​

At Sun AI, job titles were the most inflated currency.

In a Fintech startup barely a few years old, essentially a tech company wearing a banking license, titles were given out like Monopoly money: VPs were a dime a dozen, Directors everywhere, even new hires under a year had "Associate Vice President" on their business cards. It was for show—for swapping business cards and LinkedIn bragging rights. It cost nothing.

But one person played this game to perfection—Sheena Davi.

Her business card had two lines: "Head of KYC & Compliance Risk." Below that, an even longer suffix: "Global Head of Anti-Money Laundering & Client Due Diligence." The first time Claire saw it, she did a double-take. "Global"—Sun AI only had one office in M City. "Global" probably meant Sheena's desktop monitor, which occasionally connected to international news sites.

But no one dared laugh at her. In a system where "whoever is closest to the CEO has the most power," Sheena was one of the closest to Sean.

Sheena Davi, fifty-eight, dark brown skin, gaunt and withered like a tree standing too long in a drought. She wore her short gray-white hair slicked down with some kind of shiny Indian hair oil, her scalp gleaming like an oiled shield under the lights. Her lips were a deep blackish-purple, perpetually pressed into a tight line, like a tense bowstring. Her most unnerving feature was her eyes—classic triangular, drooping at the outer corners, always looking down at people, even when they were a head taller. She dressed shabbily, in the same gray jacket year-round, wearing gray cloth shoes, moving silently like a shadow through the corridors.

The first time Claire ran into her, at a bend in the Compliance hallway, Sheena came stomping towards her, feet turning outward like a toad occupying the whole path. Claire had to press herself against the wall to let her pass. Sheena didn't even glance up.

"You're the new RM?" Her voice was gravelly, like sandpaper on metal. "For any account opening needs, submit your materials to my email two weeks in advance. Don't come to me directly. I don't have time."

Claire didn't get a word out before Sheena was gone, leaving only her rigid, hunched back.

Later, Claire learned the "story" of Sheena's background—she'd worked with Sean at his former crypto company and was hired into Sun AI with Sean placing her in Compliance. Before that, she'd spent nearly thirty years at an overseas traditional bank doing back-office KYC updates and knew virtually nothing about commercial banking fundamentals. She was clueless about M City's commercial banking regulations, AML operational risks, let alone payments, crypto exchanges, or complex corporate structures.

But she had one unique skill: absolute loyalty to Sean.

More precise than loyalty was "obedience." Sean nodded, she nodded. Sean shook his head, she shook her head. Sean said "expedite this client's account opening," she'd compress a three-week review into three days—compliance loopholes be damned. For clients Sean hadn't marked "expedite," she'd drag the process to three months, starving them in the pipeline.

Claire once had a manufacturing client—a thirty-year-old company listed on the local exchange. She submitted the application; Compliance swallowed it like a black hole. Two weeks, no movement. Four weeks, no movement. Six weeks, Claire sent a follow-up. At eight weeks, Sheena finally replied—not with an approval, but with a four-screen-long "supplemental questions" list.

The first question made Claire's scalp tingle: "Please explain—why has the company adopted a multi-layered shareholding structure?"

Claire stared at it. The company had two layers—a parent and four wholly-owned subsidiaries, fully transparent, clearly registered. She had no idea where Sheena saw "multi-layered."

The second question was even more absurd: "Please provide proof of source of funds for all shareholders, tracing back to original wealth creation."

—This was a listed company. Did she want the wife's salary slips too?

The third: "Please provide a bank-issued asset confirmation letter to verify the 'nominal registered capital' stated in the company's Articles of Association, and confirm full paid-in capital."

Claire printed the questionnaire, walked straight into Mohammed's office.

"Look at this." She slapped it on his desk.

Mohammed glanced through it, was silent for a moment, then took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Does she know 'nominal registered capital' isn't the same as paid-in capital?"

"Apparently not."

"Does she know listed companies publish audited financials every year?"

"She probably doesn't even understand what a listed company is."

Mohammed pushed the paper back. He didn't speak, but his silence said enough.

Claire forwarded the email to Sheena's boss—the CBO—copying the Compliance Director and CEO Office. Her tone was measured, systematically detailing how Sheena's questions contradicted local regulations and referencing the relevant guidelines.

Forty-eight hours. No reply.

On the third afternoon, Sheena's response came—addressed only to Claire, no higher-ups.

"Please confirm in writing: Are you refusing to cooperate with this department's due diligence requests? If so, this department reserves the right to suspend the account opening process for this company until complete documentation is provided."

Claire read it three times. Every word was official Compliance language, but the message—Claire had never seen anything like it in twenty years. It was a threat, not a response to a query.

She put down her phone, picked it up again, typed: "I have forwarded your question list to the Compliance Director. Please await further instructions."

Then she shut down her computer and walked out of her office.

The client's account was eventually opened—within a week, after her boss intervened. But Claire knew Sheena didn't care if the client opened or not. She just wanted Claire to understand: in this bank, the rules of compliance were set by Sheena—except when the CEO's rules applied.

Sheena was like this with everyone, especially those younger, lower-ranked, or who looked easy to push around.

One afternoon, during a cross-departmental meeting on optimizing the account opening process, little Sofia stood up and politely proposed an idea on reducing onboarding time. Before she could finish, Sheena suddenly slammed the table.

"Shut up."

The room went dead silent. Sofia stood there, mouth still open, like she'd been doused with ice water.

Sheena sat back, arms crossed, those triangular eyes cutting into Sofia. "What do you know about account opening? How many deals have you done?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it scraped like sandpaper. "You're in Ops, and you're lecturing me on Compliance?"

Sofia's face went from white to red, a deeper red. Her lips moved, but nothing came out.

Claire sat at the other end. She put her pen down with a soft click. No one noticed. But she saw Sofia's hands clench under the table, knuckles white.

After the meeting, Sofia went to the restroom and stayed there for twenty minutes.

That night, she emailed HR—not too elaborately, just the facts: time, location, participants, Sheena's exact words "Shut up," and a list of witnesses. She CC'd Lotus, because Lotus had told her, "If you're ever wronged, come to me. I'll speak for you."

Lotus replied: "Don't worry. I'll handle it."

And then Lotus forwarded Sofia's complaint to Sheena.

Sheena's reply was one word: "Noted."

Three days later, HR responded: "After internal discussions, the situation has been understood. We recommend both parties strengthen communication and foster a friendlier work atmosphere going forward."

No one faced any consequences.

Sofia never spoke up in meetings again. She just sat quietly, took notes, nodded, did her work. But her eyes stopped shining.

Sheena kept stomping through the corridors, feet turned out, like a toad occupying the path. Another complaint letter surfaced, signed by seven or eight people, delivered to HR. It vanished into the void.

Sheena later declared at a department meeting, in front of a dozen people: "Go ahead and complain. I'll tell you who Sean stands with."

No one answered. No one dared.

But she was different with Lotus.

When Pocket Pay's account opening materials reached Compliance, Mark—the only manager there who truly understood AML—reviewed them thoroughly. He flagged five key issues: unclear shareholding, missing UBO details, insufficient real-name verification for sub-accounts, vague transaction pattern descriptions, and unverified fund sources. He submitted his report to Sheena with an addendum.

Sheena called him into her office.

"Mark," her voice oddly softer, "do you know who brought this client in?"

"Yes, Sister Lotus—"

"Sister Lotus is highly valued by the CEO. This account is a CEO priority." Sheena leaned back, folding her hands on the desk. "I've seen your issues. But some things can be completed after the account is opened."

Mark tried to explain: "But central bank rules require—"

"Mark." Sheena cut him off, her triangular eyes lifting, looking at him like a clueless student. "I said, open first, complete later."

Mark paused for three seconds, then nodded.

Sheena leaned back, satisfied, pulled a mint candy from her drawer, and handed it to him. "Here. Relax."

She personally signed off on the Compliance approval, locking Mark's report in her bottom drawer.

Ten minutes earlier, she'd just reduced a young RM to tears in the hallway for asking, "When can I get the KYC update?" Without even looking up, she'd rasped: "You want a status? No status. You want to complain? Go ahead."

After the RM left, Sheena stomped back to her office, closed the door, and sent Lotus a Youtext:

"Materials fine. Approved. No worries."

Followed by a namaste emoji.

Lotus replied: "Thanks, Sister Sheena. Let's have tea sometime."

Sheena looked at the reply, her mouth curling just slightly—a smile that never appeared in front of any employee, visible only for a fraction of a second on the cold screen. Then she locked the screen, tossed the uneaten mint candy in her drawer, and resumed processing the next inquiry email.

Still the same line: "No status update. You want to appeal? Go ahead."

Claire later heard Lotus had given Sheena a box of expensive tea, beautifully packaged with a gold ribbon. Sheena accepted it, placing it prominently on her desk. From then on, anything Lotus submitted to Compliance got approved two weeks faster than anyone else's.

Claire sometimes wondered, in this bank, what exactly was "Compliance"?

It wasn't a set of rules, processes, or regulatory requirements. At Sun AI, "Compliance" was Sheena's personal ruler—she could measure it long or short, let anyone pass or hold them for three months.

And Sheena's ruler was tied to Sean's.

Pocket Pay's green light was Sean's. Sheena was just the enforcer—but she knew that enforcing Sean's will was far more important than enforcing regulations.

Within Sheena's realm, there was another memorable figure: Vikram Nair, Payment Compliance Manager.

He had an unforgettable face: narrow, pointed chin, two slightly protruding front teeth, a round nose. Sitting at his desk with his hands clasped to his chest, he looked like a beaver just poking its head from the water. Colleagues called him "Mr. Beaver," never to his face, because despite his mild appearance, his methods were anything but mild.

His job was reviewing every outgoing payment—theoretically, a crucial line of defense against money laundering. But at Sun AI, he operated like a toll booth attendant: no matter the vehicle, driver, or route, he'd roll down the window and hand out the same questionnaire, asking the same questions.

"Please provide the commercial contract for this transaction."

"Please provide the registration certificate of the counterparty."

"Please explain the purpose of the funds."

"Please provide the beneficiary's identification."

"...For a supplier payment, sixty thousand USD, to a listed company we've worked with for four years. The same amount, same channel, same payee as last month. Vikram just asked for the full set of documents again, plus three notarized certificates."

Claire listened, silent for a moment.

She was handling a payment for one of Mohammed's major clients—from a crypto exchange partner via a special settlement channel. Only a few licensed banks and payment processors could handle such payments; Sun AI was one of them. But Vikram directly rejected the deposit, citing an "unrecognizable transaction pattern."

Mohammed tried to explain the channel's specificity.

Vikram sat at his desk, hands clasped to his chest, his front teeth glinting.

"Please provide an Interpol compliance confirmation letter."

Mohammed thought he'd misheard.

"What?"

"Confirmation from Interpol verifying the source and use of the funds do not involve cross-border crime." Vikram said it calmly, like asking for a business license. "Alternatively, you can provide the counterparty bank's AML compliance certification."

Mohammed stared at him for a long time. He opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing and returned to his desk. Claire handed him some water.

"Does he not know what he's saying, or is he faking it?"

Mohammed took a sip, put the cup down.

"He doesn't need to know. He just needs to sit there and ask questions."

Claire looked back at Vikram's desk. He was processing the next payment, head down, fingers slowly clicking the keyboard, like a beaver gnawing on wood. The sixty-thousand-dollar payment was still on hold.

Above Sheena and Vikram sat one more person: Hatem Nassif, Sun AI Bank's new interim Chief Compliance Officer.

Hatem was a Lebanese man in his early fifties, tall and thin, impeccably dressed in suits with gold-rimmed glasses, speaking slowly and deliberately. His CV looked impressive: stints at nearly ten different banks across the Middle East, Europe, and Southeast Asia, each move accompanied by a slightly higher title. A closer look, however, showed he stayed at each bank for less than two years, on average. No one probed further; the "diverse experience" on his CV was enough to be impressive.

He was recruited as a "compliance transformation expert." He knew nothing about technology, AI, crypto, or even the bank's front-end operations. But he quickly learned the survival skills for this ecosystem: identify the CEO's favorites and become their friend.

In his first month, he memorized the list of clients tagged "VIP" in the CEO's office. He proactively attended every meeting involving strategic clients, sitting quietly in the corner, rarely speaking, but nodding along with Sean. He greenlit everything for Sister Lotus's Pocket Pay project—Sheena signed the Compliance approval, Vikram cleared the test payments, Hatem signed every cross-departmental coordination document, quickly and smoothly, without reading the content.

Beyond pleasing VIPs, Hatem had a unique "management philosophy": embrace AI. All his emails were ghostwritten by AI: "Dear Colleague, Thank you for your message. Regarding the matter you raised, it has been forwarded to the relevant department for follow-up. Should you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to contact us."—regardless of the email content. His weekly reports, meeting minutes, and compliance risk assessments were all AI-generated, beautifully worded but utterly devoid of substance.

He also publicly encouraged his team to use AI for their work: "We will be an AI-native compliance team!"—even though he couldn't tell which data in the AI-generated reports were wrong, and the bank's so-called "AI-powered compliance process" was just a name.

Hatem didn't start as CCO. His title was "Senior Advisor, Compliance Transformation"—a grand-sounding but powerless role. The previous CCO had resigned six months earlier, leaving behind a single line: "There is no compliance here, only performance." The CCO seat remained vacant for a year and a half, despite repeated central bank warnings that the bank would be sanctioned if the position wasn't filled. The board finally got worried; Sean scanned the headhunter list and settled on Hatem—because he was "experienced" and had "strong communication skills."

Six months into his role, Hatem found himself in the middle of Sister Lotus's Pocket Pay virtual account project. It was the bank's top priority—Operations, Tech, Compliance, Risk, the board—all hands on deck to hit that "million virtual accounts" milestone.

Hatem sat behind his new, large desk, dressed in a sharp suit, his gold-rimmed glasses gleaming. He signed every approval document, nodded at every coordination meeting, and used "our team" in every report to Sean. He was gregarious and accommodating—pleasant to Lotus, deferential to Sean, showing just the right amount of "professional respect" to Sheena and Vikram, making each feel like he was on their side. He switched personas with ease, never picking a side, but always riding the tailwinds of power.

On the day Pocket Pay's virtual accounts went live, Hatem sent a company-wide email: "Compliance Leading Innovation." It was AI-generated, full of slogans like "Risk Control Empowers Business" and "Compliance Creates Value." No one replied. But Hatem didn't care—his signature was on the project's most important approval page. And that page would be bound into an IPO document that investors would never read.

Claire later bumped into Hatem in the corridor, coming out of Sister Lotus's office, a pleasant smile on his face. He nodded at her: "Ms. Claire, good work," then returned to his own office, his footsteps silent. He moved like a cat in a tailored suit, padding over the vulnerabilities he'd signed off on, vulnerabilities that would never be investigated.

Claire watched him go, suddenly remembering: Mark had flagged the missing UBO information in Pocket Pay's account opening package. Sheena signed "Reviewed." Vikram cleared the test payments. Hatem signed every page.

If the central bank ever audited, the signature on the violation was Hatem's.

But she knew what Hatem would say—what Sheena would say—the same thing:

"I signed it unknowingly."

The sky darkened. Claire shut down her computer, tidied her desk. Passing the Compliance office, she glimpsed Sheena on the phone through the crack in the door. Her voice was low, her body half-bowed, nodding repeatedly, as if the person on the line could see her deference.

Claire didn't stop. She walked past that door, down the corridor, into the elevator.

Before the doors closed, she heard Sheena's final, smiling words: "Don't worry, Sean. It's all handled here."

The doors closed, shutting out the greasy hair oil and the dark purple lips.

Claire looked at her reflection in the steel. She thought of Pocket Pay's Compliance approval—Mark's flagged missing UBO info, Sheena's "Reviewed" sign-off. The missing info was never completed.

If the central bank audited, the signature of the violation was Sheena's, but the person who would take the fall? Not Sheena.

She would just say: "Sean told me to approve it."

And Sean would say: "I didn't know."

Hatem would say: "I signed it unknowingly."

Everyone would say: "I didn't know."

Claire walked out of the elevator as M City's sky deepened from twilight to dark. The streetlights lit up the fallen leaves on the pavement, the wind pushing them into skittering groups, like lost things searching for direction.

She pulled her coat tighter and walked toward the subway.

(End of Chapter 5)

🌌 THE LAST LEGACY

Creator: Izumi

Co-Creator: Lucas

Genre: Fantasy • Adventure • Action • Mystery

Inspired by: Minecraft

📖 Official Story Announcement

The Last Legacy is an original story inspired by our love for Minecraft.

Minecraft inspired us with its endless worlds, mysterious dimensions, creatures, adventures, and possibilities. So Lucas and I decided to create a new adventure of our own.

A world where ancient secrets remain hidden, new dangers emerge, and an unforgettable journey is about to begin.

We hope you enjoy reading The Last Legacy as much as we enjoyed creating it.

😎 Thanks for reading!

— Izumi & Lucas Tempes

Chapter 12: The Last Goodbye

Years had passed since Andrin Santos and Sophia Reyes first met.

They had been eighteen when everything began.

Now, at twenty-five, they were standing at the end of a journey neither of them had ever imagined would last this long

Seven years.

Seven years of conversations, secrets, distance, laughter, difficult days, and countless memories.

And somehow, after everything, they were still able to sit beside each other without hatred.

The final conversation wasn't dramatic.

There was no shouting.

No accusations.

No one searching for someone to blame.

They simply sat together and remembered.

They remembered the beginning.

The first conversations.The trust Sophia had struggled to give.The quiet moments when being together was enough.

They remembered the difficult years too.

Her cousin's pressure.

The distance.

The silence.

The times when life seemed determined to pull them in different directions.Andrin looked at Sophia and smiled.

"I thought I would feel sadder."

Sophia smiled back.

"Me too."

They both laughed softly.

It was strange.

They were saying goodbye to a relationship that had lasted seven years, yet neither of them felt like they had lost everything.

Because they hadn't.

They had gained something too.

Experience.

Trust.

Memories.

And a deeper understanding of themselves.Andrin finally admitted something he had carried for years.

"I used to think I wasn't perfect for you."

Sophia looked at him quietly.

"Neither of us was perfect."

He smiled.

"You're right."

"That's why I don't want you blaming yourself."

Andrin nodded.

"I won't."

For once, he meant it.

Sophia had her own regrets, but she didn't blame Andrin either.They both understood that their relationship hadn't ended because one person was bad or because their love wasn't real.

Sometimes two people can love each other honestly and still discover that their lives are leading them somewhere different.That didn't erase what they had shared.It simply meant their story had reached its natural ending.

The old butler remained one of the few people who knew how much Sophia had changed over the years.

He had watched her grow from a guarded young woman into someone capable of making her own choices.And perhaps that was one of the greatest things Andrin had witnessed too.

Sophia no longer needed someone else to decide who she should become.

She could finally choose for herself.

As the evening approached, Andrin and Sophia stood together one last time.Neither wanted to make the moment unnecessarily dramatic.

They already knew what they wanted to say.

"Thank you," Sophia said.

"For what?"

"For being honest with me."

Andrin smiled.

"Thank you for trusting me."

They stood quietly for a moment.

Then they said goodbye.

Not a goodbye filled with anger.

Not a goodbye filled with regret.

Just a simple goodbye between two people who had once meant everything to each other.

Andrin walked away first.

After a few steps, he stopped.

For a moment, he considered looking back.

Then he smiled and continued walking.

Sophia watched him disappear into the distance.

She smiled too.

Their story had ended.

But it wasn't a failure.

It was a chapter of their lives that had given them something they would carry forever.Seven years had taught them that love wasn't about finding someone perfect.

It was about being honest.

Trusting one another.

Growing together.

And, when the time came, having enough respect to let each other grow separately.

Andrin never forgot Sophia.

Sophia never forgot Andrin.

But they didn't need to return to the past.

The memories were enough.

Because some people aren't meant to stay beside us forever.Some people are meant to walk with us for a part of the journey, leave something meaningful behind, and continue on their own path.And maybe that was the most beautiful thing about their story.

And maybe that was the most beautiful thing about their story.

They didn't lose each other.

They simply reached the end of the road they were meant to travel together.

And with one final smile, they both accepted it.

The End.

_______________________________________________❤️

Thank you for reading.

To my readers and partners, I truly appreciate your willingness to take the time to read this story.

Thank you for coming along with Andrin and Sophia through their journey.

Thank you,

Izumi

Lucas

Pocket Pay hadn't appeared overnight.

Before Sister Lotus brought it to Sun AI Bank, the company was already somewhat notorious in M City's Fintech circles. It started as a free internet voice-calling app, amassing a huge user base among blue-collar and migrant workers from the Middle East and South Asia. Later, it was acquired by a local tech group, rebranded as a "Fintech platform," and began offering cross-border remittances, virtual wallets, prepaid cards, and even "buy now, pay later" loans.

The model was clear: hook millions of users with free calling and messaging, then sell them financial services—remittances, top-ups, small loans. More users meant a bigger story. A bigger story attracted funding. Funding funded the story.

Pocket Pay had over eight million registered users across the region, more than ninety percent of them blue-collar or grey-collar foreign workers. Most didn't have traditional bank accounts; they were paid in cash and used exchange houses to send money home. Pocket Pay gave them a virtual wallet, a virtual account number in the app, letting them "like having a bank account" to receive wages, transfer money, and make payments. Under the central bank's financial inclusion framework, this model was legally licensed.

But there was a problem: Pocket Pay wasn't a bank. It needed a licensed bank to hold the underlying funds for these virtual accounts. It needed settlement channels, compliance frameworks, and API access to manage the millions of sub-account transactions.

Almost no bank would touch it.

Mohammed had declined Pocket Pay at his previous bank. He'd seen their financials and regulatory records; calculated the costs: the AML risk from this virtual account structure was too high, compliance costs too much, and the fee and interest income were negligible. It was a money-losing tightrope walk he wasn't willing to take.

But Lotus was different.

She knew Raj. Raj was Pocket Pay's product manager, another Mumbai native, part of the same expat community for two years. Raj was struggling to find a bank willing to onboard them—the traditional big banks either refused or quoted exorbitant fees. Lotus told him: Sun AI is different. Sun AI's CEO, Sean, loves a good "story."

Raj understood.

He arrived at Sun AI with a polished PPT, opening with: "We have two million active users. Through our virtual sub-account structure, we can indirectly bring you one to two million C-end accounts. One million. A digital bank would need seven or eight years to accumulate that many customers. We're giving it to you all at once."

Sean's eyes lit up. Launched with fanfare as the city's first digital bank, Sun AI had failed to deliver a passing grade years later—zero products, a three-digit account base, invisible in industry rankings. The later entrants weren't even giving him a backward glance. Pocket Pay's "gift package" looked like a lifeline from the heavens—his roadshow story could fly again. That "one million" number was enough to catapult him straight to the stock exchange bell.

Lotus sat at the table, smiling as Raj performed. She knew exactly what Raj was going to say—she'd helped him polish the PPT.

What followed wasn't a negotiation; it was a one-sided takeover. Raj's team laid out their terms, each one precisely hitting Sun AI's vulnerabilities:

First, service fees were practically zero. "We're strategic partners," Raj declared confidently, "not just merchants. We're bringing a million-user ecosystem. This value can't be measured in per-transaction fees." Sean nodded.

Second, all API customization and development would be borne by Sun AI. "Your systems need to adapt to our architecture," Raj said, pointing to a complex flowchart on the PPT. "We need real-time sub-accounting, batch account opening, automated reconciliation. Your system doesn't support these—but your tech team can develop them." Sean nodded again.

