The night was quiet, almost too quiet.
A cold wind swept over the rooftop of the high-rise building, where King stood—tall, silent, and staring into the void below. His eyes weren't looking at the city… they were searching for something else. Something far darker.
A voice interrupted the silence.
"Sir," the bodyguard said, breathless, "you have a son… but your wife didn't make it."
King didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
"Where is he?" he asked, voice low and emotionless.
"In the room, sir."
Without another word, King turned and stormed into the hospital room.
Inside, the doctor sat beside the lifeless body of his wife, holding a small, swaddled baby in her arms.
"Welcome, Mr. King," she said softly. "Your son is perfectly healthy."
But King's eyes were filled with something… unnatural. Not grief. Not joy.
Something colder. Sharper.
He walked to the cradle and looked down at the child.
"That's not my son," he said darkly.
The doctor blinked. "I… I don't understand."
King's lips curled into a smirk. "He's not my son. He's my sword. He is… my Ken."
The doctor gave a nervous laugh. "Sword? Haha… surely you're—"
The laugh died in her throat as King turned to her, his eyes burning with rage.
"I hate laughter," he growled.
Without warning, he pulled out a silenced pistol. A single shot echoed through the silence.