Chaos held the knife up.
The polished edge caught the light for one brief second before he set it down on the metal tray beside him. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
"Haa..." He tipped his head back. "This is exhausting."
On the table before him lay Congressman Choi. Or what remained of his dignity.
His face was swollen beyond recognition. One eye was nearly shut, blood had dried along the split lines of his lips, and several teeth were missing. Bruises covered his body in ugly shades of purple and black.
There was hardly a visible part of him untouched by violence.
He could barely speak. But he could still cry.
Tears streamed down the sides of his face as he stared up at Chaos with the terror of a man who had finally realised status meant nothing in that room.
Chaos turned back to him.
"Now," he said calmly, "shall we try this again?" He approached the table and caught Choi lightly beneath the chin, tilting his battered face towards him. "Mm, Mr Choi?"
"Ple… please…" Choi's voice broke around the swelling in his mouth. "Please, I beg you…"
Chaos clicked his tongue. "There you go again. Begging when you should be talking." He leaned closer, pale blue eyes stripped of warmth. "All I asked was one simple question."
Choi trembled beneath him.
"Congressman Choi," Chaos said quietly, "do not mistake me for a fool simply because I am playing nice." he straightened, placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it.
Smoke curled between them.
Choi's chains rattled faintly against the table as his body shook.
"I really didn't know you were involved," Choi said quickly. "If I had known, I would never have—"
"Yes, of course you wouldn't." Chaos cut him off and reached for his phone. A few taps, he turned the screen towards him.
"Does she look familiar?"
Choi's face changed immediately.
Horror tore through what remained of his composure.
On the screen was a photograph of a young woman leaving a university building. She was dressed simply, her hair pulled back, a bag hanging from one shoulder.
Ordinary. Protected.
Hidden.
"What…" Choi's voice cracked. "How did you get this?"
Chaos glanced at the photograph. "It wasn't difficult. You hid her well, I'll give you that. Different surname. Private school records. No public family photographs." His mouth curved. "Very careful. But not careful enough."
Choi shut his eyes. "Please," he whispered. "Please, don't hurt my daughter."
Chaos slipped the phone back into his pocket. "With you being this stubborn, give me a reason not to." One gloved hand disappeared into his coat pocket. "I could have my men take her before sunset. Erase her existence so thoroughly even your wife would begin to question whether she had ever truly lived."
Choi's breathing turned ragged.
"And no," Chaos continued, "I don't think killing her would be enough." He tilted his head. "The Red Dragon House would find her appearance suitable."
Choi's eyes flew open.
The Red Dragon House.
Even men like him feared that name. It was not merely a pleasure house.
It was a grave dressed in silk curtains. Women entered through its doors and disappeared behind perfume, money and the appetites of powerful men.
"You wouldn't dare!" Choi jerked against the chains, trying to rise.
One corner of Chaos's mouth lifted. "Wouldn't I?"
The room went still.
"She'd fetch a good price," Chaos said. "So would your wife, if I felt generous enough to sell them together."
The colour drained from Choi's face.
"And the tabloids?" Chaos continued. "They'd call it a tragic car accident. Faulty brakes. Wet road. A family destroyed in a moment of misfortune." He flicked ash onto the floor.
"People love clean explanations."
Choi went limp against the table.
That morning, he had been on his way to work when his convoy was intercepted.
The first gunshot shattered the windscreen. The second took out his driver. Before he could scream, the door had been ripped open, a bag thrown over his head, and something hard struck the side of his skull.
When he woke, he was here.
Chained. Beaten. Questioned for hours by a man with the face of an angel and the patience of a butcher.
Chaos had asked the same question again and again.
Who gave the Varkovs access to the port clearance routes?
Choi had denied everything.
At first.
"I'll…" Choi swallowed hard. "I'll tell you."
Chaos said nothing. He only watched.
Choi's lips trembled. "It was Minister Matthew. Han approved the clearance changes. I arranged the meeting, but Matthew signed the order."
Chaos's expression remained unchanged. "That sly fox," he murmured. "I was wondering why he smiled so nicely at me last week."
Choi sucked in a painful breath. "The Varkovs paid through three shell companies. One registered as a shipping consultancy, one as a medical supply firm, and one as a charity foundation. The money went through the election fund first, then into Matthew's private account in Singapore."
Chaos listened.
"There's a ledger," Choi continued. "Digital and physical. The physical copy is kept at Matthew's residence, behind the wine cellar wall. The digital copy is with his aide, Daniel."
Chaos exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "And the port authority?"
"Director Andrew," Choi answered quickly. "He's theirs now. He was instructed to delay Riegrow shipments and clear Varkov containers without inspection."
Chaos stepped closer. "What's inside the next container?"
Choi hesitated.
Chaos said nothing. That was enough.
"Weapons," Choi blurted. "Military-grade rifles. Unregistered. They're coming in under medical equipment. The container arrives tomorrow night at Dock Seven."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was Choi's broken breathing.
Chaos studied him. Then his mouth curved faintly.
"Mm." He took another drag. "See how painless honesty can be?"
Choi began to cry harder.
Chaos turned away and picked up his phone.
"Xavier."
The door opened almost immediately. Xavier stepped inside, composed as ever.
Chaos did not look back at the congressman. "Send men to Dock Seven. I want the container intercepted before it reaches Varkov hands."
"Yes, Young Master."
"And find Minister Matthew's aide."
"Alive?"
Chaos glanced once at Choi. The congressman flinched. "For now."