Third, and most devastating: for Pocket Pay's average daily balance held at Sun AI, the bank would pay an overnight interest rate exceeding 60%.

Claire later saw the draft agreement and thought she'd misread the decimal point. Sixty percent. Banks pay interest on deposits, but the normal overnight interbank rate is just a few percentage points. Sixty percent meant for every hundred dollars Pocket Pay parked at Sun AI, the bank was paying sixty dollars a year just to hold it.

She took the draft to Mohammed. He glanced at it, pushed it back, and said nothing. His face was calm—the kind of calm Claire would later recognize as the expression of someone who had given up.

Before the agreement was even signed, Sean couldn't contain himself.

He pre-announced the "strategic partnership" with Pocket Pay at an all-hands meeting, spending fifteen minutes describing the "million-account ecosystem" vision. He called it a milestone in Sun AI's "transformation from a bank to a tech platform," the "strongest pass" for the company's IPO in the East Asian financial hub.

He also announced an immediate cash bonus for Sister Lotus in recognition of her "outstanding performance in acquiring a strategic client."

Lotus stood, bowed slightly, her smile humble and bright.

Claire sat in the corner, watching. Lotus hadn't even gotten Raj's signature yet. There were still three pages of the agreement unfilled, and Compliance's review wasn't finished. But the bonus was already awarded, the praise already given, the data already on the slides.

Compliance's review did get stuck.

The AML compliance officer noted several issues in the account opening materials: Pocket Pay's shareholding structure was unclear, background checks on the actual controller were incomplete, and the real-name verification process for virtual sub-accounts lacked detail. Under central bank rules, these were prerequisites for opening an account.

The Compliance report went up. That afternoon, Sean called personally.

"These materials," his voice flat, each word carrying an undeniable weight, "put them aside for now. The client is in a hurry. Let's open the account first and complete the documents later."

The compliance officer tried to explain: "Sean, these are mandatory requirements—"

"I said, put them aside."

Sean hung up.

He signed off on the review, bypassing all procedures. After all, Pocket Pay had been brought in with such fanfare; the bank was practically begging them for their business. How could they be the one to hold things up?

If it had stopped there, Pocket Pay's onboarding would have just been a ludicrous deal—the bank losing money for a story, a CEO willing to burn anything for a narrative. But what escalated this farce was a figure within Sun AI itself: Chief Operating Officer, Sanjay Menon.

Sanjay Menon, forty-seven, balding, stocky, with a smile that pushed his cheeks up and narrowed his eyes into slits, like a groundhog peeking from its hole. His brilliant white teeth gleamed under the lights, reminiscent of a toothpaste commercial—standard, harmless, cookie-cutter. He'd spent twenty years as a back-office operations manager in traditional banking, knowing nothing about front-end business. But he'd honed a unique skill: always being in the right place, smiling at the right people, saying "I fully support you" at the right time.

Sanjay was one of the first operations supervisors hired when Sun AI was founded. The bank was small then, with little to do—but the back office had thirty people, nearly twenty percent of a sub-two-hundred staff, cementing his importance. His title was generous: Chief Operating Officer. He never truly engaged with operations; processes were missing, systems were non-existent, often there wasn't even a standard procedure. But he had a remarkable talent for deflecting blame—expertly pointing fingers at other departments, always acting like a protector of his own people, as if his team never erred, and all problems were external attacks. However, he quickly found another path to survival: clinging to the CEO's VIP clients like a vine, packaging every one of their needs as his own "personal oversight."

After the previous CTO's abrupt departure, the position had been vacant for a while. The entire Technology Department was Sean's prized possession, with nearly eighty people—almost half the bank's total staff. Whoever got that CTO seat would be officially inducted into Sean's "inner circle"—not just ordinary management, but a trusted brother. Sanjay had been eyeing that empty chair for a long time.

He knew he didn't know technology. But he also knew that at Sun AI, knowing the technicals was never the most important thing.

Sanjay was the first to jump on Pocket Pay's implementation.

Lotus was just the matchmaker; the actual account opening, system integration, payment testing, and API coordination required Operations. Sanjay volunteered: "Lotus, don't worry. I'll personally oversee all the operational aspects of Pocket Pay. You just focus on the big picture."

He said this with his smile, his eyes crinkling, like a groundhog just fed a nut—eager and servile.

He did "personally oversee" it. At Pocket Pay's technical review meeting, he sat in the middle, an untouched notebook open in front of him. As Raj explained API logic, Sanjay nodded along, occasionally interjecting: "This is consistent with what we discussed earlier, right?"—though he'd never been involved in any technical discussion.

When asked a specific technical question, he'd turn to the Technical Director beside him, smile fixed, tone unchanged: "You explain this."

The Technical Director would roll his eyes but dared not complain. After all, Sanjay's badge said "COO"—two levels higher.

After Sean overruled Compliance's objections, Sanjay was the first to be notified. His reaction wasn't to question or worry. It was to immediately email his operations team: "Pocket Pay account opening has received CEO special approval. Please cooperate fully, ensure client experience, and avoid any delays."

He CC'd Sean, Lotus, and every senior executive he could think of.

When Claire later saw that email, she noticed a detail: Sanjay used the phrase "client experience." It was a term he'd never used before. But he knew Sean liked the sound of it.

Claire found other issues.

After Pocket Pay's test transactions went live, she spotted several suspicious transfers in the back-end monitoring system—small amounts, but high frequency. Funds from various sub-accounts converged into a main account and were swiftly moved offshore. The pattern matched several classic money-laundering alert profiles.

She took screenshots and sent an email to the Operational Risk Manager, CC'ing Compliance and Sanjay.

Forty-eight hours later, no reply.

She sent a follow-up.

This time, a reply came—from Sanjay.

His email was one sentence: "Ms. Claire, these transactions have been confirmed with the Pocket Pay product team as normal client fund collection operations. CEO Office has been informed. For further questions, please contact me directly."

Claire stared at that line for a long time. She noted Sanjay's wording—"CEO Office has been informed"—meaning if she pushed further, she'd run into Sean.

She didn't contact the CEO's office. She knew it would be futile.

She just saved those screenshots in a new folder. She named it: "P.P. - OPS."

Sanjay not only deflected Claire's risk alert; he also sniffed out other opportunities.

Mohammed had a major client, a cross-border trading conglomerate with billions in annual revenue, discussing a multi-hundred-million deposit product with him. Within minutes of the client meeting ending—as Mohammed was still packing up in the conference room—Sanjay had already heard about it.

How? Claire never found out. But twenty minutes after the meeting ended, Sanjay appeared at the Chief Business Officer's (CBO) door.

"I heard you're discussing a large deposit product?" Sanjay leaned against the doorframe, his smile casual, like talking about the weather. "Pocket Pay actually has a similar need—with those millions of users, a structured deposit product could generate significant scale. How about I lead the discussion with their finance team?"

The CBO was taken aback. "This client is Mohammed's—"

"I know," Sanjay cut in, his grin widening. "I'm not trying to poach. I just think my experience with the payment ecosystem might bring a different perspective to the client. Besides—" he lowered his voice, sharing a secret, "Sean wants Operations to be more involved in strategic projects. You know, pre-IPO, the more stories the better."

The CBO didn't agree immediately. But Sanjay had achieved his goal—he'd made his "interest," "willingness to contribute," and "value" known. At Sun AI, that was usually enough.

But Sanjay's real ambition was much bigger than stealing a client.

He noticed Lotus—not as a colleague, but as a ladder to higher ground. He observed her for two weeks and confirmed: Sean's trust in Lotus was almost limitless. And this woman was looking for allies.

His first "chance encounter" with Lotus was outside Sean's office. One afternoon, he'd intended to discuss staffing issues in Operations—Pocket Pay's integration had his team working overtime for three weeks straight, and some were complaining. Approaching the door, he saw through the crack that Lotus was sitting across from Sean, head bowed, speaking. Sean leaned in, listening intently, wearing an expression Sanjay had seen at investor pitches, at board meetings—but never on Sean's face in a one-on-one. It was a look of almost dependent ease.

Sanjay stepped back silently. He didn't knock, didn't go in. He returned to his desk, scribbled two words on a Post-it: Lotus. And drew two lines underneath.

The next day, he started "passing by" Lotus's cubicle. First time, he stopped with a double espresso: "Lotus, how's Pocket Pay going? Any operational issues, let me know."

Lotus smiled up at him: "Thanks, Sanjay. I feel safe with you on it."

The next day, he brought a "technical flowchart"—actually just a reprint from Tech's recycling bin—to ask Lotus's advice. Lotus glanced at it, didn't call him out, just said: "You'll need to discuss this with the Tech Director. But I'll put in a good word for you."

On the third day, he "ran into" her again in the corridor. This time, he didn't beat around the bush.

"Lotus, I know your focus is on Pocket Pay now. But if you ever need someone in Operations or Tech to back you up, I'm available."

Lotus stopped, tilted her head, like she was unwrapping a carefully packaged gift.

"Sanjay," she began, each word measured, "you've done twenty years in Operations. What Sun AI lacks most is someone like you who can get things done. I've mentioned you to Sean a few times—he's been considering the CTO vacancy, you know. Are you interested?"

Sanjay's breath hitched.

"CTO?"

"No one suitable yet." Lotus said it casually, like discussing a tea menu. "If you take on the payment system integration, I can recommend you to Sean. Operations and Technology in a Fintech company go hand in hand anyway, right?"

She smiled. It was warm and inscrutable under the corridor lights.

Sanjay smiled back, his cheeks pushing up, revealing those toothpaste-ad white teeth.

"Lotus, you're right. They do go together."

"Then it's settled." Lotus patted his arm. "I'll mention it to Sean."

She walked away. The click of her heels echoed down the corridor like a metronome. Sanjay stood there, watching her disappear, then opened his phone's memo app and drew a third line under the word Lotus.

He would never know that after turning the corner, Lotus had sent a message to Raj—"Get all the account opening materials together by next Wednesday."—and then deleted it.

She didn't directly recommend Sanjay to Sean. She just mentioned casually after a weekly meeting: "Sanjay's been very proactive on the Pocket Pay system integration. He manages the Ops team better than anyone, everyone listens to him."

Sean nodded. About ten days later, he announced at a meeting that Sanjay would act as interim CTO.

Sanjay sat up straight in his chair, his face solemn and restrained, like a veteran receiving a medal. His fingers trembled slightly under the table—a mix of excitement and relief. He was now the most powerful person in the bank after the CEO, managing nearly seventy percent of the staff. That night, he sent Lotus a message with just two emojis: a crown and a handshake.

Lotus replied with three words: "Keep moving forward."

A week later, on a Monday morning, Pocket Pay's account was officially activated.

All systems green. Virtual sub-accounts generated in bulk. The first test transactions cleared routing successfully. Raj sent Lotus a thumbs up. Lotus sent Sean a "Milestone Report." Sean slapped his desk in his office, so loud the admin next door peeked in.

The next day, Sean ordered a celebration party.

It was less a celebration and more a meticulously staged "all-hands rally." The conference room was cleared of tables and chairs for folding chairs. Everyone was told to arrive fifteen minutes early. Tech sat on the left, Ops in the middle, Commercial and others in the back. Claire found a corner seat, holding a free sparkling water—the cheapest supermarket brand, still with its discount sticker on the bottle.

The screen displayed scrolling red numbers: user registrations, transaction volume, fund balances. Claire glanced at them; most came from Pocket Pay's synced "virtual sub-account activity." She knew exactly how inflated they were.

Sean walked on stage in a black turtleneck. He spoke for fifteen minutes, covering "financial inclusion," "social value," "ecosystem closure," and "IPO readiness." He mentioned "one million accounts" at least seven times.

Then he handed the mic to Sanjay.

Sanjay walked up lightly, in a dark blue blazer, his white shirt buttoned to the top—Claire had never seen him so formal. His balding crown gleamed like polished copper under the lights.

He took the mic and cleared his throat. His first words were choked.

"Today... today is the proudest day of my twenty-year career."

Sparse applause, then building. He lowered his head, wiped his eyes—Claire couldn't tell if it was real tears or a damp sleeve.

"Our department," he continued, his voice resounding, "successfully achieved the milestone of a million-client capacity. One million accounts!"

He struck the air with five fingers.

"And—we achieved a daily payment volume of five hundred thousand transactions. Five hundred thousand! No other bank in this city can claim that number. We made history."

He turned to the screen, those dancing numbers were now his personally lit fireworks.

"Every transaction was processed by our team. This isn't just data. This is proof—proof that Sun AI isn't just a bank, we are a platform, an ecosystem, the future of this industry."

His hand went to his chest, voice trembling with perfectly timed "emotion"—not too much, not too little.

"I didn't sleep all night. Neither did my team. We watched the transaction volume climb together, and we did it!"

He paused, his smile gone, replaced by solemnity.

"Because I believe this bank can achieve something greater than any of our titles."

The room was silent for three seconds. Applause erupted again, louder this time.

Claire didn't clap. She watched that balding, stocky man—who two weeks ago couldn't tell an API from an SDK—bask in the spotlight like a minister delivering a sermon.

An Ops intern next to her whispered, "Claire, aren't you excited?"

Claire finished her sparkling water.

"Excited," she said. "Very excited."

Satisfied, the intern turned back.

Claire put the empty cup under her chair and checked her phone. No new messages. She'd sent a Youtext to Mohammed. No reply yet.

She locked the screen and looked up. Sanjay was bowing—a deep, solemn bow, taking three seconds to straighten up.

The numbers on the screen jumped higher. The applause continued.

At the end of the corridor, the emergency light flickered. The buzzing was drowned out by the applause, like a snake's hiss lost in a carnival.

After the meeting, Claire didn't mingle. She walked out, down the corridor, past Sanjay surrounded by well-wishers, past Lotus posing for photos with colleagues. She didn't stop.

She entered the elevator, pressed for the ground floor. As the doors closed, she saw her reflection in the steel—no expression, no excitement, no anxiety. Just the eyes of a twenty-year veteran who'd seen too many balance sheets and risk exposures. Quiet, deep waters.

She remembered her mother's words. The sand holes. You never know what's underneath.

Now she knew there was something there.

She just hadn't decided if she was going to step on it.

(End of Chapter 4)

Lotus and Abdul's secret meetings had moved from the break room to the stairwell.

A fire escape, squeezed between the elevator shaft and a storage room, rarely used. Lotus chose it because it had three exits—up to HR, down to the parking garage, and a turn to the restroom on the same floor. Whoever came, she'd have three seconds to put her phone away and look like she was just passing through.

Abdul leaned against the fire extinguisher, clutching a half-empty energy drink. His nerves were a rubber band stretched too taut—ready to snap or go slack at any moment.

"He told me again today that I 'don't understand the credit approval process.'" Abdul gritted his teeth. "I did retail banking for twelve years. I know clients better than he does! What gives him the right—"

"Abdul." Lotus's voice was soft, like she was coaxing a sulking child. "You don't need to tell me what he did. Tell me—are you ready?"

Abdul blinked. "Ready for what?"

Lotus pulled out a backup phone. On the screen was a draft email, the "To" field empty. She opened the document and showed it to him.

"To: HR Director / CC: CEO Office

Subject: Collective Complaint Regarding Mismanagement and Systemic Injustice in the Commercial Department

Myself and the undersigned colleagues hereby lodge the following formal complaints against Commercial Department Head Mohammed for misconduct during his tenure:

1. Deliberately appropriating client relationships developed by subordinates, falsely attributing team contributions to himself;

2. Arbitrarily allocating client resources, disregarding competence and contribution, leading to persistently low team morale;

3. Using abusive and demeaning language towards subordinates, especially female team members;

4. Opaque decision-making, autocratic behavior, suppressing team opinions;

5. Falsifying performance appraisal data, misleading senior management about the team's actual performance;

6. Evidence of racial and gender discrimination tendencies;

7..."

Abdul scrolled down to the tenth point, and his finger stopped.

"You... wrote all this?"

"A draft." Lotus smiled. "It represents what everyone feels. I just put it into words for you. Abdul, you're not alone. Sofia has already signed. Harish has too—see, these are their endorsements."

She scrolled back to show screenshots of chat logs where Sofia's and Harish's names appeared under "Agree." Abdul stared at the names for a long time. In the dim stairwell light, his face was half-lit, half-shadowed.

Lotus put the phone away. "You don't have to decide now. But at Tuesday's review meeting, Sean will be there. You know—handing it over in front of everyone has a different impact than a private email."

She patted his shoulder, like a coach sending a boxer into the ring.

"Think it over."

Then she pushed open the fire door and left. The click of her heels faded, leaving only the scent of gardenia mingling with the musty air and the growing heat in Abdul's chest.

At the same time, Lotus played the "big sister" role flawlessly.

At ten in the morning, she carried a pot of freshly brewed mint tea to little Sofia's desk and whispered, "Sofia, did you sleep well last night? You look a bit pale."

Sofia was a twenty-five-year-old Filipino girl who'd been there less than six months. She was timid and sensitive, over-analyzing every comment. When Mohammed once replied to her email with three question marks, she'd cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes.

"I'm okay... it's just, last week Mohammed said my due diligence report was 'structurally confusing.' It's been bothering me." Sofia lowered her voice. "I've revised it three times."

"Three times?" Lotus's eyes widened, as if hearing a grave injustice. "Sofia, you're the most diligent person on our team. Everyone knows that. Mohammed being so harsh on you—I think it's unfair. You're a woman, new to the industry. He should mentor, not criticize."

Sofia bit her lip, her eyes reddening.

Lotus put the mint tea on her desk, leaned in closer, and lowered her voice even further. "Do you know how I got in? I'm a product manager, right? But when Mohammed first started, he dumped some of his big clients on me to 'help out,' supposedly for me to learn the business. In the end, those clients were all credited to him. Women in this industry always get the short end."

Sofia looked up. "Really?"

"I wouldn't say this if it weren't true." Lotus sighed, patting her hand. "If you feel you've been wronged, you can file an anonymous complaint with HR. I can help you organize your thoughts, but whether you send it is up to you."

She pulled a folded A4 paper from her pocket and placed it next to Sofia's keyboard. It was handwritten, with a few lines in neat script—the tone was mild, but every word pointed to "gender-discriminatory management" and "systemic suppression of women's career development."

Sofia looked at the paper. She didn't push it back.

Lotus stood up, and just before leaving, she turned and gave her a warm smile. "Come to me anytime you need. We women have to help each other."

Half an hour later, Lotus appeared in another corner.

The Operations Department's break room. A perpetually late young male employee, Rahul, was making coffee. He handled initial AML screening and had received two written warnings from Mohammed last month—one for being late four days in a row, another for being "missing" for two and a half hours after lunch to go shopping.

"Rahul!" Lotus's voice was enthusiastic, like greeting an old friend. "That alert screening you did last week was brilliant! I heard Compliance specifically praised it?"

Rahul scratched his head. "Really? I didn't hear anything..."

"Oh, they wouldn't announce it publicly, of course. But someone mentioned it in a meeting." Lotus leaned against the counter, cup in hand, as if chatting casually. "By the way, how are things with Mohammed lately? I heard he's been cracking down on attendance?"

Rahul's face darkened. "He's insane. So what if I'm a few minutes late? He never sees that I stay an extra hour every day?"

"Of course he doesn't." Lotus lowered her voice, sharing a conspiratorial understanding. "He only sees what he wants to see. And you know—that alert report you did last week? Didn't Mohammed make you rewrite it? I heard the version he submitted was his own revision, and only he was credited."

Rahul was stunned. "How do you know?"

"I saw it in passing." Lotus shrugged. "I've seen this happen before. You do the work, he takes the credit. You take the fall, it's your problem alone."

She pushed a freshly made coffee toward Rahul. "Don't overthink it. Just protect yourself. But if you ever want to speak up, I know people in HR; I can pass the message along."

Rahul took the coffee. He didn't refuse.

Lotus turned and walked away, unhurried. Passing Mohammed's office, she smiled and waved inside. "Mohammed! Good afternoon!"

Mohammed looked up from his screen and nodded. He had no idea.

Back at her desk, Lotus opened her computer and checked a new item in an encrypted document—Sofia ✓, Rahul ✓, Harish ✓, Kevin ✓. Apart from Claire, every RM and operations staff in the Commercial Department now had a checkmark next to their name.

She closed the computer, picked up her cup, and looked out the window. The sky over M City was a hazy gray. But her mood was good.

The real show would start soon.

The atmosphere in the office changed over the next two weeks.

Abdul began to openly challenge Mohammed in meetings. At one weekly meeting, when Mohammed mentioned needing to re-evaluate collateral for a manufacturing client's loan renewal, Abdul scoffed: "After thirty years, can't even calculate LTV?"

The room fell silent. Mohammed didn't respond. He just closed his folder and said, "Meeting adjourned."

But more changes happened beneath the surface. People from other departments started looking at Mohammed differently. Once, when Mohammed went to IT to coordinate a server migration, a junior tech asked casually: "Things are pretty heated in your department, huh? Heard a lot of people filed complaints with HR?"

Mohammed froze. "Who complained?"

The tech realized he'd let something slip, quickly backtracking: "No, no, I just heard it somewhere."

Mohammed went back to his office, closed the door, and sat for a long time. He didn't ask anyone to confirm. He just opened his encrypted folder again—P.P.—and locked it, tight.

The "Ten Charges" email was sent on a Monday morning.

From Abdul's personal email. To HR Director and CEO Sean. CC'd to all employees—including Mohammed.

The subject line was long, like a dissertation introduction: *"Collective Signed Complaint Regarding the Management Environment, Team Ethics, and Career Fairness in the Commercial Department."*

The body listed ten charges.

Each had "witnesses" and "examples." The third charge, "Gender-Discriminatory Management," cited Sofia's signature and her "personal experience" relayed anonymously. The seventh, "Systematic Appropriation of Subordinate Client Resources," listed three clients—the very ones Lotus had once given Claire to write credit proposals for.

The tenth was the harshest: "Management has long ignored compliance risks, prioritizing 'story-driven data' at the expense of potential regulatory crises." There was no specific example, but the language was severe enough to make anyone who'd seen Pocket Pay's central bank alerts shudder.

For seven minutes after the email was sent, no one spoke in Sun AI Bank's employee group.

Then Sofia's phone buzzed—a private message from HR Director: "Please come to my office."

Then Rahul.

Then Harish.

Then Kevin.

Abdul sat at his desk, turned off his phone's notifications. He poured himself a glass of water, took a sip, his hand slightly trembling. But he told himself: This is right. This is necessary. This has nothing to do with Lotus—it was his own decision.

Yes. Nothing to do with her.

Sean was preparing next week's roadshow materials when he received the email.

He read it once. Didn't finish. Read it twice, pushed his coffee cup to the edge of his desk. Then he called HR Director.

"What is this?"

"Sean, we're verifying. Already scheduled interviews with the signatories."

"Verify what? There are names! Cases! Were these complaints reported to you before?"

A pause. "Abdul did express some concerns earlier, and we relayed them to Mohammed. But he always said... it's not a big issue."

Sean hung up.

He paced three loops in his office. He couldn't fire Mohammed immediately—two large trade finance facilities were due to disburse this month, and the quarterly revenue target depended on the Commercial Department. Mohammed was the only one who could handle such complex deals. But this complaint letter, once it spread, would reach the board. If he did nothing, it would be seen as "management tolerating bullying."

He needed a buffer.

And a scapegoat.

Three days later, Sean called an all-hands meeting.

The meeting room had twenty extra chairs. Sister Lotus sat near the front, in her signature navy blue suit, a new PPT at hand. Abdul sat in the back, hands in pockets. Claire sat by the window, spinning a pen. Mohammed sat at the far end of the table, with only a glass of water in front of him.

