost more than the lives of everyone in his old neighborhood combined. It felt heavy. Not like fabric, but like armor.
Silas was a shadow in the corner, barely breathing. "You look the part," he rasped. "But don't get comfortable. Pride is how they catch you."
Xavier didn't bother looking back. He was staring at his own reflection, or rather, the stranger inhabiting it. The eyes were the worst part—dead, flat, like stones at the bottom of a well. "I'm not going there for a seat at the table, Silas. I'm going there to break the legs of every chair in the room."
He picked up the 'Vardhan Limited Edition' watch. His father's pride. The cold metal bit into his skin as he snapped it shut. Click. It sounded like a trap closing. The boy who wanted his dad's approval had bled out in the mud a long time ago. This man? This man just wanted to see the look on Vikram's face when the ground started shaking.
The Vardhan Estate was a joke—a diamond-studded circus. The driveway was choked with German cars and the smell of expensive, fake happiness. It was the 30th anniversary, a celebration built on the bones of the son they'd thrown away.
Vikram Vardhan was at the top of those grand stairs, playing God. He looked older, grayer, but that same predatory twitch was still in his jaw. Surrounding him were the jackals—the board members who'd helped him bury Arjun.
Then, Xavier walked in.
The room didn't go silent immediately. It happened in waves. A conversation died here, a glass stopped mid-air there. He didn't rush. He moved with a heavy, deliberate sort of grace that made people move without knowing why.
"Who invited the royalty?" someone whispered. "Look at his eyes... he looks like he's never smiled in his life."
Vikram felt it first. A chill, like someone had walked over his grave. He watched the stranger approach, feeling a ghost tugging at his memory. The gait, the tilt of the head—it was familiar in a way that made his stomach turn.
Xavier stopped at the base of the stairs. He didn't look at the champagne or the jewelry. He looked at the man who broke him.
"I don't think we've been introduced," Vikram said, his voice a practiced mask of power. He held out his hand—the same hand that had let Arjun be beaten half to death. "Vikram Vardhan. And you are?"
Xavier stared at the hand. He didn't take it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, battered coin. Arjun's lucky charm. He let it rest in his palm for a second before pocketing it again.
"Names are for friends, Mr. Vardhan," Xavier's voice was a low, rough growl that cut through the music. "But you can call me Xavier. I handle distressed assets. And from where I'm standing, your logistics empire is looking very distressed."
Vikram's face hardened. "My company is untouchable."
Xavier let out a short, dry laugh. No humor in it. "It was. Until an hour ago. You might want to check your phone, Vikram. Three of your biggest European contracts just moved to a private firm in Singapore. My firm."
The silence now was absolute. Vikram's face went from confused to a sickly, mottled red. "You... you think you can just walk in here and—"
"I think I'm going to take everything you love and burn it for warmth," Xavier whispered, leaning in just enough for Vikram to smell the lack of fear on him. "I'm going to make you watch as the mud you threw your son into becomes your only home."
Vikram flinched. He looked into those cold, lake-water eyes. The jaw was different, the nose had been reset, the skin was taut—but the hate? The hate was a signature he recognized.
"Arjun?" Vikram's voice finally cracked.
Xavier didn't give him the satisfaction of a blink. He turned to the crowd, raising his voice just enough. "Enjoy the party, everyone! Drink up. It's on Mr. Vardhan's tab... while he still has one. Because tomorrow, I'm calling in every debt this man owes. And I'm starting with his soul."
He walked out then, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him like a gavel. He didn't look back to see the glass shatter in Vikram's shaking hand.
In the back of the limo, Silas was waiting. "Well?"
Xavier looked at his hands. For the first time in a year, they weren't shaking. "It wasn't enough, Silas," he said, staring into the dark streets of the city. "Tomorrow, I want him to lose the ability to breathe without my permission."