Xavier inclined his head.
Choi strained against the chains. "I told you everything. Please. My daughter…"
Chaos turned back. "Yes," he said. "You did." Relief began to crack across Choi's battered face.
Chaos leaned down until the congressman could smell the smoke on his breath. "But you made me ask too many times."
The relief vanished.
Chaos smiled. "Don't worry, Congressman. I'm sure she'll love her new home."
Choi went deathly pale.
Chaos straightened. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have dinner plans."
Choi stared at him, trembling.
Chaos turned towards the door. "Strip him. Accounts, properties, political allies, offshore funds. All of it."
Xavier lowered his head. "And him?"
Chaos paused at the doorway. "Toss him in the ocean."
The door shut behind him.
Behind it, Congressman Choi began to scream.
💜~~~~~
The black Aston Martin pulled up in front of the Riegrow mansion.
Chaos stepped out, his coat draped over one arm, and headed towards the house.
The doors opened before he reached them.
Servants waited inside.
Servants.
Not staffs. Not housekeepers who had applied for employment and been accepted.
These people did not serve Chaos for wages.
They belonged to the household because their families had sworn them there.
Chaos entered.
The servants stood in two perfect rows across the grand hall, every head bowed.
"Welcome home, Young Master," they greeted in unison.
Chaos's gaze travelled across them. A cold smile touched his lips.
This was his home. Not the Riegrow mansion where he had been born. Not the house where Selene had lost her mind behind closed doors and the mansion where Caesar's shadow lived in every hallway, every room, every bloodstained memory.
This was his.
A modern fortress dressed as luxury. Black marble stretched beneath his shoes, polished until it reflected the chandeliers overhead.
The walls were dark stone and glass—cold, elegant, softened only by expensive art pieces that looked more like warnings than decoration.
Tall windows overlooked the estate, its lights glittering far below like a kingdom waiting to be claimed.
Everything was quiet, controlled and it belonged to him.
Since returning, Chaos had never set foot inside the home where he grew up.
Instead, he had bought this mansion.
Built his own household. Filled it with servants and guards whose loyalty did not bend.
Every person standing in that room had been bound to him through contracts sealed in blood, family debt and Underworld allegiance.
Their families had offered them as honour.
As respect. As tribute. To him.
The Sin of Wrath.
Chaos passed them without a word and climbed the stairs. No one lifted their head until he was gone.
He reached his room and pushed open the door.
Darkness greeted him.
His bedroom was wide, silent and severe. Matte-black walls were broken only by thin strips of warm light hidden along the edges of the ceiling. A large bed sat against the far wall, covered in dark sheets, untouched and immaculate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one side of the room, revealing the estate skyline through tinted glass.
There were no unnecessary ornaments. Only enough space for a man who did not like being crowded by memory.
Chaos stepped inside and shut the door.
He tugged his tie loose. Then stripped with swift, practised movements.
Shirt. Belt. Trousers.
Everything carrying the smell of smoke, blood and the basement.
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Steam rose almost immediately.
Chaos stepped beneath the hot water, he did not move. He simply stood there, head lowered, letting the water beat against his hair, shoulders and skin.
Blood thinned and ran down his body, disappearing into the drain in diluted red streams.
He reeked of iron. Of violence. Of the place he had just left.
He hated that.
Not because the blood bothered him. Blood never had.
But tonight, he had dinner with Kashi aAnd he did not want his Wildflower catching even the faintest trace of what he had done before coming to her.
It would ruin the mood.
Eventually, the water ran clear.
Chaos turned off the shower and stepped out. He grabbed a towel and rubbed it through his wet hair as he returned to the bedroom, steam following him through the doorway in thin curls.
He passed the mirror. Stopped. Then took one step back.
His reflection stared at him.
Wet dark hair. Pale skin. Water tracing his jaw, his neck, his chest. His icy blue eyes looked almost unreal beneath the dim light.
Chaos frowned and moved closer, closer still, until he was nearly against the glass. His hand rose to his neck where a tattoo wrapped around his throat like a chain.
Dark tiny ink circled it, formed from small inscriptions written in Russian, German and Latin. The words twisted together—elegant and cruel, carved into his skin like ownership made permanent.
The Sin of Wrath.
That was what the Master of the Underworld had called him, but it wasn't because Chaos was angry.
No. It had never been that simple.
Wrath was not rage.
Rage burned too quickly. Wrath endured.
Wrath remembered.
Wrath waited with blood beneath its nails and silence on its tongue.
Wrath did not explode.
It punished.
The Master had told him that when the mark was drawn.
Chaos lowered his gaze to his wrists. The ink was there too.
Smaller. Tighter.
Wrapped around both wrists like bracelets, the lettering so fine it almost looked delicate. Almost.
To anyone foolish enough to admire them, the marks might have seemed beautiful.
To Chaos, they were a warning. Each of the Sins carried a mark. But the Master had made sure Chaos's were a reminder of what he was.
A reminder of what happened when control slipped.
грех гнева, die Sunde des Zorns, peccatum irae
The Sin of Wrath.
Most days, the marks were nothing more than ink. But there were times they terrified even him. Times he lost control.
Times the world went silent and when awareness returned, he would find himself standing in the middle of a bloodbath.
Bodies around him. His breathing steady.
His hands calm.
No memory of where mercy had ended.
Chaos stared at his reflection. Then pulled the towel from his hair and released a low groan. Hopefully, the smell of blood was gone. He had no intention of taking death to dinner. Not tonight.
Not with her.