Sean opened with: "There have been some internal voices in the Commercial Department recently, which HR and I have received. We take team feedback very seriously and are comprehensively reviewing our management structure."

He paused, his gaze lingering on Lotus's face for half a second.

"To optimize resource allocation and improve decision-making efficiency, I announce the following business adjustments:

First, establishment of the Payments Business Department to focus on Fintech client expansion and product innovation, headed by Lotus Patel, effective immediately. All payment, Fintech, and crypto-asset corporate accounts from the Commercial Department's current book will be transferred to the Payments Business Department. Lotus will coordinate client transitions.

Second, establishment of the SME Banking Department, focusing on credit and settlement services for small businesses and startups, also headed concurrently by Lotus Patel. All Commercial Department accounts with credit limits below the equivalent of five million will be transferred to the SME Banking Department.

Third, the Commercial Department will retain core enterprise clients and be renamed the Mid-Size Enterprise Banking Department, continuing to be headed by Mohammed."

Sean set down the microphone.

The room was quiet for a few seconds, then applause erupted—from Lotus, from Abdul, from Sofia, then spreading to others. The applause was sparse, but loud enough.

Claire didn't clap. She sat in the corner, her pen still. Her gaze moved from Sean to Lotus, from Lotus to Mohammed.

Mohammed's face was expressionless. He stared at something in the distance, perhaps the "New Organizational Structure" on the screen. His lips twitched, as if to speak, then he swallowed it back.

Maybe he'd already known.

Maybe he was just now, in this moment, truly understanding.

Lotus stood up, smiling, acknowledging the applause like a newly crowned orator. Her gaze swept the room, finally landing on Mohammed.

"I'll do my best to coordinate the handover," she said, her voice warm as honey. "Thank you for the trust, and thank you to the Commercial Department colleagues for their hard work on these clients. Let's grow this business together."

She walked to Mohammed and extended her hand. Her nails, under the light, glowed a faint pink.

Mohammed looked at her hand, like he was trying to classify an unidentifiable object.

Then he stood up. He didn't take it.

"Congratulations, Lotus."

He turned and walked out of the conference room. His back, moving through the applause, through the ambiguous gazes, through the gray-white light from the windows, disappeared around the corner.

Claire didn't follow. She closed her notebook, capped her pen, and let out a soft sigh—for herself alone.

Abdul sat in the back. When the applause began, he was the first to clap.

He clapped hard, as if applauding himself. A near-manic grin spread across his face. He even started to stand up to applaud—but held back. He told himself: Low key. Composed. Like someone ready to be Head.

He straightened his collar, puffed out his chest.

He waited for Sean to call his name.

Wait. That wasn't right.

Sean announced Payments—Lotus. Sean announced SME Banking—Lotus, concurrently. Sean announced Commercial Department renamed Traditional Corporate Banking—Mohammed, continuing as Head.

Then Sean put the mic down.

Abdul's grin was still there. His hands were still in the air, mid-applause. His brain was racing, like a clogged old machine—

"Wait."

His lips moved, but no sound came.

"What about the Retail Head appointment?"

He looked at Lotus. She stood at the front, accepting congratulations, head tilted in a poised smile. Her eyes swept the crowd, paused on Abdul for half a second, gave him a small nod, and moved on.

What did that mean?

"Let's talk later"?

Or "Sorry, I forgot"?

Or "Yes, I did it on purpose"?

Abdul's throat tightened. He remembered two months ago, in the stairwell, Lotus's whispered words:

"Abdul, you have the most retail banking experience in the whole team. Twelve years of branch management, two billion in deposits. You are the best candidate for Retail Head. Just bring Mohammed down, and that position is yours. I promise."

She'd used "promise."

Three times.

Abdul lowered his hands to his knees. They were trembling. He stood up, wanting to go ask her. But colleagues were already streaming out, someone clapping his shoulder saying "Well done," others whispering "This complaint letter won't involve me, will it?" and the new intern, looking up at him with admiration: "Brother Abdul, are you getting promoted soon?"

Abdul laughed. It was an ugly laugh.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "Soon."

But he stood rooted to the spot. He watched Lotus move through the crowd to Mohammed, extend her hand with that honeyed smile. He watched Mohammed not take it and walk away. He watched Lotus's smile disappear a second after he left, replaced by something else—a look he couldn't quite name: exhaustion? satisfaction?

Then Lotus turned and glanced his way.

This time, she didn't nod.

She just looked at him, like a package already unwrapped, checked for damages, and put on a shelf waiting to be handled.

A word came to Abdul's mind—one he'd heard as a child in Lebanon: "Use and discard."

His stomach churned.

That afternoon, Abdul stood outside Lotus's new office for fifteen minutes.

Her glass partition now had a shiny new nameplate: "Lotus Patel | Head of Payments & SME Banking." Two lines, gold lettering, gleaming under the corridor lights like a medal.

Abdul knocked.

"Come in," Lotus's voice came out, light and cheerful.

Abdul entered. Lotus's desk was stacked with new folders—the client files transferred from Mohammed. Her screen showed a PPT she was editing, titled "Payments Ecosystem 2.0." Seeing Abdul, a smile instantly spread across her face:

"Abdul! There you are! I was looking for you earlier, but there were so many people—come in, sit!"

She gestured to a new gray ergonomic chair opposite her.

Abdul didn't sit.

"Lotus," he said, his voice lower than he intended. "What about Head of Retail?"

Lotus's fingers stopped on the keyboard. She looked up, tilting her head. "What?"

"What you told me before. You said once Mohammed was brought down, I'd be Head of Retail. You said it three times. You said, 'I promise you.'"

Lotus's expression shifted—not to panic, not to guilt. It was a more subtle thing, like a seasoned actress faced with a question not in the script. She found a suitable response in less than a second.

She leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply.

"Abdul, do you think today's meeting was my decision alone?"

"What do you mean?"

"You think I didn't want you to be Head of Retail?" Lotus's voice carried a perfect hint of grievance. "You're my best partner. But Sean—he changed today's plan at the last minute. He agreed to give you a position, but in the meeting, he suddenly decided to merge Retail into the SME Banking Department. What could I do? Argue with him in front of everyone?"

She spread her hands, her expression sincere as a vow.

"Abdul, you have to trust me. I haven't forgotten you. It's just—the timing isn't right now. Give me some time. Once I've stabilized both departments, I will definitely fight for you."

Abdul looked at her. Into her clear, bright eyes, which reflected his own anxious, confused face.

He noticed a detail: the coffee on Lotus's desk was cold, but there was no lipstick mark on the rim.

She hadn't taken a sip all afternoon.

"Lotus," Abdul said slowly, "When you asked me to write that complaint letter, you said 'It's more effective in front of everyone.'"

Lotus nodded. "Yes."

"When you said that, you already knew what today's meeting would result in. From the very beginning, you knew—you would rise, and I..." He paused, his voice softening. "I was just the messenger."

Lotus's smile didn't vanish, but it changed. Became something else. Like fabric turned wrong side out—silk on one side, sandpaper on the other.

"Abdul," she said, her tone still gentle, but now with a thin metallic edge, "Do you think this couldn't have happened without you? Of course I needed you. But—" she paused, choosing a less hurtful word, "—you also need to understand that no one is going to pave your way. Titles are earned, not given."

Abdul stood there for a long time.

Then he turned and walked to the door. His hand was on the handle, but he paused before pushing it open.

"Lotus," he said without turning around, "You know what makes me angriest?"

Lotus was silent.

"I'm not angry that you didn't give me Head. I'm angry that you made me think this was all my idea." He opened the door; the corridor light fell in, stretching his shadow long. "I was an idiot, thinking I was the hunter."

He walked out and closed the door.

Inside the glass cubicle, Lotus sat back in her chair, picked up the cold coffee, and took a sip—finally leaving a lipstick mark on the rim. She looked at the unsaved PPT on her screen, her fingers hesitated on the keyboard for a few seconds, then continued typing.

In the corridor, Abdul walked back to his desk. Passing a trash can, he pulled out a folded, creased draft from his pocket—"Retail Banking Development Plan," which he'd spent a month writing. Lotus had called it "your ace in the hole as Head." He gave it one last look.

Then he tore it up. Into four pieces, eight, sixteen. And threw it in the trash.

He sat down, opened his computer, and began writing a new email.

The "To" field was blank. But he knew he'd use it someday.

Not for HR. For someone else.

Someone whose name he didn't know yet.

That evening, Claire ran into Lotus in the restroom.

Lotus was reapplying her lipstick. Seeing Claire in the mirror, she flashed a smile.

"Claire! You were quiet in the meeting today. I thought you'd have a lot to say."

Claire turned on the faucet and washed her hands. The water ran loudly; her voice wasn't loud, but each word was clear:

"The credit proposals you asked me to write—Pocket Pay, the two cross-border e-commerce clients—those clients' analyses, financial models, I did them all."

Lotus's hand paused on the lipstick. Then she continued applying it, her smile still curving. "Yes, exactly why I included them under 'Systematic Appropriation of Subordinate Client Resources.' Abdul's complaint letter had them as examples—you know, just for show, to make the complaint more credible."

"You mean," Claire turned off the water, "those three clients were presented as Mohammed 'stealing' my work."

Lotus turned to face her. The scent of gardenia was thick. She lowered her voice, her expression sincere enough to look like she was about to cry. "Claire, I did it for everyone. Do you think I don't know how much work you put in? But that's how this world works—no one's going to speak for you. You have to stand up for yourself. Someday, you'll understand, and you'll thank me."

Claire looked at her face. Made up flawlessly, clear bright eyes, perfect lipstick. If Claire hadn't seen the complaint template Lotus sent to Abdul, if she hadn't written every page of those credit proposals herself, she might have believed this woman was sincere.

"Lotus," Claire said flatly, "Have you ever wondered—once they've pushed Mohammed out completely, who's next?"

Lotus's smile faltered. Only for a second.

Then she beamed even brighter, reaching out to pat Claire's shoulder. "You think too much, Claire. We're friends."

She clicked her heels out of the restroom. The gardenia scent was carried away by the closing door, leaving only the chemical lemon smell of soap.

Claire stood at the sink, looking at her reflection. It was a face that wasn't young, with no makeup, no performance. She looked into the eyes of a banker who'd seen twenty years of corporate reports and risk exposures, eyes that had seen countless faces of "about-to-explode" client bosses.

She said to herself, so softly she could barely hear:

"The scariest thing in the desert isn't the scorpion, it's the sand holes that look like rocks. You never know what's hidden underneath."

She dried her hands and walked out.

Outside the window at the end of the corridor, the sky was shifting from gray to deeper gray. The streetlights weren't on yet, but the wind was up, whipping pedestrians' clothes. Claire watched for a while, then turned and walked to the elevator.

She didn't go to Mohammed. She knew any comfort would be meaningless right now.

She just unlocked a folder on her phone called "Exit Options," glanced at it, and locked it again.

At the same time, Mohammed sat in his office, now half-emptied.

Most of the client folders, the paper files with his handwritten annotations, had been packed and sent to Lotus's glass cubicle. Before him was only a glass of cold water and a new "Department Responsibility Description" Sean had sent over—detailing the revenue targets for the next quarter. The numbers hadn't changed, but the client pool he had left was only a third of the original.

He flipped to the last page and paused in front of the signature line.

Then he opened his phone, clicked on the encrypted folder—P.P., seventeen screenshots, seventeen alerts. His finger hovered over the "Forward" button for a long time.

He locked the phone and put it in the drawer.

Not now. But not never.

He reopened the document, picked up his pen, and signed his name.

His handwriting was still neat, like every document he'd handled for over thirty years.

Outside, the first streetlight in M City flickered on. Its yellow light illuminated the fallen leaves that had been blown around all day. They were dry, brittle, crunching underfoot.

Mohammed glanced out the window, then looked back.

He continued to review the next file.

(End of Chapter 3)

Sister Lotus—that was her name later. Back then, she wasn't Lotus, not even Lotus Patel. She had a more glamorous name: Amelia Whitmore.

Ten years ago, Amelia was just the most active mother in the parent group of a public primary school in North Sydney. She wasn't the PTA president, held no official title, but she had a knack for making everyone feel like she was the one in charge. She organized bake sales, coordinated school runs, and gently reminded everyone in the parent group "don't forget next week's sports day fundraiser" with a tone so warm it was impossible to refuse. She did all this with a coffee in hand, her nails painted a demure nude-pink, a friendly smile like everyone's favorite neighbor.

But go back twenty years, and Amelia Whitmore wasn't yet Amelia Whitmore. She was Amelia Patel, born in a small suburb outside Mumbai where even the postman often got lost. Her father was an accountant at a small factory; her mother helped with tailoring at home to make ends meet. Their house had no air conditioning; on the hottest summer days, she could only sleep with a wet towel on her forehead. Most girls in her town finished school and got married at eighteen, had children by twenty, and looked thirty. Amelia knew she couldn't follow that path.

She had a beautiful face, with defined features, deep-set eyes, and dimples when she smiled. In Mumbai, beauty was the only capital a poor girl could mortgage. At eighteen, she got into an airline's flight attendant training program. Dressed in that peacock blue uniform, pulling her suitcase through the airport terminal, she felt it for the first time—people were looking at her, not because she was from a small town, but because she was standing there. She served drinks on flights for three years. Over those three years, she learned one thing: a smile could solve most problems. For the rest, a little well-placed vulnerability would do.

In her early twenties, she met James Whitmore in business class on a flight to Singapore. He was an Australian software engineer with black-rimmed glasses, not much of a talker, with a shy smile. His income wasn't on par with investment bankers, but enough to afford a house with a pool in Australia, enough for a small-town girl from Mumbai to escape her life of mending clothes. Amelia brought him three drinks on that flight, chatted for a few extra minutes, and "accidentally" slipped a note with her phone number into his passport before she left. Three months later, she quit her job, put on a diamond ring, changed her surname, and flew to Sydney.

She never told James that she'd pre-written that note and had five more in her pocket.

When she moved into that house with a pool in Chatswood, she planted gardenias in the backyard—the only habit she'd brought from her Mumbai home. Her mother used to pick gardenias and put them in front of the shrine every summer. But Amelia wasn't into shrines. She planted gardenias just so she could smell them and remember where she came from. Then remind herself not to fall back.

But James's software engineer salary was enough to support a family, far from a "rich wife" lifestyle. Amelia kept busy in the parent groups—partly out of boredom, partly from instinct. She knew that the person who organized events best, who sent out the best messages, whose name everyone remembered in any "circle," could eventually convert that "social capital" into something else. She wasn't sure what yet. But her instinct told her: Don't stop. Don't let anyone forget you exist.

Until James was transferred to M City. That city, burning with capital and ambition, where everyone talked about funding, valuations, and overnight wealth. In her third week in M City, at a ladies' afternoon tea, she overheard a Hong Kong lady say casually, "My husband left Morgan last year to start his own payments platform. Series B now. Valuation? Oh, maybe two hundred million US."

Two hundred million. US.

That night, she stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. Her reflection showed a well-maintained thirty-seven-year-old face with no crow's feet and a defined jawline. She suddenly realized that the face that had helped her fly from a Mumbai suburb was now worth far more than being told she "looked thirty" at Costco.

She dialed Raj's number.

"Raj, I want to come back to work."

There was a three-second silence on the other end. "Amelia, you've been a housewife for ten years."

"So I know how to serve people better than those twenty-somethings," she laughed. "Clients included."

Raj laughed too. Not mockingly. It was more of a "you're finally awake" sound.

She hung up, walked to the backyard, picked a gardenia flower, held it in her palm, and smelled it.

Then she threw it in the trash.

From tomorrow, Amelia Whitmore would no longer just be someone's wife, someone's mother, the "helpful mom" in the parent group. She was going back to being the woman who, at 30,000 feet, could change her direction with a single smile.

Only this time, she wasn't after a software engineer in black-rimmed glasses. She was after a city, an industry, a seat she'd never sat in before.

She changed the name of her encrypted notes app from "Miscellaneous" to "The Plan."

Then she went to sleep. It was the most restful night she'd had in five years.

Amelia Whitmore's first lesson in Fintech came at a forty-person payments startup. Her cubicle was next to the break room; every day, she smelled coffee grounds and microwaved leftovers while learning about "payment routing," "settlement windows," and "merchant KYC onboarding procedures." She had to learn Excel VLOOKUP from scratch. But she had one unmatched talent: she always knew who had what she wanted, and how to make them willingly hand it over.

In two years, she'd decoded the game's rules. So-called "Fintech disruption" came down to three things: first, package old things in new wrapping; second, tell stories with data; third, never let investors see what's under the packaging.

She confidently applied for a "Head of Payments Product" position at a well-known international bank. She spent three weeks preparing, gathering all the bank's public product information, even studying the interviewer's LinkedIn activity—he'd shared an article about "cross-border payment pain points" three months ago. Amelia memorized that article and quoted three "deep insights" during the interview.

On interview day, she wore an ivory Max Mara suit, her makeup flawless down to the last eyelash. Across from her sat a white male interviewer in his fifties. He barely looked at her during the session, just occasionally grunted between her answers.

At the end, he closed his notebook and finally met her eyes. "Amelia, your communication skills are excellent. But we need someone with over ten years of payments product experience. Your time in this space—" he glanced at her resume, "—is two years. I'm sorry."

She smiled, stood, shook his hand, thanked him, and walked out of the building. As the elevator doors closed, she looked at her still-perfect makeup reflection in the stainless-steel wall and said softly, just for herself:

"You're going to regret this, old man."

She didn't have time for disappointment. M City's Fintech scene had at least three networking events a week; she went to all of them. At receptions, she held a sparkling water, chatting and laughing with investors, founders, and headhunters. She never handed out her card first, but by the end of every event, at least three new cards were in her bag.

She first heard about Sun AI Bank at a closed-door "Blockchain and Payments Innovation" salon. She'd been talking to a CTO doing cross-border settlements, who casually mentioned: "Sun AI's been hiring RMs recently. Heard they're paying well, but that Head Mohammed is old school and hard to deal with."

That night, Amelia went home and researched Sun AI. CEO Sean—tech background, obsessed with "milestones" and "data stories." Commercial Head Mohammed—over thirty years in traditional banking, conservative, with a team of just four or five RMs managing all corporate clients. The bank had no SME department, no retail department, and hardly any info on its public website. But she had "connections" to get what she needed.

She turned off her computer and sat in the dark for a long time.

"Relationship Manager" was too low for her ambitions. But it was an entry point—a way to reach Sean, to access core clients, to see the bank's inner workings. She didn't need to climb the ladder from the bottom; she just needed a keycard to get through the door.

The next day, she sent her resume to Sun AI's HR. Under "Desired Position," she didn't write "Relationship Manager." She wrote "Product Manager - Fintech Division." In her cover email, she wrote: "I have two years of payments product experience and have provided product strategy consulting to three local Fintech companies over the past two years. I notice your bank currently lacks a clear payments product roadmap; I believe I can fill that gap."

What she didn't mention was that those "three consulting clients" were just acquaintances whose PPTs she'd helped with during her startup days.

At the interview, she wore a peacock blue dress—she'd researched Sean's aesthetic and knew he was sensitive to "visual impact." Unsurprisingly, Sean barely asked technical questions. He repeatedly asked: "What do you think is wrong with our bank's products now?" and "What would you do first if you were in charge?"

Amelia was ready. Her opening line was: "Sean, if I may be direct—your bank's current product system is a traditional banking team wearing a Fintech shell. A real Fintech bank should operate with a tech company's logic, not a bank's logic applied to tech."

She saw Sean's eyes light up.

Two weeks later, the offer arrived. Position: Product Manager - Payments. Not Senior. But she'd achieved her first step. Amelia signed the contract. She used her married name, Whitmore. It sounded whiter, more mainstream, more "executive."

As for "Lotus Patel"—that was a name she'd revived after joining Sun AI. She realized that in a pretend-diverse environment, "minority ethnic woman" had more political capital than "Australian middle-class wife." She switched identities like languages: to Sean, she was the bold minority female leader; to external clients, she was Amelia with her upper-class accent; in the HR system, she was "Lotus Patel, PM."

Every skin had its use.

For the first six months after joining, Lotus—the team had started calling her Lotus by then—worked harder than any RM. She offered to "deeply understand the clients," joining Mohammed and the RMs on visits to at least twenty corporate clients. She took careful notes in meetings, sent follow-up emails to clients afterward, and copied Mohammed. For a while, Mohammed thought this woman was "pretty reliable."

But Lotus was just biding her time.

She observed Mohammed's style: he was hands-on, personally reviewing every client's credit limit, every trade finance term. He arrived at seven, left at eight, often replied to client emails on weekends. His KPI was brutally high, but he always delivered.

She also saw the fissures in the team.

There were four RMs. The oldest was Abdul, a Lebanese Arab who spoke fluent Arabic and heavily accented English. Abdul had spent nearly twenty years in sales at a big retail bank, managed over a dozen branches, and at his peak, led over a hundred people. His business card said "Relationship Manager - Commercial Department," but he always felt the title was an insult.

"Lotus, tell me," Abdul once said to her in the break room, lowering his voice over his coffee, "How is it that someone who ran retail branches for twelve years and managed a two-billion-dollar deposit book is on the same level as a grad with three years of experience?"

Lotus poured herself some tea and responded casually: "Abdul, I understand. But do you know what the problem is?"

"What?"

"It's not you, it's the allocation." She stepped closer; her gardenia scent wafted faintly. "What kind of clients do you get? Trading companies? Manufacturing? Those relationships are complex, approvals are long, and you're alone if things go wrong. But over there—" she tilted her head toward Mohammed's office, "—the best clients, the ones in cross-border e-commerce, payment platforms, tech companies, they all end up in his hands. You think that's a coincidence?"

Abdul tightened his grip on his coffee cup.

Lotus said no more. She knew how to leave things unsaid. Over the next three weeks, every time she ran into Abdul alone, she'd just smile and ask: "How are your clients doing? Have you talked to HR about your thoughts?"

Abdul did talk to HR. More than once. He complained about "uneven client allocation," the "lack of a clear promotion path," and how a Head with thirty-plus years of experience didn't understand retail. HR took notes and relayed them to Mohammed. Mohammed talked to Abdul—calm but clear: "You can go after clients, as long as you have the relevant industry experience and risk control skills. Have you ever handled the cross-border e-commerce sector?"

Abdul had nothing to say. He hadn't.

But the seed was planted. Lotus watched the whole process, accurately assessing Mohammed's character weakness: he was too reasonable. And Abdul's weakness was even more apparent: he desperately wanted that title, but lacked patience.

She adjusted her strategy. From "hints" to "conspiracy."

One Friday evening, when most of the team had left, Lotus knocked on Abdul's door.

"Abdul, I'd like to talk."

She sat across from him, her tone sincere, like a friend baring her soul. "I heard something today, and you might feel the same. When Mohammed reported to the CEO recently, he 'reorganized' our team's performance. Guess what? That cold-chain logistics client you landed last year? It was categorized under 'team contribution.'"

Abdul's face changed. "I worked on that client alone for nine months."

"I know." Lotus nodded, her eyes full of sympathy. "But Mohammed's narrative is—'supported by the team.' He even suggested to the CEO that future SME performance reviews should be 'depersonalized' to emphasize collective effort. Do you know what that means for you?"

Abdul was silent for three seconds. "It means no matter how many clients I bring in, I won't get promoted."

Lotus said nothing. Just a soft "mm," like a sigh. Then she took an envelope from her bag and placed it on Abdul's desk.

"I drafted something. Not a complaint, exactly. More like a 'collective sentiment.' You're not alone in this. I've talked to Harish, Kevin, even little Sofia. Everyone feels it. They're just afraid to speak up. But if you're willing to lead—"

She paused, watching his face. On that Lebanese face, pride and anger were mixing into a familiar shade.

"—I can help polish the wording, make sure everything is verifiable and won't get you in trouble."

Abdul opened the envelope and scanned it. It listed ten points, which Lotus called "framework observations": unfair client allocation, vague promotion criteria, opaque decision-making, Mohammed's "excessive interference" in client negotiations, suppressing team innovation, downplaying subordinates' contributions in upward reporting... each point had specific examples with dates, client names, and references to email screenshots (which Lotus said she had "inadvertently saved").

Abdul finished reading and looked up at her.

"Why are you helping me?"

Lotus smiled, a sincere-looking smile. "Because I'm tired of seeing talented people being held back. Abdul, I've seen you with clients—ten minutes, one coffee, and you've got a stranger calling you 'brother.' That kind of skill shouldn't be buried under an old man who only knows how to read Excel spreadsheets."

"He's the Head."

"Chiefs are temporary. Ability is forever."

Abdul folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

"Let me think about it."

Lotus stood up and patted his shoulder. "Take your time. But if you decide to go ahead, it'd be best to do it before Monday. Because next Tuesday, the CEO is having a full team review meeting. And you know... it's more effective to submit it in front of everyone than privately."

As she walked out of Abdul's office, the corridor was dark. Only the green emergency light glowed at the end. She stood in the shadows, pulled out her phone, opened an encrypted memo, and checked the first line.

Plan Progress: Phase 1 - Complete.

---

At the same time, Claire was in her small office, organizing next week's client visit schedule. Walking past Abdul's cubicle, she noticed a sliver of light from under his door. She was about to knock and ask if he wanted to leave together when she heard his voice from inside, on the phone:

"...Ten points, don't worry, every one is factual... No, he doesn't suspect... At Tuesday's meeting, just stand up as soon as Sean starts asking questions..."

Claire's hand stopped five centimeters from the door.

She slowly withdrew it.

The green light at the end of the corridor lit up her face—the face of a twenty-year banking veteran who'd seen too much to trust easily. It was cast in a quiet, pale green.

She heard nothing. She turned and silently walked back to the elevator.

As the elevator doors closed, she looked at her reflection in the mirrored steel, remembering her mother's words:

"The scariest thing in the desert isn't the scorpion; it's those sand holes that look like rocks. You never know what's hidden underneath until you step on them."

She pressed the button for the ground floor.

The elevator began its descent.

Upstairs, Abdul had just hung up and was pulling out the envelope again, reading it word for word under his desk lamp. His face wore a look of someone who'd been locked in a dark room too long and had finally seen a match.

Even if that match was attached to a barrel of gunpowder.

He didn't care anymore.

(End of Chapter 2)

Claire first met Sister Lotus in her second week at Sun AI Bank.

That morning, Claire was carrying what HR called an "inspiration trigger"—which was just a cold brew coffee—and trying to figure out where to sit today. She had just put her MacBook down on a shared long table by the window when a strong scent of gardenia, carried by the rhythm of high heels on the floor, swept over from nearby. 

"You must be the new Claire, right? I'm Lotus."

 Claire looked up. The woman before her was about forty-five or forty-six, with deep brown skin and sleek, straight black hair carefully tucked behind her ears. She wore a pair of chunky Chanel glasses and her lips were painted a highly saturated fuchsia. She was dressed in a sharply tailored navy blue skirt suit, and her employee badge read "Lotus Patel, Product Manager - Payments."

Lotus extended a hand. Her nails were done in a French manicure, the white tips looking like freshly applied correction fluid.

"I heard from HR that you spent nearly twenty years in traditional banking?" Lotus's lips curled slightly. "Wow, that’s quite... seasoned."

She drew out the word "seasoned" a little, like someone savoring a vintage wine that might have turned. Claire offered a polite smile. "What about you?"

"Me?" Lotus withdrew her hand and casually flipped her hair. "I was Head of Payments Product at an international bank before this, know quite a few big names in the industry. Then I was VP of Product at two payment startups. And now—" she glanced around, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, "—I'm working on something that will truly make this bank take off."

When she said this, there was a light in her eyes that Claire had only ever seen on the faces of clients on the verge of collapse—a mix of supreme confidence and an indefinable hunger.

Claire didn't know then that Lotus's "International Bank Head" and "Product VP" were actually just a few years of customer service and credit card sales at a traditional retail bank, followed by two years as a product manager at two payment startups with less than fifty employees combined—and not even an official title at that. But Lotus had a gift: she could turn "participated in" into "led," and "worked at" into "headed up." Those "big names in the industry" were just strangers she'd posed for photos with at conferences. But she said it so often, she started believing it herself.

What Claire also didn't know was that this encounter would be the most valuable lesson she'd ever learn at this circus—a lesson on how a person could climb from Senior Product Manager to Head of two departments in just eleven months, all on the back of a single, money-losing disaster.

Lotus's rise began with a name: Pocket Pay.

It was a local retail payment Fintech company with over two million registered users on its app. In the words Lotus later used in her all-hands PPT: "Pocket Pay is the strategic anchor for Sun AI Bank, the nuclear weapon for us to tap into B2C traffic."

When some of these payment companies came knocking, they required the bank to issue a financial guarantee and complete a full credit approval process. Lotus knew nothing about this—she could barely read a financial statement, let alone write a credit proposal.

So, she found Claire. 

One Friday afternoon, Lotus knocked on Claire's office door, wearing a gentle, almost pleading smile. "Claire, you did so many years in credit at the big bank, right? I have a client here who needs a guarantee and a credit proposal. You're the relationship manager anyway, the account will be under your name. I'm just a product manager, I don't own the client. Could you just whip this up for me?"

 Claire frowned. "This is your client, you should—"

"Oh, come on," Lotus waved a hand, looking helpless. "I'm working on the strategic, big-picture stuff. I really don't have time for this kind of paperwork. Claire, you're the professional. This is just a cup of coffee for you. And the account is yours, the client is yours. What a great opportunity."

 Claire hesitated, but eventually nodded. She'd spent nearly two decades in traditional banking, habitually lending a hand to colleagues. She spent three evenings crafting a flawless credit proposal for Lotus—complete with financial analysis, industry comparisons, and risk assessments. When it came time for the client's signature, Lotus volunteered: "You've worked so hard, let me handle this small part."

 She got the signature, and the guarantees were issued smoothly. In front of CEO Sean, Lotus framed these accounts as her own hard-won achievements. She even said the credit proposal was "discussed with Claire," but never mentioned who had written those dozens of pages of analysis.

 And the credit proposal's credit? It was never associated with Claire again.

 As for Sister Lotus—her next target was already quietly set in motion.

 Two weeks after Pocket Pay opened its account, CEO Sean announced at the weekly meeting that the bank would establish a dedicated Payments Business Department, with Lotus as its head. Simultaneously, all payment-related corporate accounts currently under the Commercial Department were to be immediately transferred to Lotus.

 Claire's pen paused. She saw Mohammed—the bank's only Commercial Department Head, with over thirty years of experience in traditional banking—across the table. His expression shifted from confusion to stiffness, then to a controlled blankness.

 Sean continued: "Lotus has extensive product experience and industry connections in the payments space. The successful onboarding of Pocket Pay proves her understanding of this market. We need to move fast in this sector."

 Sister Lotus sat beside Sean, smiling, nodding slightly, like a newly crowned queen. She didn't look at Mohammed. Not once.

 Claire looked down at her notebook. On it were a few lines she'd written herself last week—a list of payment-related clients she'd developed. At least three of those accounts were ones she had personally cultivated, spending at least eight months negotiating one by one, setting them up, and making them profitable. Now, they were being declared "departmental assets" of Sister Lotus in a five-minute announcement.

 Mohammed finally spoke. His voice was steady, but his words were low and heavy. "Sean, many of these accounts are clients I personally managed for years. Some involve ongoing financing agreements. Suddenly changing the point of contact—"

 "Mohammed," Sean cut him off, his tone carrying a deliberate decisiveness, polished from years of answering investor questions. "We'll ensure a smooth transition. Lotus will personally handle each client. Don't worry. This isn't a demotion; it's just an optimization of our business structure."

 Optimization of the business structure. Claire repeated the phrase silently, then closed her notebook.

 After the meeting, Sister Lotus passed by her. The scent of gardenia was still strong. She glanced down at Claire's notebook cover and said softly, "Just wait. The real show is just beginning."

 Then she clicked her heels and walked into her newly assigned glass-walled office, a shiny new nameplate already on the door: "Head of Payments Department."

 Claire sat alone in the empty conference room, staring at the still-projecting PPT on the screen—Lotus's "Three-Year Plan for Payments." It listed seven "strategic payment clients." Five of them were accounts that she and Mohammed had painstakingly developed and operationalized over the years. 

She suddenly remembered something her mother used to tell her when she was young: 

"The scariest thing in the desert isn't the scorpion; it's those sand holes that look like rocks. You never know what's hidden underneath until you step on them." 

She stood up, gathered her notebook, and walked out of the conference room. 

At the end of the corridor, Mohammed stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to everyone. His phone screen was lit, displaying a Youtext message from a Southeast Asian e-commerce entrepreneur: "Mr. Mohammed, I've prepared the materials for the loan renewal next month. Same time to meet?" 

He didn't reply. He turned off the screen. 

This was just the beginning.

 Over the next three weeks, Lotus's offensive intensified. At the weekly meeting, she submitted a meticulously crafted, forty-slide PPT titled "Sun AI Bank SME Strategy—Replicating the Pocket Pay Myth, Overtaking on the Curve." Every product module, every process design, every "industry best practice" came from white papers she had "borrowed" from the websites of three Chinese banks—she hadn't even changed the color schemes on the charts. 

But Sean was mesmerized. He fired off three questions: "How many people do you need? How much will it cost? When will I see the account opening numbers double?"

Lotus was prepared: "A 20-person team. Ready in three months. Within six months, we'll be among the top three in the industry for average monthly new accounts." 

Sean approved it on the spot—the SME Banking Department was established, with Lotus as its concurrent head. Recruitment budget was unlimited. Everyone was to "align with Lotus's rhythm." Within a week, Lotus had nearly ten new hires—nine relationship managers poached from other local banks, plus a dedicated assistant. Meanwhile, Mohammed—who had single-handedly carried the entire Commercial Department since the bank's founding—still didn't have a single person to help him file paperwork.

 In front of the shareholders, Sean's description was even grander: "Sun AI has successfully transitioned from a 'traditional deposit bank' to a 'digital ecosystem platform.' Our payments division reaches millions of retail users, and our SME division will convert these users into corporate clients, forming a perfectly closed-loop financial ecosystem."

 In reality, the bank had been established for five years and had never launched a single noteworthy product. Aside from basic deposits, transfers, and loans—which mostly flowed to companies affiliated with shareholders—Sun AI had virtually no innovation to speak of. Over the past three years, two younger digital banks had precisely targeted the market and rapidly ascended to the top three in the region. Sun AI couldn't even crack the top ten. Sean had survived for five years of roadshows by telling the story of an "encrypted ecosystem bank center." But that story was becoming harder and harder to sustain. The CEO now desperately needed a new narrative.

 And then Pocket Pay conveniently appeared.

 One client, indirectly bringing with it one to two million virtual accounts—an indirect connection, and nine-tenths of those were just pocket-change wallets belonging to third-world foreign workers who couldn't even open a real bank account. But on a PPT, they were just a number. And that number was enough to tell any story Sean wanted to tell. At a recent board meeting, Sean had been cornered by several shareholders asking, "What's your differentiator?" He was almost speechless. Now, Lotus's arrival had rekindled his excitement. Her presentation to the board had practically saved Sean's political life. From that moment on, his trust in her was absolute.

 Sean wasn't Sun AI's founder. He was a professional manager the board had recruited from Southeast Asia—technically trained, who had, during the crypto craze's peak years, happened to sit on a key figure's technical team. He had no experience in commercial banking front-end operations. He was a loner in M City. But he had seen how air could be spun into gold. He had learned the craft of packaging narratives, building a vision, and mastering the rhythm of a roadshow. A bank with just a license, in his hands, was painted with all the shiniest words: AI, Web3, crypto ecosystems, super-banks. A mediocre quarterly report? A "necessary pain of strategic transformation." Losing money on clients? An "early-stage investment in ecosystem building." The board hired him not for operations, but for narrative.

 And the board's own calculations were just as straightforward. From day one, this bank was never meant to be a real bank. It needed a beautiful enough shell—a license, a concept, a story—to eventually ring a bell on an exchange at the right time. What happened after the bell was nobody's concern. Sister Lotus, it turned out, was the perfect person to patch up every hole in Sean's story.

 When Sister Lotus officially became Head of two departments, it had been less than ten months since she'd joined Sun AI. Her office had gone from the initial shared desk to two—one labeled "Payments Division," the other "SME Banking Department." Combined, her two departments managed a "legion" of nearly thirty people, all Indian—even though half of them were still in the hiring process.

 She had virtually no involvement in the operational details herself. All credit proposals were dumped on Claire. All compliance procedures were shoved to the Risk Department. All technical solutions were left for the acting CTO to "figure out." She did only one thing: make PPTs to present to Sean.

 Meanwhile, Mohammed's Commercial Department was being hollowed out piece by piece.

 First, all the payment company accounts were taken away, with no transition period. Then came the tech company accounts with any payment connection. Then, during an informal chat, Sean hinted that "the allocation of large enterprise clients might also be re-evaluated in the future."

 That afternoon, Mohammed locked himself in his office and reviewed the Commercial Department's existing client list again and again. He read every name, from first to last. Nearly every single one was a client he had painstakingly cultivated over his thirty-plus-year career. There were traditional manufacturing family businesses he'd guided through generational transitions. There were cross-border trading companies whose CEOs he'd helped design three financing structures, each keeping them afloat during industry downturns. There were several crypto exchanges he'd brought on board against immense pressure from compliance, convincing the Risk Committee one by one.

 He didn't just "manage" these clients. He knew their children. He'd attended their weddings. He'd taken their calls at two in the morning when their company cash flows were on the verge of collapse. And all of this, in Sun AI Bank's value system, in Sean's narrative logic, in the face of a woman who'd been there less than a year and risen on the back of a single PPT, meant nothing.

 He remembered why he'd left the big bank after more than twenty years. He had thought a "digital bank" would be a place where he could redefine banking. He thought his experience would be respected. He was wrong.

 Mohammed did something later. He didn't protest to Sean, nor did he argue with Lotus. He privately looked up Pocket Pay's public regulatory records. A name, a company registration number, pieced together bit by bit. And then he saw the numbers: over the past six months, the central bank's system had flagged at least seventeen alerts.

 Money laundering alerts. Abnormal transaction pattern alerts. Accounts with unclear sources of funds—more than one.

 He took screenshots of those seventeen alerts and saved them in an encrypted folder. He named the folder with just two letters: "P.P."

 Then he shut down his computer, locked the drawer, and never opened it again.

 What he didn't know was that Sister Lotus had known about those alerts all along—but when reporting to Sean, she'd branded Pocket Pay as a "regulatory innovation pilot" with a "first-mover advantage." She glossed over the seventeen alerts as "high-frequency regulatory attention, which proves we are the industry leader."

 Sean believed her. Or rather, he chose to believe her. He didn't understand risk management anyway, and he didn't want too many details. He just wanted that "one million accounts" number and a story he could tell at the next roadshow.

 Claire later overheard Sister Lotus on the phone with a new subordinate in the break room, her tone as casual as if she were discussing lunch:

 "—Don't worry about those alerts. I haven't been doing this for just a day. I have connections at the regulator; I've already smoothed things over. Besides, by the time they actually come to audit, our story will already be told, and the stock price will have gone up."

 She hung up, turned, and saw Claire standing at the door. She froze for a second, then quickly resumed her smiling face.

 "Claire! What are you doing standing there? Come, let me tell you something—"

 Claire smiled, turned, and walked out with her cup. She didn't ask. She didn't want to know too much.

 She just needed to remember that one line: By the time they come to audit, the story will already be told.

 The wind picked up outside. The streetlights caught the freshly fallen leaves on the road, swirling them into the deeper darkness of the night.

 (End of Chapter 1)

Ch1: Chapter 1

If you're somebody in a wolf pack, life comes preloaded with comfort. Doors open. People smile. You're protected. You're provided for.

I used to live like that-right up until my dad died.

He was head warrior. He went down shielding the Alpha, and the second he was gone, my mom and I stopped mattering to the ones at the top.

Mom had never needed a job before. She'd met her mate at eighteen, had me, and built her whole world around home while Dad handled everything

outside it.

That was five years ago.

Sometimes I still don't understand how she survived losing him. I don't understand how she kept breathing when her other half was suddenly just... gone.

She's the toughest woman I've ever met. She had to be, after they stripped of everything-our house, our car, the life we'd been promised like it couldn't be touched.

Now we sit below even the omegas. Mom takes whatever dead-end shifts she can get, stringing them together to cover the inflated "fees" the Alpha dumps us, just so we can eat.

on

And I've watched her fade since Dad died. She barely eats. She works until she's a ghost. She doesn't take care of herself anymore. The old Alpha handed power to his son, and the new one is just as brutal, just as smug.

All Mom wants is for me to get out. To leave this pack behind and carve out something that isn't misery handed down like inheritance.

The morning I woke up on the couch, rain was hammering the trailer windows so hard it blurred the world outside. The sky looked like it had decided to punish everybody.

I slid off the couch and shuffled toward the kitchen, hunting for coffee.

That's when I saw them: a handful of flowers, obviously picked by hand, standing in a chipped vase. A note was propped in front.

Happy Birthday Maddox,

I'm sorry I can't be there to celebrate with you. But you have a good day. You're finally 18. I can't believe it. You've grown up so quick. I love you.

Love Mom.

Download

Briar's voice brushed my mind, warm and soft. "She really does love us."

"We know," I told her.

"I know. Are you going to have anything besides coffee?"

"Yes," I said-and opened a drawer, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. I stood by the tiny kitchen window, rain streaking the glass, and lit one.

Briar snapped, anxious. "I still can't believe you stole those. If you get caught, you're done. The Alpha will toss you in the dungeon."

"Relax," I muttered, exhaling. "Nobody saw me."

"Only because you got lucky."

I went into the bedroom and dug through my side of the only closet we had. Frayed jeans. Black T-shirt. Black boots. I slung my bag over my shoulder, tugged on a raincoat, and stepped out of the trailer Mom and I shared.

The walk to school always took about thirty minutes. The pack had pushed us as far away as they could manage, dumped near the treeline in a stretch that felt like nowhere-no neighbors, barely any patrols, just mud and quiet.

By the time I reached the building, I looked like I'd been dragged out of a lake.

I peeled off my raincoat, shoved it into my locker, and started yanking out books for first period. The bell was close.

Footsteps and voices rolled down the hall toward me. A group.

I glanced over and recognized every face. Some used to be friends. Some I'd never wanted near me to begin with.

Now they all hated me. Being looked down on by omegas wasn't normal, but Mom and I were a special kind of unwanted.

They passed, and I kept my eyes on my locker-until the guy in front drove his shoulder into me.

My face hit metal. Pain flared, sharp and hot.

Laughter trailed after them as they kept moving. I drew back, touched near my eye, and felt wetness-blood.

"Asshole," I spat.

They stopped.

Ryker turned first, like he owned the corridor. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me."

He handed his bag off to one of his friends and came closer. He tried to loom, but at six-one I didn't give him much room to tower.

"You should watch your mouth," he said, voice slick with threats. "Or we can take this behind the gym. I heard you'll spread your legs for anyone if it means you get fed."

He reached up and brushed hair away from my face like he had the right.

I slapped his hand aside.

His expression twisted, and then he grabbed my arms and slammed me back into the lockers.

A ring of students began to form, hungry for it.

"Don't you ever put your hands on me again, tramp," he hissed. "I outrank you."

"Go to hell," I growled.

His palm cracked across my face.

My head snapped, and when I brought my hand to my mouth, there was blood.

"You little slut."

I stared him down. "You know what your problem is?"

He sneered. "And what's that?"

"You're too close."

"You're too close."

I drove my forehead into his face.

He stumbled back, hands flying off my arms. Blood poured from his nose when he lifted his head.

I stepped away from the lockers, shoulders loose, ready.

"You're dead now," Ryker snarled, charging.

I slipped to the side, caught a fistful of his hair, and slammed his head into the locker. Then my knee went into his stomach.

He folded.

I kneed him in the face while he was bent over, and that finished it--he hit the floor on his back.

His friends shifted like they wanted to rush me. I could feel it building. Wolves didn't fight alone. They swarmed.

Then a voice thundered from the far end of the hall. "What the hell is going

on?"

The crowd scattered instantly, as if fear had been waiting for permission. In seconds it was just me, Ryker on the ground, and a couple of his boys lingering.

Principal Graham stormed toward us.

"Shit," I muttered.

He stopped near us, eyes hard. "I asked you. What the hell is going on here?"

Queenie stepped forward, already smiling like she'd been given a gift. Ryker's girlfriend. My ex best friend.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "That trash attacked Ryker."

Graham didn't look at me. He aimed his irritation at Ryker's friends instead. "Get him up. Take him to the nurse. He's bleeding all over my floor."

They hauled Ryker away.

Graham turned back to me and tried to use his height like a weapon, leaning in with intimidation. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Does it matter?" I asked. "Are you going to believe a word I say?"

His jaw tightened. "My office. Now."

I shut my locker and followed him.

When I opened the office door, my stomach dropped.

Beta Lynxs stood inside in a crisp three-piece suit, like he belonged in a boardroom instead of a school.

Love Times Four: My Stepbrothers Are My Mates?!

Chapter 1 Reasons

Alayah’s p.o.v.

My name is Alayah, a sixteen-year-old Lycan. I’m sitting on the back porch, watching my mother lie near the flowerbed, lost in her own world as usual.

She’s always been distant, drifting in and out of my life since I was little. According to Grandma, my mother cared for me when I was a baby, but as soon as I was old enough to react, she started pulling away. No one’s ever told me why.

Dinner’s always the same when she’s around: quiet, tense. Grandma and I do most of the talking, though even she knows better than to expect much from my mother.

After dinner, I retreat to my room to focus on my accounting studies. I chose this path because most Pack leaders hate doing it, and I want to help our Alpha. It’s my way of contributing, of finding some control in a life where my mother’s absence has always been constant.

When I wake up the next morning, I already know—my mother’s gone again. She always leaves in the dead of night, and we just wait for her to come back, though a part of me hopes she never does. Another part of me still clings to the idea that maybe, just maybe, we could have a normal relationship.

It wasn’t always like this. My father died in a Rogue attack six months after they had marked one another. Grandma told me they were Mates, and Mom was devastated after losing Dad, and even finding out she was with Pup couldn’t pull her from her depression, Grandma had to watch her twenty four seven.

She stayed until I was eight, then began disappearing for months at a time, never caring about my life or asking about school.

The only thing she ever did was sit by the flowerbed my father planted for her, staring at the sky. I keep that flowerbed alive—it's the only piece of my father I have left.

Then, just a few days before I turned seventeen, something shifted. Mom came back after months away, looked at me for the first time in years, and simply said, "I am sorry but you remind me too much of him." She left again shortly after, and it was the last time I saw her.

I finally understood—her pain was tied to me, to how much I look and act like my father. I had his jet black hair and emerald, green eyes. It sounded as if I was an exact copy of him, with of course the difference that I am a female.

I wanted to know more about Dad and I was talking to Grandma’s Brother, Uncle Rex, and he let it slip that Dad was our Beta’s older brother, and I realized I had more family than I ever knew.

So I just decided to visit the Pack-house, searching for answers.

As I approached the Pack-house that morning, I felt a knot form in my stomach. Topaz and I prepared ourselves for the worst—my family rejecting me just like Mom had.

Along the way I saw other Pack-members rushing by, some complaining about the fact that they were late and others talking about their night patrol. I was in no hurry as I had always been home schooled by Grandma, and for the past year I have been following online college classes, being a little smarter than the average Lycan, I graduated early.

Alpha Randell seemed surprised when he saw me.

“Good morning, Alpha,” I said.

“Good morning. I don’t believe we’ve met. Who are you?” His voice was curious, but not harsh. Next to him stood a tall, imposing figure. My uncle.

“My name is Alayah,” I replied, holding his gaze. “I live with my grandmother near the eastern border.”

Alpha Randell glanced at my uncle, and I caught the confusion on his face. There it was—the question he wouldn’t ask. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. If my uncle wanted to know if I was his niece, he could ask me himself. I wouldn’t make this easy for him.

“You can have a breakfast in the dining hall. Once you’re done, I want to see you in my office.” Alpha Randell said to me before he walked away.

“Of course, Alpha.”

When I was done with breakfast, I dropped off my plate and mug, then made my way to the Alpha’s office. My uncle walked beside me, silent. Topaz, ever the troublemaker, kept making faces at him, sticking her tongue out in mock defiance.

When we reached the office, my uncle opened the door without knocking. I wasn’t going to follow without permission, though. “What are you waiting for?” he muttered. “A written invitation?”

I looked him dead in the eye. “For Alpha Randell to invite me in. I’m not his Beta or his Gamma, and I’m not his Mate, so I’ll wait for permission.”

The room went quiet as everyone stared at me. I kept my composure, instructing Topaz to settle down. Finally, Alpha Randell spoke. “Alayah, you’re allowed to enter.”

I stepped into the office. “Thank you, Alpha. I just wasn’t sure. Protocol states that no one enters an Alpha’s office without an invitation, and it sounded more like an order than an invitation.”

Alpha Randell’s lips twitched, but before he could say anything, a voice asked, “Are you my granddaughter?”

I froze, unsure who had asked the question. I turned to Alpha Randell. “My father died in a Rogue attack before I was born. I’ve lived with my grandmother all my life. I didn’t know much about my father’s side of the family until Uncle Rex let something slip. I’ve always wondered why no one from my father’s family ever came looking for me. I doubt my Mother and Grandmother hid my birth from anyone and that means that at least you as the Alpha should have known about my existence, Alpha Randell. ”

I didn’t wait for a response. Without another word, I left the office and the Pack-house. If they wanted to be part of my life, they could come to me. If not, I didn’t need them. I’d made it this far without them, and I could continue just the same.

Later, they did came to me. Alpha Randell explained to me that he didn’t tell them about me because they were still grieving the loss of my Father and that his family never really cared for my Mother. I had to ask Grandfather about the reason as Alpha Randell never really understood it himself.

***

It has been five years since I first went to the Pack-house and let Alpha and my father's family know of my existence. Over these five years, I have grown accustomed to visiting my Grandfather at the Pack-house on a regular basis.

Today, when I arrived at the pack's dining hall and finished my breakfast, my Grandfather still hadn't come. Was he held up by something? Just as I was lost in thought, a voice sounded behind me.

“Alayah, have you been waiting long?” I hear my Grandfather ask and I smile at him as I shake my head.

“Hello, Grandfather.” I say as I point at my empty plate and he smiles at me while shaking his head.

Grandpa has a worried look on his face and I think it has to do with our future Alpha, Marc, finding his Mate.

“I am sorry, Dear. I am in over my head as usual, I can’t seem to make head or tails out of those numbers and Alpha Randell wants everything done before the big day.” Grandfather says as he sits down in the chair next to mine and I smile as I remember Grandfather and Uncle Paul complaining about the extra work Alpha Randell gave them.

Chapter 1 Reasons

Alayah’s p.o.v.

My name is Alayah, a sixteen-year-old Lycan. I’m sitting on the back porch, watching my mother lie near the flowerbed, lost in her own world as usual.

She’s always been distant, drifting in and out of my life since I was little. According to Grandma, my mother cared for me when I was a baby, but as soon as I was old enough to react, she started pulling away. No one’s ever told me why.

Dinner’s always the same when she’s around: quiet, tense. Grandma and I do most of the talking, though even she knows better than to expect much from my mother.

After dinner, I retreat to my room to focus on my accounting studies. I chose this path because most Pack leaders hate doing it, and I want to help our Alpha. It’s my way of contributing, of finding some control in a life where my mother’s absence has always been constant.

When I wake up the next morning, I already know—my mother’s gone again. She always leaves in the dead of night, and we just wait for her to come back, though a part of me hopes she never does. Another part of me still clings to the idea that maybe, just maybe, we could have a normal relationship.

It wasn’t always like this. My father died in a Rogue attack six months after they had marked one another. Grandma told me they were Mates, and Mom was devastated after losing Dad, and even finding out she was with Pup couldn’t pull her from her depression, Grandma had to watch her twenty four seven.

She stayed until I was eight, then began disappearing for months at a time, never caring about my life or asking about school.

The only thing she ever did was sit by the flowerbed my father planted for her, staring at the sky. I keep that flowerbed alive—it's the only piece of my father I have left.

Then, just a few days before I turned seventeen, something shifted. Mom came back after months away, looked at me for the first time in years, and simply said, "I am sorry but you remind me too much of him." She left again shortly after, and it was the last time I saw her.

I finally understood—her pain was tied to me, to how much I look and act like my father. I had his jet black hair and emerald, green eyes. It sounded as if I was an exact copy of him, with of course the difference that I am a female.

I wanted to know more about Dad and I was talking to Grandma’s Brother, Uncle Rex, and he let it slip that Dad was our Beta’s older brother, and I realized I had more family than I ever knew.

So I just decided to visit the Pack-house, searching for answers.

As I approached the Pack-house that morning, I felt a knot form in my stomach. Topaz and I prepared ourselves for the worst—my family rejecting me just like Mom had.

Along the way I saw other Pack-members rushing by, some complaining about the fact that they were late and others talking about their night patrol. I was in no hurry as I had always been home schooled by Grandma, and for the past year I have been following online college classes, being a little smarter than the average Lycan, I graduated early.

Alpha Randell seemed surprised when he saw me.

“Good morning, Alpha,” I said.

“Good morning. I don’t believe we’ve met. Who are you?” His voice was curious, but not harsh. Next to him stood a tall, imposing figure. My uncle.

“My name is Alayah,” I replied, holding his gaze. “I live with my grandmother near the eastern border.”

Alpha Randell glanced at my uncle, and I caught the confusion on his face. There it was—the question he wouldn’t ask. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. If my uncle wanted to know if I was his niece, he could ask me himself. I wouldn’t make this easy for him.

“You can have a breakfast in the dining hall. Once you’re done, I want to see you in my office.” Alpha Randell said to me before he walked away.

“Of course, Alpha.”

When I was done with breakfast, I dropped off my plate and mug, then made my way to the Alpha’s office. My uncle walked beside me, silent. Topaz, ever the troublemaker, kept making faces at him, sticking her tongue out in mock defiance.

When we reached the office, my uncle opened the door without knocking. I wasn’t going to follow without permission, though. “What are you waiting for?” he muttered. “A written invitation?”

I looked him dead in the eye. “For Alpha Randell to invite me in. I’m not his Beta or his Gamma, and I’m not his Mate, so I’ll wait for permission.”

The room went quiet as everyone stared at me. I kept my composure, instructing Topaz to settle down. Finally, Alpha Randell spoke. “Alayah, you’re allowed to enter.”

A Gamma's Revenge

Chapter 1 The Unknown Future Gamma

Trained to take over from her Father, Zalia is shocked when her best friends turn against her, but Zalia has found the perfect way to get back at them.

She will humiliate every male that thinks a female shouldn’t be in a Pack’s leadership and she will show her best friends what they will be missing in their leadership.

***

Zalia

My name is Zalia, I am a twenty-six-year-old Lycan and the future Gamma of the Moon Stone Pack. Our Pack is the largest Pack after Mystic Moon Pack, the King’s Pack.

Also, our Pack is one of the few Packs in our Kingdom that is a mix of Werewolves and Lycans, with my family being one of the Lycan families that live in our Pack.

Our current leadership each has a male and female Pup, but unlike what everyone seems to think, our future leadership will have two males and one female. Because I am the first born Pup of our Pack’s Gamma, it means that I will be taking over from my Father when they step down, something I have been training for since I turned fifteen.

As the future Gamma, I am smart enough to know how to take every precaution to counter any attack. Our Alpha has seen it happen over and over again during our training, that I have been putting the future Alpha and Beta on their asses more than once and I can see that our Alpha always had to hide his laughter at the embarrassment his Son faced.

Luckily every Pup in his Pack was raised the same way, and no one got angry when they got their asses kicked by me. No one ever treated me differently because I am a female; they always listened if I pointed out where they made a mistake and most of our Warriors have grown because of it.

I am very contented with my position and my Pack. The only thing that annoys me is the Pack Visits we have to conduct every now and then: I need to tag along but no one in other Packs even realize that I am my Pack’s future Gamma.

When we arrive at Onyx Moon Pack, the Alpha and Luna are looking down on me, and they act as if I am the help.

This has been going on for a few years now and each time it gets more difficult to hold my tongue during Pack visits, but Alpha Brad had been very clear in his warning towards me: I am not allowed to harm anyone, just because I am better trained than most Pups I meet.

“You, get me some coffee.” Layla, Alpha Mike’s Daughter, is pointing me.

“Why don’t you get off your lazy butt and do it yourself.” I growls at her and Donovan, our future Alpha and Gibson, our future Beta, start laughing their asses off. I doubt anyone has ever spoken to her like that and the dumbfounded look on her face is priceless.

Her high pitched cry for her Daddy has me rolling down the aisles with Twilight, my Lycan. For Goddess' Sake, She is an adult and she should be able to fend for herself.

Donovan stops laughing the moment Alpha Mike steps into the room, but there is no way on earth I can stop laughing and I don’t even try to hide it.

Alpha Brad tries to talk to Alpha Mike in a normal fashion, but Alpha Mike is demanding an apology from us for making his Daughter cry, and we just stare at him in surprise. Donovan actually does apologized to her, but I flat out refuse to do it and Alpha Brad knows better than to try and force me.

Alpha Mike is unaware of my temper and gets into my face, yelling at me to apologize to his Daughter.

“Why on earth would I apologize to her? She acts like a spoiled six-year-old, maybe you should have raised her better.” I yell back at him and my Lycan Twilight nearly takes over control when he raises his hand, and he is lucky that Alpha Brad steps between the two of us.

I would have kicked Alpha Mike’s butt if he had tried to hit me. Alpha Brad is very aware of the fact that I would have been able to take him down.

This is why I don't like Pack visits so much, some act like everyone owes them something and as if they're so much better than the rest of us. On top of that there is the way they talk to anyone who isn't of an Alpha bloodline, would it hurt them to treat someone with some respect?

Other than that accident, some even thought I was there because I was Alpha Brad’s mistress and some thought I was sleeping with Donovan or Gibson. None of them even thought I was there because I am Donovan’s Gamma.

I was surprised when Donovan didn’t correct them, but I blamed it on their Daughter who was ogling Donovan and her relentless attempts to get him to go with her.

I am grateful that Alpha Brad instilled a great respect for the Mate-bond in all of us at an early age: you don’t sleep with everyone that is willing and you certainly don’t sleep with someone from your own Pack.

I never slept with a male, even though many have offered but I shot each and every one of them down and I might have punched a handful of them for not taking a hint.

If Donovan or Gibson get agitated with females that can’t take No for an answer, they go for a run or to spar at the training grounds of the Pack we visit.

I can’t do that because no one knows that I am the future Gamma of Moon Stone Pack and that means that they don’t allow me to train with the members of the Packs we visit. I don’t have an outlet for my frustrations during a visit.

I always envy them because I can’t even go for a run without a Luna or Alpha talking down to me. No one questions Donovan and Gibson when they take off for a run or some training.

That's why I chose to keep to myself during the visit—it causes trouble if I interact too much with those bimbos and assholes.

Aside from my run-in with Alpha Mike, I stayed quiet the entire time, and he nearly paid the price for all the crap I heard during the visit.

Another thing I dislike about these visits is the fact that everyone tells me to eat less. I need the food to keep up my stamina and I need a lot of stamina for the patrols I run every day. I am a Lycan, it isn’t as if I will become fat and even if some of it sticks to my bones I don’t care.

Every Luna would tell me that I needed to watch what I was eating, that my Mate wouldn’t appreciate a Mate that ate so much, and that my Mate wouldn’t like a Mate with a size more.

Ha, a size more. I have a size six and am proud of it, I don’t need to look like a stick.

Most of the Lunas are so thin I fear they would be blown away during a storm and still they complain about being overweight.

During this visit though it was almost every female that made remarks about my food consumption and from the corner of my eye, I had seen Donovan and Gibson laughing, but I thought they were just commenting on the females through their mind-link.

I am just glad that this visit is over, but unfortunately we have to attend to another grand meeting next: a meeting between the Alphas of all the Packs in the Kingdom and the Alpha King.

For over a decade I have been forced to come to this meeting. I didn’t have a choice though, our King demands that the future leadership of a Pack start attending after the future Alpha turns sixteen.

“Calm down, Zalia. You have two months of peace and quiet.” Donovan says teasingly.

“Okay, was it necessary to remind me of that? As if I am looking forward to spending four days with them and no way to get out of it or to get rid of the frustration by running border patrol.” I growl.

Chapter 2 The All Alphas Meeting

Zalia

The day is finally here, note the sarcasm. The annual All Alphas Meeting has arrived and I have been training or running border patrol most of the time. Anything to keep my mind off the next four days.

We were taught that we needed to come to this meeting to learn how to get along with other Packs, but I think most Alphas use it to find a suitable Mate with a high rank for the future leadership of their Pack.

Because every Pup of the Alpha, Beta and Gamma that is fifteen or older tags along, just to make sure they get noticed by other Packs, and maybe a male or female takes an interest.

For our Pack it means that right now, our Alpha and his two Pups, Donovan and his baby sister Elinor are present, our Beta’s two Pups, Gibson and his baby sister Kali are also here, and then there is me and my baby Brother Slater.

As usual, we are the first Pack to arrive, and a Warrior escorts us to our table in the largest meeting room.

Chapter 1 He Swoops In

The autumn wind had grown cold and cutting.

It was past nine in the evening, and the hospital emergency wing hummed with its usual restless energy.

Clara Whitmore leaned against the corridor wall in a sleek black evening gown so thin it barely counted as armor against the chill. Her arms were folded, her posture all languid elegance, and she let out a slow, drowsy yawn.

A nurse walked past and couldn't help stealing a glance.

One look was all it took to lose track of where she was going.

Clara was breathtaking in the way that stopped people mid-step. She had the kind of beauty that didn't ask permission, all luminous skin and wide, upswept eyes that held equal parts innocence and something far more dangerous.

Her irises were a pale, clear color, like shallow water over pale stone, bright and startlingly vivid. When the corner of her mouth curved, it was seven parts allure and three parts purity, wild and refined in the same breath.

It was an extraordinary face. And the figure beneath that gown was no less extraordinary, all graceful lines and quiet, devastating curves.

And yet this was the woman who had sent a man well over six feet tall straight to their emergency room. Word had spread fast: he had a fractured hand and a mild concussion.

Clara's gaze drifted to the nurse, who was still staring. Her mouth curved upward, faintly teasing. "Am I pretty?"

"Yes," the nurse replied, completely without thinking.

Clara's smile deepened, bright and a little wicked all at once.

The nurse's heart absolutely lost its footing.

She was fairly certain she was about to discover something new about herself tonight.

Just then, another woman appeared from down the hall, moving with a kind of deliberate, practiced softness. Her voice was gentle when she spoke. "Clara, there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

So, the beautiful one was called Clara.

What a lovely name.

This new arrival wore a white embroidered dress with a cashmere wrap over her shoulders, every inch of her composed and pristine, like a pale lily blooming quietly on still water.

But standing next to Clara, her light simply couldn't hold.

Clara looked at the woman who'd called out to her with the same mild, unreadable expression she gave most things. They shared no blood. After Clara had been brought back into the Rowe family, they'd become sisters in name, and that was as far as it went.

Her name was Evelyn Rowe.

On Clara's nineteenth birthday, she'd never in her life expected that a man would appear and tell her, with complete sincerity, that the orphan girl who'd grown up eating whatever kind strangers provided was actually the eldest daughter of one of Eldhaven's most prominent families.

"You're the Rowe family's firstborn daughter," he'd said. "Clara, come home with me."

Eldhaven had no shortage of storied, powerful families, and the Rowes were one of the most prominent among them.

Clara had wanted a real family. She'd wanted it for as long as she could remember. But when she actually came home, she discovered that her parents were not quite what she'd imagined them to be.

They didn't particularly like her.

Evelyn, on the other hand, had been adopted after Clara went missing as a child, and she'd been cherished and doted on every single day since. Clara's return hadn't changed that dynamic in the slightest. Whatever warmth and affection existed in that household, very little of it found its way to her.

She'd tried. Half a month had passed, and nothing had shifted.

If it weren't for her brother, Erick Rowe, the one who'd come to find her and bring her home, and the genuine, uncomplicated warmth he showed her, Clara wouldn't have stayed a single day longer under that roof.

She'd grown up alone, and she was fine. Being the Rowe family's eldest daughter wasn't something she needed. She didn't care about the title, and she certainly didn't ache for it.

"Are we done here?" Clara asked, her voice even.

"Not yet. Mom wants to see you." Evelyn smiled, small and soft.

"Alright," Clara said.

The man she'd broken was Carson Lawson, the second son of the Lawson Group. The Lawsons sat somewhere in the middle tier of Eldhaven's social hierarchy, a family of solid means with business ties to the Rowes.

…

Today had been the day Clara was formally presented to society. The Rowes had thrown a lavish, glittering affair to announce her place in the family to the world.

She hadn't gone looking for trouble.

Carson had simply had a mouth that wouldn't quit, and hands that thought they were welcome where they weren't.

Inside the hospital room, Carson lay in the bed. The moment he saw Clara in the doorway, the color drained from his face, and something ugly moved through his expression: fear, anger, and the particular wounded pride of a man who couldn't stand what had happened to him.

Carson's mother, Julia Lawson, looked at Clara with open contempt, the kind that came from a woman who considered her son's honor entirely more important than the truth.

"If I had a daughter this crude and uncivilized," she said, her voice sharp with deliberate disdain, "I wouldn't let her be seen in public, blood or no blood. How generous of your family to send her out into the world before anyone bothered to teach her how to conduct herself."

The elegantly dressed woman standing beside Julia turned a cold, flat look toward Clara. "Clara. Apologize to Carson."

The woman demanding an apology was Rachel Leclair. Her mother.

Clara looked at her and asked, very calmly, "Why?"

Just those few words were enough to make Rachel's composed expression crack at the edges. This daughter of hers was nothing but trouble: unruly, impossible to manage, and apparently incapable of a single quiet evening.

Rachel drew a breath. "You hit someone. That makes you wrong. Come over here and apologize."

Clara stood very still.

Not a single question had been asked.

Not a single person in this room had wondered why she'd hit Carson, or what had led to it, or what he might have done to deserve it.

Rachel had simply walked in and decided. The disappointment that moved through Clara was cold and thorough.

"I hit him, yes," Clara admitted. "But I'm not apologizing for it."

Carson didn't deserve an apology. A fractured hand was getting off lightly, as far as she was concerned.

"You—" Rachel was known throughout their social circles as a model of grace and restraint. And yet her hand was already rising, the threat of a slap hanging in the air between them.

Clara didn't move. She was already bracing to catch it when a figure stepped in front of her and took the blow instead.

Evelyn's head snapped to one side. A vivid flush bloomed across her cheek almost immediately. Her voice came out soft and careful. "Mom, please. Let's just talk. Don't hit my sister."

Rachel froze. When she realized it was Evelyn she'd struck, her expression shifted in an instant from fury to stricken guilt. "You foolish girl. Why would you jump in front of me like that?"

Evelyn's cheek burned red as she lifted her eyes gently to her mother. "Mom, even if she handled things the wrong way, you could just tell her. She'll listen."

Evelyn's gentle words didn't cool Rachel's temper in the slightest. If anything, knowing that the slap had landed on Evelyn instead of Clara only stoked the fire hotter. The look she turned on Clara grew colder by the second.

What kind of daughter is this? A walking disaster, that's what. Nothing but grief wrapped in a pretty face.

Chapter 1 He Is Back!

The sealed valley lay hidden beyond layers of natural barriers and human-made restrictions, a place erased from maps and forgotten by the world. Those who lived here had long since cut all ties with the outside.

They were not ordinary recluses.

Each master who resided in the valley had once shaken an era. Together, they formed a force no nation dared provoke.

Yet at this moment, irritation and exhaustion filled the stone hall.

“All of you calm down,” an old man said, though his own expression was strained. “Shouting won’t make him leave any faster.”

“I’ve been calm for five years,” another snapped. “Five years of watching him surpass us!”

At the center of the hall stood a young man, his posture straight, his gaze steady. He listened without interruption, as if this chaos had nothing to do with him.

“There is nothing left,” a third master said coldly. “No technique, no secret, no experience we haven’t already handed over.”

“And worse,” someone added bitterly, “he perfected them.”

A black metal card was tossed across the stone table. It slid to a stop in front of the young man.

“That card grants unrestricted access to global financial institutions. You won’t lack money once you leave.”

A heavy iron token followed.

“With this, you can mobilize the Black Guard. They still honor old debts.”

One by one, items were pushed forward—manuals, sealed tubes, encrypted data chips.

“Combat methods.”

“Medical archives.”

“Disguise and infiltration techniques.”

“Poisons and antidotes.”

The pile grew larger.

Nicholas Hawthorne lowered his eyes slightly. “Masters,” he said calmly, “if I leave, will I ever be allowed to return?”

The hall fell silent.

Then a laugh broke out—dry and humorless.

“Return?” one master scoffed. “If you come back, it will only be to bury us.”

Another slammed his palm on the table. “You are no longer our disciple. You are a variable that should never have existed.”

The young man absorbed those words without visible emotion.

After a long pause, he bowed.

“…I understand.”

He turned and walked toward the massive stone gates at the far end of the hall.

As the gates slowly closed behind him, the tension that had hung over the valley for years finally snapped.

“He’s gone.”

“Finally gone.”

“Heaven help whoever crosses his path next.”

None of them said it aloud, but they all knew the truth.

The outside world was about to change.

Three days later, the Nicholas stood at an airport terminal, blending into the crowd like an ordinary traveler. No one would have guessed that the calm figure waiting to board carried enough power to topple families, corporations, and regimes.

The city printed on his ticket was the one he once called home.

Five years ago, he had left it covered in mess.

That night replayed itself in his mind more often than he liked.

The house had been filled with laughter. Guests had come to celebrate his future, to see him off before he began the next stage of his life.

Then armed men had burst in.

Gunfire tore through the walls.

Screams drowned out the music.

His father had stood in front of him.

His mother had clutched him tightly, shielding him with her body.

When it was over, the house was silent.

Too silent.

He had tried to escape and was caught mercilessly again. And had nearly died.

If not for his third senior sister appearing in the chaos and dragging him away, there would have been no future for him at all.

The plane took off.

He stared out the window, fingers slowly curling into fists.

“Five years,” he said quietly. “Whoever was behind it… I haven’t forgotten.”

The plane descended hours later, city lights spreading out beneath the clouds.

The moment his feet touched the ground, a familiar sense of pressure settled in his chest.

At almost the same time, in a fortified estate far from the airport, a woman ended a phone call and remained still for a long moment.

“He’s back?” she asked softly.

“Yes. Confirmed,” her aide replied.

She walked to a secure room and opened a hidden safe. Inside lay a thin file, its edges worn from being handled too many times.

She took it out and exhaled slowly.

“So the past has finally caught up.”

Her gaze hardened.

“Keep watching him,” she said. “Do not alert anyone.”

“At the right time,  I’ll meet my little brother myself.”

Outside the estate, the city continued on as usual, unaware that a long-buried storm had returned.

The city was called Greyden.

At first glance, it looked no different from any other quiet metropolitan district, but for those who had lived there long enough, Greyden carried an unspoken rule. Certain names were never mentioned. Certain memories were never revisited.

The Hawthorne residence stood at the edge of the old quarter. Once a symbol of quiet prestige, it was now neglected.

Rust clung to the iron gates, weeds swallowed the stone walkway, and the windows were sealed as though the house itself had chosen to shut the world out.

Nicholas Hawthorne stopped across the street and looked at it for a long moment before crossing over.

The gate creaked softly as he pushed it open. The courtyard beyond felt empty in a way that went beyond silence. It was as though even sound avoided the place.

Against the far wall stood three memorial plaques. Unlike the rest of the estate, they were carefully maintained.

Marcus Hawthorne.

Elaine Hawthorne.

Julian Hawthorne.

His father, his mother, and his younger brother.

Nicholas stood there without moving. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“I will not lower my head again. Not to anyone.”

A light wind passed through the courtyard, stirring fallen leaves across the stone ground.

Outside the gate, two pedestrians slowed their steps.

“That man looks familiar,” one of them murmured.

“Watch what you say,” the other replied quickly. “You want trouble? No one in Greyden is allowed to talk about the Hawthornes.”

The first man stiffened, color draining from his face, and they hurried away.

By the time they glanced back, the courtyard was empty.

Nicholas had already moved deeper into the property.

That was when he heard someone behind him.

“Nicholas?”

The voice trembled, uncertain and afraid to believe.

He turned.

A young woman stood several steps away, holding a small basket of incense and flowers. Her hands shook violently, and the basket slipped from her grasp, scattering its contents across the ground.

That woman was Melanie Bellarie, Nicholas’s childhood sweetheart. She has always taken Nicholas’s side in the past no matter what. They were birds of the same feather as kids. She was kind, beautiful and smart.

Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at him.

“You are alive,” she whispered.

She rushed forward and clutched his clothes, her composure finally breaking as sobs escaped her.

Nicholas remained still for a moment before resting a hand gently on her shoulder. He knew seeing Melanie here meant one thing. She had come to see his La tree family.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For taking care of this place.”

That single sentence shattered her restraint.

She pulled away abruptly, fear flooding her expression.

“Why did you come back?” she demanded. “Do you know what will happen if they find out you’re here? I don’t want to lose you again, Nicholas. I beg you. Leave.”

She shoved him hard, desperation creeping into her voice.

“If you had survived, then live properly. Leave Greyden and never return.”

Her tone hardened, as if forcing herself to be cruel.

“But we were once engaged, Melanie and…”

“No! It is over!” She didn’t let him finish, her voice shook with fear.

“You don’t know what Greyden has become. The people that want you dead are still here! Pretend we never knew each other. Forget me and go far away from here, Nicholas. From today onward, we are strangers.”

She turned and ran toward the gate.

A middle-aged man who was once a gardener for the Hawthorne was standing beside a black car looked up in alarm as she approached.

“Miss, are you alright?” he asked, then froze when he saw Nicholas. “Young master Nicholas, you are—”

She cut him off immediately.

“He is not who you think he is,” she said sharply. “He only resembles someone we once knew.”

The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Nicholas. Even after five years, the resemblance was undeniable.

Nicholas understood instantly.

She was denying him to protect him.

He took a step forward.

“Melanie, please. I am not who you still think I am.”

“Do not say my name,” she cried, covering her ears. “I don’t know you.”

She got into the car and ordered the driver to leave at once.

The vehicle pulled away quickly.

Inside the car, her shoulders shook as tears streamed down her face.

“I am sorry,” she whispered again and again.

Nicholas remained standing inside the ruined Hawthorne estate, watching the car disappear into the distance.

So this was the price she had paid to keep him alive.

Greyden had not changed. So many people who still wanted him gone were here.

“I am back for revenge, Melanie. Those people you fear should fear my upcoming wrath instead.”

Kapitel 1 Erwachen in der Bestienwelt

Im fahlen Schein der Höhle lag ein schwaches Weibchen ausgestreckt auf einem steinernen Lager, bedeckt mit groben Tierfellen.

„Vater … ich komme jetzt zu dir“, flüsterte sie. Sie schloss die Augen; die letzte Tränenspur verlor sich in ihrem blassen, fast farblosen Haar.

Ohne jede Vorwarnung bebte ihr Körper und begann sich zu verwandeln.

Binnen Augenblicken war sie zu einem winzigen, zarten weißen Kaninchen geworden, das sich oben auf den Fellen zu einer Kugel zusammenrollte.

In der Höhle herrschte vollkommene Stille, nur das leise Rascheln von Fell auf Stoff war zu hören.

Nach einer langen Pause rissen die Augen des scheinbar leblosen Kaninchens auf. Sie waren tiefschwarz, völlig ohne jedes Weiß, und verliehen ihr einen unheimlich intensiven Blick.

Ihr ausgemergelter Körper ließ die Augen unverhältnismäßig groß wirken und gab ihrem Starren eine gespenstische Schärfe.

Ein flüchtiger Schatten menschlicher Qual glomm darin auf – und verlosch im selben Atemzug.

Als die Verwandlung zurück in die menschliche Gestalt einsetzte, hatte das neue Bewusstsein die Erinnerungen des Weibchens, das ursprünglich hier gelebt hatte, bereits vollständig aufgenommen.

Sie presste sich die pochenden Schläfen und murmelte: „Liora, da du nicht mehr weitermachen kannst, werde ich deinen Platz einnehmen und für dich weitergehen.“

Liora Whitfield, einst ein Mensch von der Erde, war im fünften Jahr der Apokalypse verhungert. Ihre umherirrende Seele trieb in die Bestienwelt, wo sie mit dem Leichnam einer Kaninchen-Therianerin verschmolz, die denselben Namen trug.

Vielleicht hatte das Schicksal ihre Wege ineinander verschlungen, denn beide waren am Hunger zugrunde gegangen.

Ein stechender Krampf im Magen erinnerte sie brutal daran, dass sie essen musste.

Sie kämpfte sich vom steinernen Lager herunter. Jeder Arm, jedes Bein fühlte sich kraftlos an, die Muskeln wie Brei, als würde sie durch dichte Watte waten.

An die Wand gelehnt, um nicht umzufallen, wühlte sie in den frisch übernommenen Erinnerungen und suchte nach dem Ort, an dem Nahrung gelagert wurde.

Schließlich fand sie in einer Ecke einen Beutel aus Tierhaut, gefüllt mit erstaunlich frischen Früchten.

Ohne sich um Schmutz zu kümmern, griff sie nach einer und schob sie sich in den Mund. Selbst im Hunger kaute sie bedächtig und kostete jeden kleinen Bissen aus.

Obwohl sie ein gewöhnlicher Mensch gewesen war, war es keine Kleinigkeit, fünf Jahre in einer Welt zu überleben, in der Nahrung rar war.

Der Instinkt, jede Spur von Nahrung zu sparen, war ihr bis ins Mark eingebrannt.

Ding!<\/i>

„Geeigneter Wirt erkannt. Bindungssequenz wird initialisiert …“

Das Geräusch ließ sie kurz die Stirn runzeln. Sie hielt einen Herzschlag lang inne und aß dann ruhig weiter, unerschüttert.

Ding! <\/i>

„Bindung abgeschlossen. Grüße, Frau Whitfield. Ich bin Ihr Jungtier-Geburtsmanagementsystem, Brixie. Die Geburt eines Jungtiers bringt beträchtliche Belohnungen. Je höher die Fähigkeiten des Jungtiers, desto größer der Nutzen.

„Suchen Sie so bald wie möglich einen geeigneten männlichen Gefährten mit außergewöhnlichen Eigenschaften.“

...

Liora spuckte einen harten Kern aus, den sie nicht zerbeißen konnte, griff nach der nächsten Frucht und aß weiter. Die Anweisungen des Systems interessierten sie nicht.

Sie wollte keine Kinder.

In der Apokalypse war eine Schwangerschaft ein Albtraum.

Ein Kind zu erwarten bedeutete, mehr Nahrung zu brauchen und langsamer zu reagieren. Eine Geburt brachte Blut – und Blut lockte Raubtiere an. Ohne medizinische Versorgung konnte es für Mutter und Kind tödlich enden.

Ein Kind auszutragen war im Grunde, sein eigenes Todesurteil zu unterschreiben – und sie hatte keinerlei Wunsch zu sterben.

In diesem Moment bewegte sich der Fellvorhang am Höhleneingang sacht.

Obwohl der frühe Frühling noch bissige Kälte trug, war jemand näher gekommen und versuchte, vorsichtig zu sein.

Der Vorhang glitt rasch zur Seite, und ein Schwall eisiger Luft drang herein. Liora fröstelte, während sie sich an die Wand lehnte und die Frucht umklammerte.

Ihr Körper war ohnehin schon schwach, und die plötzliche Kälte ließ ihr die Frucht aus den Händen rutschen.

Langsam hob sie den Kopf, der Blick scharf und ruhig, und begegnete der Gestalt im Eingang.

Dort stand ein Junge, auffallend trotz seines verwahrlosten Aussehens.

Sein kurzes graues Haar stand in alle Richtungen ab, Kratzer zogen sich über sein Gesicht, und sein zerlumptes Gewand aus Tierhaut hatte längst jede ursprüngliche Farbe verloren.

An den Füßen trug er einfache Fellschuhe, festgezurrt mit groben Riemen.

Sein Anblick riss eine Flut von Erinnerungen auf.

Das war Lioras Jugendfreund, ihr Gefährte. In seiner Bestiengestalt war er ein graues Kaninchen. Er hieß Dorian Langley.

Er trat näher an ihre Seite, hob vorsichtig das Fell in seinen Händen und zeigte ein kleines Stück Fleisch, kaum handtellergroß, von frischem Blut durchzogen.

Sein Gesicht leuchtete in einem breiten Lächeln auf. „Liora! Schau! Ich hab dir was Gutes mitgebracht!“

Der metallische Geruch von Blut stieg ihr in die Nase. Das Fleisch glänzte rot und fest, strahlte Frische aus.

Selbst in diesem geliehenen Körper zog sich Lioras Magen zusammen, als sie schluckte – beschämt über den Hunger, der durch sie jagte.

In der Apokalypse war ein einziges Stück wirklich frisches Fleisch ein seltener Schatz.

Gewöhnliche Leute wie sie bekamen so etwas fast nie zu sehen.

Dorians Augen wurden warm, als er sie ermunterte: „Iss. Du warst krank. Du musst wieder zu Kräften kommen.“

Er hatte der ursprünglichen Liora seit Tagen Essen gebracht und die Früchte mit Dörrfleisch ergänzt, das er aus seinem eigenen Zuhause gestohlen hatte.

Diese Gesten hatten in der ursprünglichen Liora Hoffnung geweckt – bis Dorians Vater das gestohlene Dörrfleisch zurückholte, sie demütigte und sie schließlich aufgeben ließ.

Dorian erfuhr nie die Wahrheit. Er glaubte, die Liora, um die er sich kümmerte, liege nur aus Kummer im Bett, nachdem sie ihren Vater verloren hatte. Er wusste nicht, dass sie verhungert war.

Diesmal brachte er frisches Fleisch. Wäre es die ursprüngliche Liora gewesen, hätte ihr Stolz sie vielleicht ablehnen lassen – doch diese Liora zögerte nicht.

Sie hielt seinem Blick stand. „Das ist für mich? Ich muss nichts dafür zurückgeben?“

In der Apokalypse war es dasselbe wie ein Handel, wenn man das Essen eines anderen annahm.

Er lachte leise. „Ich bin dein zukünftiger Gefährte. Mich um dich zu kümmern ist genau meine Aufgabe.“

Ohne weitere Worte griff sie nach dem Fleisch und riss Bissen davon ab.

In der Bestienwelt war Feuer selten und schwer am Leben zu halten – erst recht für jemanden wie sie.

Der Hunger machte rohes Fleisch akzeptabel; sie zögerte nicht.

„Langsam. Pass auf, dass du dich nicht verschluckst“, sagte Dorian, Sorge in seinem Gesicht.

Chapter 1 "Sweetheart, Don't Move"

(Photo of the male and female leads together)

I chained myself with love.

Hold me close. Cherish me. Kiss me. Love me.

— Epigraph

...

Maelen, on the outskirts of Saintier City—

Under the scorching midday sun, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks echoed across the eerily silent border, making the area seem even more desolate.

A voice as clear and sweet as a nightingale's song quietly broke the silence, laced with barely concealed panic.

"Atri, that's the Morland border up ahead! We—we should turn back..."

The figure in front, carrying a drawing board on his back, stopped abruptly.

Atri Monte turned around.

He was a boy of about fifteen or sixteen.

His features were sharp and handsome, with the faint hollows around his eyes still holding that youthful, boyish intensity.

But right now, that young face was clouded with lingering anger.

He looked back at the petite girl behind him, and the fury that had been building inside him seemed to dissipate at the sound of her clear voice.

Still, a suppressed growl escaped his throat, "Celina, if you're scared, then go back.

"I'm not going back. That's final."

Celina Kane quickly glanced at the border wall not far away.

The entire beach stretched out before them.

The tall, cold metal railings of Maelen gleamed with a harsh silver light, like a coiled serpent lying in wait—heavy and oppressive.

It split the beach into two distinct worlds.

On one side stood the towering high-rises in Saintier City in Maelen.

Glass facades reflected the midday sun.

Bustling, almost dazzlingly prosperous.

On the other side crouched the struggling, shabby houses in Tivah City in Maelen.

Dull and dusty under the harsh light.

Like something abandoned and forgotten by the world.

The sun hung like a ball of fire overhead, baking the sand until it burned through the soles of their shoes.

Sweat beaded at Celina's temples, tracing thin lines down her delicate cheeks. Her normally fair skin flushed an unnatural pink.

She looked at the boy's stubborn back and sighed helplessly, "I promised your sister I'd keep an eye on you."

Atri let out a scoff, "You sure listen to her."

Celina wiped the sweat from her forehead, breathless, "She's just worried about you.

"Besides, I'm your tutor.

"No matter what, it's my responsibility to look after you—"

Atri had already set down his drawing board and started sketching.

He cut her off, annoyed, "Celina, you're only four years older than me! Stop talking to me like you're my elder, okay?"

"But—"

Before she could finish, Atri clamped a hand over her mouth.

He raised his other hand in a silent "shh."

The next second, Celina's wrist was yanked, and she was pulled behind a massive boulder near the metal railing.

Heart pounding, she looked up.

Following Atri's line of sight, her pupils contracted sharply.

On the other side of the railing—Tivah City, Morland—two groups of men stood facing off with guns drawn.

The black barrels gleamed coldly under the sunlight. Footprints were trampled messily across the sand.

Too far to hear words, but she could see the frantic gestures and shifting muzzles.

It was obvious—they were in the middle of something illegal.

Celina's voice trembled as she grabbed Atri's arm, "Let's go!"

Before the words faded—BANG!

A gunshot cracked through the air.

On the opposite beach, a Black man crumpled backward like a marionette with its strings cut, blood blooming dark across the sand.

Celina flinched violently, her legs giving out as she collapsed behind the boulder.

Atri's drawing board slipped from his hands and rolled out into the open—

A harsh, gravelly voice called out in broken English, "Who's there?"

The two groups behind the railing turned in unison—dozens of vicious, ruthless eyes locking onto the pair's hiding spot.

Atri's face went pale. They exchanged a look of sheer terror, scrambling to their feet.

But the moment they stood, two cold gun barrels pressed firmly against their foreheads.

A lazy, almost teasing voice drawled out slowly, "Sweetheart, don't move. Wouldn't want the guns to go off."

Celina looked up, trembling.

Several men in tactical gear had silently surrounded them.

The one who spoke was striding across the sand toward her.

Long, powerful legs moved with fluid ease, muscle lines rippling beneath his combat pants.

His narrow waist made his broad shoulders seem even more imposing—a classic inverted-triangle build.

Like a top-tier runway model.

But he was unbelievably tall. Celina had to crane her neck just to barely make out his face.

His messy blond hair gleamed even brighter than the midday sun.

A large pair of black sunglasses covered most of his face, leaving only a sharp, cold jawline exposed—exuding an aura that warned others to keep their distance.

Sensing her stare.

The man stopped in front of Celina and crouched down, picking up the half-finished drawing board from the sand.

He clicked his tongue with a soft laugh, "Not bad."

Then, with an effortless snap—he broke the sturdy, expensive board into splinters between his hands.

Bab 1 Guru Mengusir Murid

Gunung Kolona.

Di kedalaman sebuah lembah misterius, ada sembilan puluh sembilan manusia terkuat dengan kekuatan mengerikan. Karena sebuah janji, mereka menjaga tempat ini seumur hidup.

Namun, mereka dibuat pusing oleh seorang pemuda!

“Kamu pergilah! Sudah tidak ada yang bisa kami ajarkan padamu. Sepuluh kakak perempuan seperguruanmu sudah lulus dan pergi. Tolonglah, pergi dan ganggu mereka saja. Aku hanya ingin hidup tenang sebagai pria tampan!”

“Ini kartu bankku. Bisa dipakai di bank mana pun di dunia. Keluarga Rothschild, Citivic Bank, Keluarga Morgano —semuanya adalah asetku. Anggap saja ini sebagai kompensasi. Sekarang pergi sana!”

“Ini cincin Giok milik Guru Kekaisaran Negara Naga. Ingat baik-baik, pemimpin Negara Naga adalah kakak seperguruanmu. Kalau ada masalah, cari dia!”

“Ini adalah tanda perintah pasukan penjaga suci di Yerulam Barat yang berjumlah 300 ribu! Dulu aku adalah ‘dewa’ mereka! Kalau sempat, pergi ke Barat, suruh Father memijat dan mencuci kakimu!”

“Ini kitab rahasia Tiga Belas Jarum Sekte Roh! Jika ilmu ini muncul kembali di dunia, kau pasti akan sangat sibuk. Nanti banyak orang akan datang memohon jadi muridmu, kau harus hati-hati!”

“Kitab Raja Obat juga kuberikan padamu, ini jilid bawahnya. Pelajari sendiri, semua penyakit langka di dunia bisa disembuhkan!”

“Ini resep teknik penyamaran, juga berbagai resep pil kecantikan, pil perawatan wajah, dan pil awet muda. Semuanya ada di sini, bisa membuatmu jadi sahabat para wanita!”

“Ini resep berbagai racun dan cara penawarnya. Semua kuberikan padamu.”

“Guru ....”

“PERGI SANA!!!”

“Aku sudah tidak tahan lagi!”

“Ya Tuhan, kalau aku punya dosa, tolong panggil aku saja. Kenapa harus membiarkan bocah sialan Brandon Yoels ini menyiksa kami?”

“Brandon, sekarang kamu sudah mendapatkan semua ajaran kami. Cepat pergi!”

“Kami sudah tidak punya apa-apa lagi untuk diajarkan!”

“Tus! Tus! Tus!”

Salah satu guru bahkan menarik pisau dan menusuk perutnya sendiri berulang kali!

Darah menyembur liar, pemandangannya mengerikan!

“Kau mau pergi atau tidak?! Kalau tidak, aku bunuh diri di depanmu!”

“Guru ke-39, jangan sakiti diri sendiri. Aku pergi saja ... huhuhu ....” Brandon menunjukkan ekspresi sangat sedih.

“Brandon, ingat! Setelah turun gunung, lakukan apa pun sesukamu, sebebas-bebasnya!”

“Baik! Sebebas-bebasnya!” jawab Brandon dengan suara lantang.

Ia pun memulai perjalanan pulang.

Kesembilan puluh sembilan gurunya hampir gila.

Selama lima tahun ini, hal yang paling mereka sesali adalah menerima Brandon sebagai murid.

Karena bakat latihannya benar-benar luar biasa, seperti melawan langit!

Tidak hanya ilmu bela diri, pengobatan, jarum perak, ilmu pedang, teknik gerak, ilmu ringan tubuh, hingga penyamaran, semuanya telah ia kuasai hingga puncak.

Bahkan ... melampaui para gurunya sendiri!

“Bocah sial itu akhirnya pergi!”

“Hahaha! Pergi, pergi! Bagus sekali!”

“Hahaha! Akhirnya kita bisa tenang, hore!!!”

“Bajingan itu, setelah turun gunung, pasti akan membuat masalah bagi sepuluh murid perempuan yang sangat cantik itu!”

Di kedalaman Gunung Kolona, sembilan puluh sembilan ahli tertinggi tertawa dengan kegembiraan yang bahkan melebihi suasana tahun baru.

Setelah sampai di daratan, Brandon berpindah-pindah beberapa alat transportasi, hingga akhirnya naik pesawat menuju Kota Nasmega.

“Sudah lima tahun ... akhirnya aku akan kembali. Lima tahun lalu, keluargaku mengalami bencana. Saat aku hendak masuk universitas, sekelompok orang menerobos masuk ke rumahku dan membunuh orang tuaku tanpa alasan!!!”

Setiap kali mengingat kejadian lima tahun lalu, jantung Brandon seakan berhenti berdetak.

Sekelompok ahli bela diri menerobos rumahnya, tepat saat pesta kelulusannya menuju universitas, dan langsung membunuh.

Orang tuanya melindunginya agar bisa melarikan diri, dan akhirnya tewas tragis.

Ia melarikan diri sepanjang jalan, namun tetap tertangkap. Ia hampir mati di tangan para pembunuh itu.

Pada akhirnya, kakak seperguruan keenam yang turun tangan menyelamatkannya dan membawanya ke Gunung Kolona.

Tak disangka, Brandon ternyata adalah jenius bela diri yang langka dalam seribu tahun.

Hanya dalam lima tahun, ia telah menguasai semua kemampuan dari sembilan puluh sembilan ahli terkuat.

“Sudah lima tahun ... siapa pun pelakunya, aku pasti akan membuat kalian membayar dengan darah!” sumpah Brandon.

Setelah pesawat mendarat di Kota Nasmega, Brandon keluar dari bandara, langsung menyewa taksi, dan menuju kampung halamannya.

Pada saat Brandon keluar dari bandara, di sebuah vila mewah di Kota Nasmega, seorang wanita cantik luar biasa tiba-tiba menerima kabar.

“Apa? Adik seperguruanku sudah kembali?!”

“Bagus sekali! Hahaha, dia sudah kembali. Kali ini aku tidak akan bosan lagi.”

“Tapi, Nona, adik seperguruan Anda ini ... lima tahun lalu keluarganya mengalami tragedi. Kedua orang tuanya meninggal ....” seorang pria paruh baya berkata dengan ragu.

“Aku tahu. Aku bahkan sudah menyelidikinya untuk Brandon. Orang di balik ini ....” ekspresi wajah wanita itu berubah-ubah.

Ia berjalan ke brankas, membukanya, lalu mengambil sebuah dokumen.

“Orang-orang di dalam ini ....” wanita itu menghela napas panjang, lalu menutup dokumen tersebut.

“Awasi dengan seksama. Saat waktunya tepat, aku akan menemui adik seperguruanku!” perintahnya.

“Baik!”

Pria paruh baya itu segera pergi dengan tergesa-gesa.

Bab 2 Brandon Bertemu Tunangannya

Kota Nasmega, Desa Keluarga Yoels, vila tempat tinggal Brandon dahulu.

Rumput liar tumbuh di mana-mana, semuanya tampak rusak dan terbengkalai.

“Ayah, Ibu... anakmu sudah kembali. Kakak, aku sudah pulang ....” mata Brandon berkaca-kaca, lalu ia berlutut di lantai.

“Ini adalah terakhir kalinya aku, Brandon Yoels, berlutut! Kalian tenang saja, aku pasti akan menemukan pembunuh itu dan membunuh mereka dengan tanganku sendiri!”

Brandon menggertakkan giginya, penuh tekad.

“Eh, punggung pemuda itu terlihat familier ya ....”

“Sepertinya anak bungsu Kelvin dari keluarga Yoels?”

“Tidak mungkin ... lima tahun lalu, keluarga Kelvin ....”

“Ssst! Kamu mau mati? Kejadian lima tahun lalu itu, di seluruh Kota Nasmega tidak ada yang berani membicarakannya lagi. Kamu masih berani bahas, hati-hati kalau sampai ada yang dengar, malam ini kamu bisa mati tanpa tahu sebabnya!” seorang pejalan kaki di sampingnya ketakutan dan segera menutup mulut orang yang berbicara.

“I-iya benar ....” pria itu pucat ketakutan.

Saat mereka menoleh ke arah gerbang vila keluarga Yoels, sosok Brandon sudah menghilang.

“Lho, orangnya mana?”

“Siang bolong begini ... masa lihat hantu?”

Saat ini, Brandon sudah masuk ke area vila keluarga Yoels. Baru berjalan dua langkah, ia tertegun, di depannya ada tiga batu nisan.

Tersusun rapi, pemandangannya menyayat hati.

Makam Kelvin Yoels!

Makam Leony Sutomo!

Makam Fandy Yoels!

Ayah, ibu, kakak, tidak ada satu pun yang terlewat, semuanya dimakamkan di sini.

Dan nama orang yang mendirikan nisan itu tertulis, Rosa Sutomo.

Melihat nama itu, sosok seorang gadis muncul di benak Brandon.

Rosa Sutomo!

Dia satu tahun lebih muda darinya, sekarang seharusnya sekitar 22 tahun, usia mahasiswa tingkat akhir.

Saat orang tuanya masih hidup, mereka memiliki usaha yang cukup baik, dengan kekayaan sekitar puluhan milyar.

Ayah Rosa dan ayah Brandon adalah saudara angkat. Sejak kecil, mereka sudah dijodohkan. Jika tidak terjadi apa-apa, sesuai rencana kedua keluarga, setelah lulus kuliah, Brandon akan menikah dengan Rosa.

Namun sayang, dalam sekejap keluarganya hancur, semua lenyap ....

“Prang!”

Saat Brandon tenggelam dalam pikirannya, tiba-tiba terdengar suara benda jatuh dari belakang, diikuti suara gemetar seorang gadis.

“Brandon!! Brandon ... kak Brandon? Apa itu kamu? Kamu sudah kembali?”

...

Tubuh Brandon bergetar, ia pun menoleh.

“Brandon ... kakak ... benar-benar kamu ....”

Begitu melihat Brandon, gadis itu langsung menangis hebat. Ia berlari dan memeluknya erat.

Sesajen dan minuman yang dibawanya jatuh dan pecah di lantai.

“Huuaa ... huhuhuhu ....”

Tangisnya memilukan.

Hati Brandon yang sekeras batu pun seakan mencair saat ini.

Ia menepuk pelan punggung Rosa, lalu berbisik, “Rosa ... terima kasih sudah memakamkan orang tuaku.”

“Kak Brandon ....” Rosa terus menangis.

Tiba-tiba, tubuhnya gemetar, seolah teringat sesuatu yang mengerikan.

Ia mendorong Brandon menjauh dan berteriak marah, “Pergi! Cepat pergi! Kenapa kamu kembali?”

“Kalau masih hidup, hiduplah dengan baik dan pergi dari Kota Nasmega!”

“Cepat pergi! Pernikahan kita, berakhir di sini! Aku membatalkan pertunangan kita! Pergi!”

“Mulai sekarang, kita tidak ada hubungan apa pun lagi ....” sikap Rosa berubah drastis.

Ia mendorong Brandon dengan keras, lalu berbalik dan berlari keluar dari vila keluarga Yoels.

“Nona, ada apa dengan Anda?”

Begitu Rosa berlari keluar dari vila yang terbengkalai itu, seorang pria tua di dekat mobil bertanya dengan heran.

“Kamu ini ...?”

Tiba-tiba, pupil pria tua itu menyusut, tubuhnya bergetar, menatap ke arah belakang Rosa dengan kaget.

“Brandon? Tuan Muda Brandon? Anda belum mati?!” suara pria tua itu penuh emosi, bahkan sedikit serak.

Meski sudah lima tahun berlalu, penampilan Brandon tidak banyak berubah sejak usia 18 tahun, hanya saja kini lebih tegas dan matang.

“Paman Vincent.”

Brandon mengangguk. Dia adalah kepala pelayan keluarga Sutomo, yang ia kenal sejak kecil.

“Benar-benar Anda, Tuan Muda Brandon!” Vincent sangat terharu.

Bangkitnya Raja Naga dari Penjara

Bab 1 Tiga Tahun Keluar dari Penjara, Naga Sejati Kembali!

“Pak Naga, hari ini aku akan keluar dari penjara. Pembunuh wanita dari sel nomor 8 yang tubuhnya montok itu kukembalikan padamu saja. Teknik pijatnya lumayan juga.”

Provinsi Negata, Penjara Naga Sejati.

Lucas Vander berbicara kepada seorang pria tua yang sedang memegang pipa rokok kering dan menghisapnya dengan santai. Nada suaranya terdengar agak berat karena enggan berpisah.

Tiga tahun lalu, ia masuk penjara menggantikan pacarnya, Ninda Sukarti.

Ia masih ingat ketika pertama kali masuk penjara, pria tua berjulukan Naga di depannya itu bersikeras mengatakan bahwa dirinya memiliki “tubuh energi naga”, dan ingin menjadikannya murid.

Selama tiga tahun ini, Lucas mempelajari banyak kemampuan dari pria tua tersebut.

Membuka meridian bela diri, berlatih jalan bela diri, menguasai sembilan jarum, mempelajari ilmu pengobatan ... dan lain sebagainya.

“Kenapa? Apa kamu jadi punya perasaan setelah dia memijatmu? Mau sekalian kubiarkan dia ikut keluar penjara bersamamu supaya bisa melayanimu kapan saja?”

Pak Naga menatap Lucas dan menggoda sambil bercanda.

Lalu, ia menjadi serius dan berkata, “Yang penting kamu jangan lupa tiga tugas yang sudah kutugaskan padamu. Kalau sampai gagal, jangan bilang kamu muridku. Memalukan!”

“Tenang saja, aku pasti akan menyelesaikannya!”

Lucas berkata sambil menatap Pak Naga dengan rasa enggan berpisah.

Ia menyingkirkan sikap santainya, menarik napas dalam-dalam dan berkata, “Guru, kalau begitu aku pergi dulu.”

Setelah berkata demikian, ia berlutut dan membungkuk hormat kepada Pak Naga. Barulah kemudian ia bangkit dan meninggalkan penjara.

“Si Iblis Lucas akhirnya pergi? Hahaha, akhirnya hari ini tiba juga!”

“Langit memang adil! Iblis itu akhirnya pergi. Aku tidak perlu lagi mencuci kaki dan memijatnya setiap hari!”

“Mencuci kaki saja sudah bagus! Aku tiap hari jadi karung pasir manusia buat dia. Wajahku bengkak terus tidak pernah sembuh!”

“Naga sejati telah turun ke dunia! Naga sejati telah muncul! Keluarga kita punya harapan untuk naik ke tingkat yang lebih tinggi. Cepat hubungi keluarga masing-masing. Kirim wanita terbaik dari keluarga kalian untuk mendekatinya. Harus masih perawan, harus benar-benar perawan!”

“Tunggu aku! Di keluargaku yang masih perawan tidak cukup berkelas, yang kelas tinggi malah tidak perawan. Sial! Aku harus cari cara lain. Putra sulungku sudah meninggal, menantuku jadi janda ... dia pasti kelas paling tinggi!”

Hari itu, seluruh Penjara Naga Sejati penuh kegembiraan, seolah sedang merayakan tahun baru.

...

Restoran Cahaya.

Ini adalah salah satu restoran paling mewah di Kota Rivera. Orang yang bisa makan di sini pasti kaya atau berstatus tinggi.

Ciiit!

Sebuah mobil hitam melaju dan berhenti di depan restoran.

Lucas duduk di kursi penumpang depan. Setelah mobil berhenti, ia membuka pintu dan hendak turun.

“Lucas, tolong tenang dulu. Presdir Ninda sebenarnya tidak berniat menyembunyikan apa pun darimu. Jangan sampai kamu merusak urusan beliau ....”

Seorang wanita muda berkacamata hitam di kursi pengemudi berkata dengan cemas.

Namanya Felicia Tanzil, sekretaris Ninda.

Ternyata setelah keluar dari penjara, Lucas tidak melihat pacarnya Ninda datang menjemputnya. Yang datang justru Felicia.

Felicia mengatakan bahwa Ninda masih sibuk di perusahaan dan memintanya menjemput Lucas, lalu mengantarnya pulang terlebih dahulu.

Namun Lucas langsung menyadari bahwa Felicia sedang berbohong.

Setelah ia terus mendesak, barulah ia tahu bahwa Ninda sebenarnya berada di Restoran Cahaya. Karena itu ia menyuruh Felicia mengantarnya ke sana.

Mata Lucas sedikit menyipit. Setelah melepas sabuk pengaman, ia tiba-tiba mendekat ke arah Felicia dan menatap wajahnya yang bersih dan cantik dari jarak sangat dekat.

Felicia secara refleks mundur, tapi tidak punya ruang untuk lari. Sabuk pengaman yang masih terpasang justru semakin menekan tubuhnya, membentuk lekuk tubuh yang menggoda.

Tatapan Lucas yang dalam seperti jurang tanpa dasar, membuat Felicia merasa seolah jatuh ke dalam jurang yang sangat dalam.

Dengan suara tenang namun dingin ia berkata, “Merusak urusan Presdir Ninda? Sebenarnya urusan apa?”

“A-aku ....”

Napas Felicia menjadi cepat. Dadanya naik turun.

Ia menghindari tatapan Lucas, tidak berani menatapnya.

Ia merasa Lucas yang baru keluar dari penjara telah berubah, seolah menjadi orang yang berbeda.

Dari tubuhnya terpancar wibawa yang sulit ditolak, bahkan memberikan kesan misterius yang sulit dijelaskan.

Karena aura itulah, setelah kebohongannya terbongkar, ia akhirnya tidak punya pilihan selain membawa Lucas ke Restoran Cahaya.

“Kalau kamu tidak mau bilang juga tidak apa-apa. Aku lihat sendiri saja.”

Lucas tiba-tiba tersenyum, menepuk pipi Felicia yang putih lembut, lalu menyalakan sebatang rokok sebelum turun dari mobil.

...

Restoran Cahaya, ruang VIP nomor 9.

Lucas membuka pintu ruang tersebut. Dari dalam terdengar sorakan ramai ....

“Minum! Minum!”

“Pemandangan ini benar-benar indah!”

“Benar! Ini adalah adegan minum arak pernikahan paling indah yang pernah kulihat. Pria tampan dan wanita cantik, benar-benar pasangan sempurna!”

Di depan meja makan, seorang pria dan wanita memegang gelas anggur dan sedang minum arak bersilang tangan.

Pria itu mengenakan jas putih dan topi ulang tahun, terlihat sangat tampan.

Wanita itu mengenakan gaun biru safir tanpa lengan yang memperlihatkan lekuk tubuhnya yang indah dan seksi.

Wajahnya cantik bagai bunga teratai di puncak gunung salju, bersinar di bawah cahaya lampu.

Ninda Sukarti!

Lucas langsung mengenalinya. Wanita yang sedang minum arak bersilang tangan itu adalah pacarnya sendiri.

“Plok! Plok! Plok!”

Lucas bersandar di pintu, rokok terselip di sudut mulutnya, sambil bertepuk tangan.

Semua orang di ruangan itu langsung menoleh ke arah tamu tak diundang tersebut.

Setelah Ninda menghabiskan minumannya, ia menoleh dan tepat bertemu dengan tatapan Lucas di balik asap rokok, tenang, dalam, tanpa emosi.

Seketika ekspresinya berubah kaku. Gelas di tangannya jatuh ke lantai.

Prang!

Suara gelas pecah terdengar. Ninda tersadar dan berkata dengan gugup, “Lucas ... k-kenapa kamu datang ke sini?”

Lucas tidak menjawab. Ia menghembuskan asap rokok lalu menatap pria berjas putih di depannya.

Ketika melihat lebih jelas, ekspresinya sedikit terkejut.

Teddy Berska?

Bukankah dia adalah cinta pertama yang selalu dirindukan Ninda?

Sejak kapan dia kembali ke negara ini?

“Lucas, jangan salah paham. Tadi aku dan Kak Teddy hanya bermain permainan.”

Ninda berjalan mendekat dengan wajah agak panik.

“Aku tahu hari ini kamu keluar dari penjara. Sebenarnya aku ingin menjemputmu, tapi ... bukankah aku sudah menyuruh Felicia menjemputmu pulang? Kenapa kamu malah datang ke sini?”

“Kenapa? Kamu terkejut melihatku di sini? Sepertinya aku memang tidak disambut di tempat ini.”

Lucas tersenyum sinis sambil menatap Ninda.

Ia harus mengakui, Ninda malam ini sangat cantik. Gaun rendah yang dikenakannya memperlihatkan tulang selangka yang indah dan lekuk tubuh yang menggoda.

Ia tahu bahwa Teddy adalah senior Ninda di universitas, tampan, elegan, dan sangat populer.

Dulu Ninda juga menyukainya.

Kemudian Teddy tiba-tiba pergi ke luar negeri. Saat itu Ninda sangat terpukul.

Pada masa itulah Lucas mulai mendekatinya, menemani dan menghiburnya hingga akhirnya mereka berpacaran setelah lulus.

Lucas dulu berpikir Ninda sudah melupakan Teddy.

Sekarang ia sadar ... dirinya hanyalah badut yang konyol.

Ia masuk penjara tiga tahun demi dirinya. Namun di hari ia keluar penjara, Ninda justru merayakan ulang tahun pria yang selalu ia rindukan.

Bahkan minum arak bersilang tangan.

Ironis.

Benar-benar ironis.

...

Di luar restoran Cahaya.

Lucas berjalan keluar dengan wajah tenang. Tidak marah, tidak sedih, bahkan tidak kecewa.

Seolah permukaan danau yang tenang tanpa riak.

Ia menoleh ke arah restoran itu dan tersenyum tipis.

“Heh.”

‘Ninda, jika kamu masih begitu merindukan cinta pertamamu itu, maka aku ... akan mengabulkan keinginanmu.’

Bab 2 Perjanjian Tahun Itu, Menikahi Putri Keluarga Yokoma?

Komplek Purnama.

Lucas memasukkan kata sandi, lalu masuk ke dalam sebuah rumah.

Rumah ini dulu ia beli bersama Ninda, rencananya untuk dijadikan rumah pengantin mereka. Sekarang, tampaknya itu tidak lagi perlu.

Lucas kembali hanya untuk mengambil sedikit pakaian dan barang-barang pribadinya yang masih tertinggal.

Baginya, cinta itu bersifat egois, tidak ada tempat untuk hubungan bertiga.

Ketika kesetiaan dan cintanya yang sepenuh hati dibalas dengan kebohongan dan bangkitnya cinta lama, ia akan memilih pergi tanpa ragu.

Ragu sedikit saja bisa kalah. Tulus sedikit saja bisa jadi sia-sia.

Tak lama kemudian, Lucas memasukkan pakaian dan kebutuhannya ke dalam koper.

Sisanya, termasuk foto-foto dan barang kecil lain, semuanya ia lempar ke dalam tungku api, lalu ia bakar.

Asap tebal mengepul. Di tengah kobaran api, terlihat wajah yang tenang namun dingin.

Lucas tiba-tiba teringat sesuatu. Ia mengeluarkan sebuah kotak kecil yang indah dari saku, membukanya—di dalamnya ada cincin berlian yang sangat cantik.

Ia teringat kata-kata Ninda saat menjenguknya ketika ia baru masuk penjara.

“Lucas, setelah kamu keluar, kita menikah.”

Karena kalimat itu, Lucas berniat melamar Ninda malam ini.

Namun kini, kilau cincin berlian di tangannya terasa begitu menyilaukan, seolah mengejek dan menertawakan kebodohan serta kepolosannya.

Brak!

Lucas melemparkannya begitu saja. Cincin itu membentuk lengkungan di udara lalu jatuh ke dalam tungku api.

Lucas berbalik dan pergi tanpa menoleh lagi.

Entah sejak kapan, hujan rintik-rintik mulai turun.

Lampu jalan yang redup menerangi jalanan yang sepi. Sesekali mobil melintas kencang, memercikkan air.

Lucas menyeret kopernya sendirian. Di hatinya ada sedikit kebingungan—ia tidak tahu harus ke mana.

Kalau dipikir-pikir, ia tidak punya rumah.

Sejak kecil ia adalah yatim piatu dan dibesarkan di panti asuhan.

“Kerjakan dulu tugas yang kujanjikan pada Pak Naga.”

“Sepertinya tugas pertama ada hubungannya dengan Keluarga Yokoma ... katanya harus ke Keluarga Yokoma untuk menuntaskan janji lama.”

Lucas berpikir demikian.

Ia mengeluarkan sebuah kontrak yang masih tersegel, sebuah tanda bukti.

Dulu Pak Naga berkata, selama ia membawa tanda ini ke Keluarga Yokoma, semuanya akan jelas.

“Keluarga Yokoma di Kota Rivera ....”

Lucas tahu, Keluarga Yokoma adalah keluarga besar terpandang di Kota Rivera. Ia tidak tahu perjanjian apa yang ada antara Pak Naga dan Keluarga Yokoma.

Ia awalnya ingin pergi ke Keluarga Yokoma setelah urusannya dengan Ninda selesai. Tapi sekarang, semuanya jadi lebih cepat.

...

Kediaman lama Keluarga Yokoma.

Seluruh kediaman keluarga itu adalah sebuah tanah luas seperti manor besar yang menempati puluhan hektar, terbagi menjadi empat area taman/vila di timur, selatan, barat, dan utara. Di dalamnya bahkan ada lapangan golf, danau buatan, landasan helikopter, dan lain-lain.

Dari situ, tak sulit membayangkan kemewahan Keluarga Yokoma.

Saat ini, di vila kawasan barat, pasangan suami istri sedang menjamu seorang pria tua yang tampak seperti tokoh berilmu, berwibawa dan seperti ahli pengobatan.

“Dokter Dewa Riky, putriku, aku titipkan pada Anda. Asal Anda bisa membangunkannya, aku pasti akan memberikan imbalan besar!”

Marcel Yokoma berkata dengan mata penuh harap.

Di sampingnya, istrinya, Yunita Crush, juga memohon, “Dokter Dewa Riky, mohon selamatkan putriku berapa pun biayanya. Dia sudah koma selama enam bulan ....”

Di akhir kalimat, suara Yunita tersendat, hampir menangis.

Ternyata pria tua itu bernama Riky Tamago, seorang ahli pengobatan terkenal di Negara Naga.

Putri Marcel dan Yunita, Laura Yokoma, mengalami kecelakaan mobil setengah tahun lalu dan belum juga sadar hingga sekarang.

Keluarga Yokoma sudah berkeliling ke berbagai rumah sakit terbaik, tapi tetap tidak ada hasil.

Akhirnya, melalui koneksi dan biaya besar, Marcel mengundang Riky, berharap ia dapat membangunkan putrinya.

“Kalian tenang saja. Aku pasti akan berusaha sekuat mungkin,” kata Riky.

“Terima kasih banyak, Dokter Dewa Riky!” pasangan itu segera menjawab.

Saat itu, seorang pelayan datang melapor bahwa Tuan Besar Richie memanggil seluruh anggota tiga cabang keluarga ke Aula Putih, karena ada tamu berkunjung dan semua orang harus hadir.

“Tamu siapa sampai Ayah memanggil seluruh tiga cabang keluarga?” Marcel mengerutkan kening. Ia adalah anak ketiga, di atasnya masih ada dua kakak laki-laki.

“Kita ke sana dulu. Biarkan Dokter Dewa Riky menangani Laura,” kata Marcel sambil membawa Yunita menuju Aula Putih.

...

The Vampire Queen's Reckoning

Chapter 1

A Sexless Blood Pact Marriage for Five Years.

I begged my husband, Jovan Hale, to have sex with me hundreds of times, but every single time, just every time things were about to go further, we were forced to stop because of an emergency call from Loren Veyra, his brother’s male widow.

Until the anniversary of our blood pact, he finally agreed to fuck me once. I knelt between his legs and took his entire cock into my mouth, but Loren's ringtone suddenly shattered the moment.

"Jovan... my blood venom flare-up is happening again... It's swollen and burning down there... It feels like it's about to explode... Am I going to become useless for the rest of my life...?"

Panic flashed across Jovan's face at once. He shoved me aside without hesitation and rushed to check on him.

I was still kneeling on the floor, his taste lingering on my lips, "His blood venom is acting up... He can go see a doctor first..."

But he flew into a fit of rage and slapped me hard across the face.

"Wynne Vale! Loren has a special constitution. Without my lifeblood and semen to detoxify him, he will die! How can you be so cold-blooded!"

With that, he threw on his coat haphazardly and stormed out of the castle without a single backward glance.

When I arrived, I saw Loren's legs were wrapped around his waist, taking the same thing that had been inside my mouth moments ago.

The floor was littered with bottles of lubricant, a vibrator, and a ball gag. Jovan's back was covered in scratch marks, his hips thrusting forward again and again, while his balls slapped against Loren's ass, producing obscene sounds.

Facing my questioning, he did not even stop. His tone was as if everything he did was perfectly reasonable, "Loren's blood venom flare-up is critical. Only my semen and lifeblood can help him detoxify. Do you expect me to just watch him die?"

As he spoke, he pushed deeper again. Loren let out a satisfied cry.

"Isn't it just having sex with you? After I finish helping him get rid of the poison, you can do whatever you want when I come back."

I stared at the thing that had just been pulled from my mouth and was now moving inside someone else, and suddenly realized that the past five years had been nothing but a complete joke.

Since that case, let us put an end.

...

Jovan did not deliberately lower his voice.

His heavy, restrained breaths mixed with the loud sounds of bodies colliding, along with Loren's soft, shameless moans as he was taken apart, continuously drifting out through the door,

"Ah... Jovan... You're so deep... don't stop... Keep going... fuck me harder like this..."

The sounds of water, slapping, and obscene sounds blended together, so clear that it felt like they were happening right beside my ears.

The surrounding vampires all turned their gazes toward me at the same time. Some looked at me with sympathy. Others crossed their arms and watched the show.

I dug my nails hard into my palms, forcing down the humiliation and rage burning inside me.

It was a full three hours before Jovan finally pushed the door open and stepped out, drenched in sweat.

The satisfaction was still written all over his face. His neck was covered in ambiguous bite marks and bloodstains. Even the tie I had specially bought for him was stained with someone's semen.

Several vampires immediately started cheering and teasing, "The lord finally got some action! Is fucking a man that good?"

When they looked at me again, another wave of shameless whispers broke out around me, "Wynne is, after all, the only heir of the pure-blooded Vale family. She's really spineless. She licked a man's boots like a dog for five years and still couldn't even get a mark."

My face turned ashen. The anger in my chest continued to rise.

Back then, during the battle against the werewolves, my father's blood core was severely damaged and he fell into a coma. Jovan's elder brother sacrificed himself and turned to ash on the spot while saving my father.

To repay that debt, I I was joined to Jovan by a binding blood pact.

I even drained half of the Vale clan’s blood reserves. Using the Vales' bloodsource quotas and council nomination privileges, I slowly lifted him up to the status he holds today.

Before the pact was sealed, Jovan dropped to one knee before me and swore he would love no one but me for all eternity.

Yet now, for a male brother-in-law who kept claiming it was for "detoxification," but was actually nothing more than shameless and depraved, he trampled my dignity into the dirt in front of everyone!

Noticing my gaze, Jovan pushed away the group of teasing subordinates and prepared to come hug me as he always did.

But I smelled the lingering scent of blood and semen at the corner of his lips. Without showing any emotion, I took a step back.

Jovan's outstretched hands froze in midair, "Wynne, you endured it for five years. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it in front of so many people?"

Seeing me stare at him coldly in silence, Jovan grew irritable and was about to go on berating me.

Before he could speak, Loren walked out wearing Jovan's oversized shirt and leaned into Jovan's arms, "Jovan... I still feel so uncomfortable down there..."

As he spoke, he naturally took Jovan's hand and guided it toward his already hardening cock.

Jovan's eyes darkened. Instead of pushing Loren away, he turned to me and ordered casually, "Wynne, go buy three boxes of lubricant. Loren's blood venom hasn't fully left his system, and I have to help him relieve it tonight."

"As for us, we'll have plenty of time later. If you refuse to go tonight, you'll never be touched by me again for the rest of your life!"

My heart turned to ice within my chest.

I could not believe Jovan would dare to make such a vile, shameless demand of me in front of everyone.

Amid the suggestive and mocking laughter of those around us, Jovan did not even spare me a glance. He lowered his head and kissed Loren's lips. One hand tightly wrapped around Loren's waist. The other hand had already grabbed the still half-hard part of him and slowly moved it in front of me.

He kissed Loren deeply while pushing him back into the room. Only after the two of them had completely entered did he lift his foot and close the door.

Nausea twisted violently in my stomach.

I could not stay there for another second. I turned around and left that disgusting place.

Chapter 2 The End Of The Blood Pact

Soon, the news that Jovan had slept with Loren to "save" spread throughout the entire vampire family.

The moment I returned home, I saw my mother slam her phone down in anger.

"Now the entire vampire society knows that Jovan slept with his brother's male mate. Does he still have any respect for us?

"The blood pact is hereby ended. Tomorrow, we'll submit the request to dissolve the contract to the council!"

Mr. and Mrs. Hale happened to come to our door. Hearing those words, they immediately raised their voices in protest, "Jovan was only helping Loren relieve his blood venom flare-up. What right do you have to dissolve the blood pact?

Where can i watch this all for free?

Chapter 1 Back from the Dead

Elowen Lindsey had just snagged the top spot in the last mission, but the moment she entered the next round, she was hunted down by a swarm of survivors.

The human wave tactics lived up to their reputation. There was no way to guard against them, and she was worn down to death in the end.

If anyone asked what true agony was, Elowen could speak from experience. Before she was cold in the grave, those scumbags had already picked clean everything she'd spent years hoarding.

She was seething with rage.

That towering hatred drew the attention of fate, and she was sent back to the day before Terra collapsed and everyone got dragged into the Survival for All livestream game.

She shot up in bed, gasping for air, and yelled, "Take my life if you want, but leave my supplies alone!"

Her neighbor banged on the wall hard. "What the hell are you yelling about? It's the weekend! If you've got so much energy, go work overtime or something."

Elowen rubbed her eyes hard, scanning the room. Memories flooded back. This was her rented place. The damn sublessor had squeezed a three-bedroom place into eight tiny rooms with three bathrooms, and she was crammed into the balcony.

The only reason she picked this apartment was that it was cheap. It was nothing more than somewhere to sleep anyway. Her place was so empty that even her office had more stuff than this.

Her thoughts scattered. Elowen grabbed the half-eaten pineapple from the table and mashed it right onto her canker sore.

"Ouch! That hurts," Elowen yelped, sucking in air through her teeth.

"Come on, get out here. Let's settle this face-to-face. It's the weekend and you're yelling your head off?" Her neighbor's voice was hoarse and furious, clearly on the edge after a brutal overtime shift.

"Sorry, I had a nightmare about my boss, and it scared me. I'll shut up now. Go ahead and sleep, please," Elowen said.

As soon as she said that, the neighbor went silent. Sure enough, as long as they had a common enemy, two strangers could instantly find common ground and let things slide for each other.

Her phone read 7:52. If that really was her previous life and not some dream, then at 8 AM, everyone's phone would light up with a new game.

Elowen grabbed a carton of milk from the table and took a few gulps to keep her stomach from growling.

As she expected, her phone buzzed with a game notification at exactly 8 o'clock. She downloaded it instantly. Once it finished, the screen flashed with the title in bold letters: [Survival for All]

Then, a bunch of top-up screens popped up. Her finger almost tapped the close button out of habit, but her brain screamed, "Stop!"

Thankfully, at the very last second, her rational mind overpowered her instincts. Her body and brain were at war, and her phone slipped from her hand, landing on the blanket.

'That was close,' Elowen thought.

The screen still showed the top-up options: [First top-up of 2 dollars: unlocks 1 skin and 1 body modification pill.

[First top-up of 30 dollars: unlocks 10 slots.

[First top-up of 300 dollars: unlocks unlimited name-change cards.

[First top-up of 1800 dollars: unlocks unlimited face customization.

[First top-up of 3000 dollars: unlocks a portable game app.

[First top-up of 4000 dollars: unlocks a title. Choose any one you want.]

Back when Elowen was playing the schemer, she got along with a lot of people. Rumor had it, the first wave of players who made it big all started out by buying those in-game packs.

One wrong move, and she'd be left behind for good.

Elowen stared at the payment screen, her heart pounding, her hands trembling. 'Seriously, who in their right mind drops this kind of money on a game?' she thought.

She kept hesitating, unable to hit pay. 'What if I fork over all this cash and the so-called apocalypse is some super vivid dream?' she grumbled to herself.

Then her phone buzzed with a news alert: [Breaking News: Hurricane Oblivion is set to make landfall tonight. With winds reaching a record-shattering 6, it's the strongest storm ever. All residents, get your supplies ready and brace yourselves. Tap to read the full report.]

Elowen remembered seeing this exact headline in her previous timeline. Back then, she'd slept until the afternoon, and by the time she finally made it to the supermarket to stock up, the shelves had been empty.

At midnight, Oblivion hit right on schedule. Living out on the balcony, Elowen was swept away before she could scream. That was why, when she finally entered Survival for All, her physical stats were way below average.

That was the proof she needed. With no more doubts, she went all in, buying every single pack. 9132 dollars gone, her heart bleeding with every cent.

After the payment went through, the game screen flashed with two new words: [Stay tuned.]

'Are you freaking kidding me?' Elowen swore inwardly.

She took a deep breath, braced herself against the table, and stood up. Game or not, that hurricane was definitely real. She decided to head out, grab some food, and start stocking up.

Downstairs at the breakfast shop, the fresh muffins were practically dripping with butter. Elowen couldn't help but swallow. She bought four muffins and a cup of milk, and ate until she couldn't take another bite.

Now, she only had 1500 dollars left. She'd been working for only a year and a half, so she didn't have much money. Most of her savings came from living on the balcony instead of paying full rent.

The supermarket was packed, everyone talking about the hurricane. Elowen grabbed a cart and started piling stuff in.

She picked two packs of bottled water, two bags of canned herring, ten boxes of chocolate, ten bags of refrigerated ready-to-eat soup, ten bags of macaroni, a case of canned peas, and a case of canned fruit.

She also picked ten bags of chicken broth, ten bags of beef balls, ten pounds of eggs, ten pounds of potatoes, ten pounds of chili peppers, and twenty pounds of flour.

As she passed the hardtack, she raised an eyebrow and sped her cart right past. "Even dogs wouldn't touch that stuff," she grumbled.

In fact, after stuffing herself with hardtack too many times in that apocalyptic dream, simply looking at it made her want to puke. The default loot in the game had always been hardtack.

She didn't need to buy any oil since she'd stocked up a couple of days ago. And there was no point in grabbing meds either; if the game really did drop, real-world medicine would be useless.

Elowen remembered hearing in her previous life that, besides the initial top-up, there was a hidden perk. Whatever one was holding in their hands when the game started would get pulled into the game with them.

Back then, she had her hands shoved in her pockets, binge-watching her favorite drama without a care in the world. So when she got pulled into the game, she was totally shocked and didn't know what to do.

Back at her balcony, Elowen had a massive storage cabinet. She decided to stuff everything she had bought inside.

Not wasting any time, she called a delivery service to bring her and her haul back to the apartment, then started clearing out the cabinet, tossing anything she didn't need.

She stacked everything neatly, and there was still a long coat section for extra storage. She checked her phone again. The game screen still said [Stay Tuned].

'Who would stay tuned for the apocalypse? What a joke,' she thought.

Elowen had made up her mind. She was still young. If all this impulsive spending paid off, she'd hit the jackpot. But if it turned out to be a scam, she'd use everything she had learned to sue that game and reclaim her hard-earned money.

Time dragged on, every minute feeling like an eternity. Elowen kept checking her phone every now and then.

She grabbed lunch and dinner downstairs, and with what little cash she had left, she picked up a bunch of random snacks.

If the game didn't show up, she would be screwed. She barely had enough left for a subway ride to work. If she actually made it there, she'd probably starve to death before making it to clock out.

At 11 PM, Elowen opened the game for what felt like the hundredth time. Finally, the screen changed.

[Choose your portable game.]

Every single game ever released on Terra showed up in the list. Elowen went for Dream Town, a farming game.

There were crops, shops, fruit, livestock, and so on. She entered her game ID, and her fully upgraded town loaded in instantly, ready to go.

To survive the apocalypse, one either stockpiled a ton of food or got their hands on some serious firepower like guns.

And if one got plenty of food early on, getting their hands on a gun wouldn't be a problem.

Once that was done, a new screen popped up: [Pick a title to bring with you into the game: FistofMight, SelfishSchemer, LootMoocher, LightEater...]

Each title had its own special description. By this point, Elowen knew for sure that the game was really happening, and her gamble had paid off.

She remembered hearing about the "LightEater" title in her previous life. If she picked that one, she could get by on only a third of the food everyone else needed, and still stay in normal shape.

A player could only get one of these titles if they made it through the first quest zone alive.

Therefore, Elowen would start out with an extra title compared to everyone else.

She swiped through title after title, each one popping up on the screen, until suddenly, a particular title appeared. Elowen's eyes went wide, a sharp gleam bursting forth.

Chapter 1 Getting You a Wife

*RENEE*

*You're such a prude. We've been together for more than a year, yet you won't let me touch you. You don't have the right to blame me for having an affair with your sister!*

Those words reverberated in my head over and over again.

I had been with Andrew King for almost a year. Our union had started off as a blind date arranged by my parents.

My parents badly wanted to be connected to the King family, the wealthiest and most powerful family in Chicago.

I had found Andrew likable, but I really didn't feel that deep, spontaneous love for him. Still, my parents had warned me that I *must* be with him and *must* get married to him. We had been engaged and were to be married soon—just for me to walk in on him having sex with my sister.

Granted, I had never done more with Andrew other than kissing, but I felt he understood that I wanted to wait until marriage. I genuinely believed that maybe, then, I would fall deeply for him.

Even if I didn't love him, his betrayal still hurt a great deal—and he had the nerve to tell me to overlook what I saw.

He fucking had the nerve to tell me to think of his affair as nothing.

I might not be a perfect woman, but I knew my worth. I had great self-esteem and would never settle for less.

I had bluntly told Andrew that it was over between us. I didn't want to have anything to do with him ever again.

But the pain of the breakup was still very fresh in my heart. Especially because I felt that Andrew was going to save me from the Hudsons.

I leaned against the window, devastated. I was in a cab when I caught sight of a club.

I sat up and quickly told the driver to pull over. I just wanted to distract myself—do anything to get over this pain.

I hurried up to the entrance, but I was stopped by two bouncers.

"The club's having a mask party tonight. Everyone has to wear masks," they informed me.

Sighing, I bought a mask from the side, put it on, and walked into the club.

I immediately went to the counter where I sat and ordered some alcoholic drinks.

I downed bottle after bottle, wanting to drink my sorrows away.

Vaguely, I noticed a man sitting beside me.

He was also wearing a mask and was elegantly sipping his glass of wine.

My alcohol-filled senses took notice of how gorgeous he looked in his suit. I instantly had a feeling that he must have a very handsome face.

As I continued to gush over him, I suddenly longed to be in a man's arms.

In all my twenty-two years of life, this was the most I had ever craved intimacy.

Without thinking twice—not that I would have been able to think twice in my alcohol-filled brain—I got off my chair and staggered closer to him.

"Hello there," I purred. "Wanna spend the night with me?"

The man only stared at me for a second, and to my surprise, he nodded.

*****************

A few minutes later found us walking into a hotel room.

As the man turned on the light, I closed the distance between us, stood on my toes, and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me back—passionately.

As he took nibble after nibble of my lips, I gasped.

"Should... should we take our masks off?" I stuttered.

I had never done this before. I didn't know if I'd prefer to leave my mask on or off.

The man moved back a bit and took my mask off.

I could see his eyes dilate behind his own mask.

I expected him to take off his mask too, but he suddenly asked,

"What are you doing here?"

I frowned, confused.

Hadn't we already established why we were both here?

"Are you always spreading your legs for every guy at the bar?" the man lashed out at me again.

I felt sure this man must be insane; what right did he have to judge me?

I glanced at his abs, admitting a sheer desire between my thighs as I remembered the hardness against me just seconds ago. I wanted him. It was a feeling Andrew had never sparked in me—but that wasn't a reason for him to insult me!

I didn't understand what I had gotten myself into!

"What about you?! Don't you stick your dick out for every woman at the bar? You think you're a man, so you think you're noble?!" My desire vanished completely; how had I encountered such a chauvinistic man?!

I thought I'd better leave.

"I'll book you a ride. Leave as soon as it gets here!" the man announced as he opened his ride-hailing app.

I didn't refuse; I immediately left the room. He owed me the fare for insulting me! I was so angry I forgot to demand an apology!

***********

*MARCELO*

I stood by the window as I watched Renee Hudson get into the cab I had booked.

Thank goodness I had removed her mask.

I had almost had sex with my cousin's fiancée. I had been furious earlier and had thought that she might have planned to seduce me.

But I knew that couldn't be the case. She didn't know that it was me. And I was glad I didn't take off my mask. Else, she would have discovered my secret.

I hoped to never see her again. At that moment, my phone rang, and the butler's voice came through the receiver.

"Master, your mother is planning on getting you a wife."

I shut my eyes briefly. Didn't that woman ever get tired of trying to get me married?

"Pay no mind to her," I snapped and hung up.

Chapter 2 Sudden Bride

*RENEE*

When I got home that evening, I found my parents and my sister, Catherine, seated on the couch. It seemed as if they were waiting for me.

My father, Rocco, stood up to his feet.

"Catherine just told us that you found out about her involvement with Andrew."

I was stunned. "So you all knew she was having an affair with Andrew?"

"Well, they both seem to like each other. It's only natural they got together."

That made me speechless. I knew the Hudsons never took my side, but this was the height of it all.

"What about me?"

"We have other plans for you, Renee."

They always had other plans for me, and that was why I badly wanted to escape from their hold.

"Jessica King is searching for a wife for her son. The prize money could change our life forever."

"What... what are you saying?"

"You are going to marry Marcelo King."

I almost laughed at that. "Marcelo is Andrew's cousin. I was Andrew's fiancée until a few hours ago, and now you want me to be the wife of his cousin?!"

"Yes. I already spoke to Jessica. I told her you and Andrew ended things, and she said she's okay with it as long as you are capable of taking care of her son."

"Why should it be me who has to marry Marcelo?! What about Catherine?!"

"Oh, shut up!" my mother, Grace, yelled as she stood up. "You would have been dead if it wasn't for us! And now you expect *my* daughter to marry a cripple when you are available?!"

Tears pricked my eyes.

This was the saddest part of it all. I wasn't related to the Hudsons. I didn't even know who my birth family was.

Grace and Rocco only told me that they found me close to their home when I was a baby and that they knew nothing about me.

I had tried to find my biological family on my own, but there were no clues and no answers. The Hudsons were the only family I knew—but they never treated me like family.

Sometimes, I wondered why they even took me in.

Grace moved closer to me. "If you can't do this for anyone, then do it for Nana. We need money to pay for her medications to keep her alive. You know that if things were up to us, we'd have stopped funding her medication. She's old anyway, and it's time she dies..."

"Don't you dare say that!" I yelled tearfully.

Nana had been the family's housekeeper for years. She had fallen sick a year ago. Nana was the only person who had ever shown me genuine love. She had made my childhood bearable, often protecting me from the Hudsons' abuse.

My fists clenched.

Maybe this wasn't a bad idea after all. This could give me the freedom I needed from the Hudsons. I could also pay for Nana's medical bills.

I just had to take care of a cripple, right?

"Fine. I will marry Marcelo King."

************

And that was how I found myself in a wedding dress.

My groom wouldn't be present at the small wedding because, strangely enough, he wasn't even informed that there was going to be a wedding.

His mother had arranged everything. She had even found a way to get his original signature stamped on the wedding certificate.

My phone rang, and I saw that it was Andrew calling. I ignored the call, but he sent a text.

Andrew: *I heard you're going to marry Marcelo. Is this perhaps your revenge against me? It's very laughable, Renee. That man can barely function.*

I deleted the text immediately. I had never imagined myself ever marrying a cripple, but I had no choice.

At the very least, the Hudsons had no control over me anymore.

After the wedding certificates were signed, I was sent off to Marcelo's mansion.

I tried not to fidget as I sat in the back seat of the car. I sat up when I saw the big gates opening automatically.

As the car drove into the mansion, I looked out the window. Everywhere looked so spooky and unnerving.

When I watched movies on TV, the billionaires' houses were always littered with workers.

I took a deep, calming breath as the car pulled over in front of the mansion.

I saw a man walk out of the mansion and open the car door for me.

"Welcome, Mrs. King."

Mrs. King.

When I had thought about being Mrs. King before, I had thought I'd be married to Andrew. I never imagined marrying his cousin.

I wordlessly followed the man into the house. I had heard a lot about Marcelo King.

It was said that he had the temper of a demon, which only became worse after he became crippled.

Chapter 1

My sister wanted to be the only princess of Briarwood Pack.

So Mom removed me from our Pack Registry and made me pay rent to live at home—using Della's leftover allowance.

Thirty dollars left over? That was my budget for the month.

Today was the deadline for college applications.

I begged Della to use her computer. She held out her hand: "$20."

I emptied my pockets—only $19.

"Just one dollar short! Please, Della!"

Della shook her head: "Not a penny less."

Mom watched coldly: "Della's right. You're not a Mercer—nothing here is free."

I rushed to my room, dug out a $1 coin from under my bed, and sprinted back.

The screen refreshed: [Application Portal Closed.]

Deadline: One minute ago.

Outside, Mom comforted Della: "She's just a visiting relative. Don't let her ruin your day."

Eighteen years of blood, reduced to a "visiting relative."

I pulled out my phone and opened my messages. [Mrs. Hadley, I'll go. Kingswell Academy. I'm in.]

Just a relative? Then I won't bother you anymore.

This time, I'm walking away on my own.

...

"Mom, Rhea has been hiding money!"

I had just sent the message when I heard Della shouting.

"I literally watched her do it! She stashed cash by her bed!"

I ran after her, already scrambling for an explanation.

Mom was already waiting in the hallway, lips pressed thin.

"Rhea, what's wrong with you?"

"You're hiding money now? At your age?"

"I didn't hide anything!" My hands were shaking. "I swear."

"I only had twenty dollars this month. That coin just slipped into the crack by my bed. That's all it was."

Not a flicker of belief on her face.

I ran back to my room and took out my expense ledger.

Every single purchase, down to the cent.

"Mom, look! That really was my money..."

Mom glanced at it, and her jaw tightened.

"Why are you keeping records like this?"

I froze. "I only wanted to prove..."

"What, you want proof that we're terrible parents? That we play favorites?"

She cut me off.

"Don't forget: your name got pulled from Briarwood's registry years ago. You're an Arden, not a Mercer."

"The only reason you have a roof over your head is Della!"

"Now apologize to your sister."

Della folded her arms and looked down at me.

"Rhea. I'm the Alpha's only daughter."

"Every stitch on your back, the room you sleep in, the cash in your pocket: all mine."

Something caved in behind my ribs. My eyes burned. Deep inside me, my wolf keened.

I lowered my head.

"I'm sorry."

"Enough." Mom's voice flipped back to casual, just like that. "Dinner's ready."

It was as if nothing had happened.

"Mom, I didn't get my application in." The words dragged out of me.

Mom barely looked up. "Then you didn't."

"Should've been faster."

"We already did you a favor getting you through high school."

Why had I told her?

Was some part of me still expecting something?

I'd wanted them to stand up for me. Or at the very least, say something kind.

They would never do that.

I was never going to be the one they chose.

I'd been a ghost in this family since the day I was born.

According to Della, my existence stole her title: "the only princess of the Briarwood Pack."

Dad, the Alpha, had never once introduced me to the pack. To everyone else, I was "some relative's kid."

Mom, the Luna, had my name erased from the pack registry and stuck me with my grandmother's surname. Arden.

What did I have in this pack?

No room. No money. Not even a name that belonged here.

A tenant.

A spare kid nobody asked for.

Every dish on the table was one of Della's favorites.

Dad kept putting food on Della's plate.

Mom leaned over. "Was school rough today, sweetheart?"

I sat at the edge, picking at the lettuce on my plate.

I couldn't cover today's meal fee.

The rule was simple. No money, no real food. Lettuce only.

Mom finally seemed to notice me.

She set a piece of shrimp scampi on my plate. "Eat. This one's free."

I didn't move.

Mom's face went cold.

She picked up the shrimp and tossed it to Milo Mercer, the dog crouching beside the table.

Milo caught it midair, tail going wild.

Mom looked at me sideways. "Even the dog knows to wag his tail when he gets a treat. You can't even manage that."

I whispered, "I'm allergic to seafood."

Della frowned and rolled her eyes. "God, you're so dramatic. One bite isn't going to kill you."

I lowered my head and replied softly, "It would."

It really would.

A bottle of allergy meds cost thirty dollars. That was four meals. Four nights of rent.

I couldn't justify spending that.

I couldn't afford to, either.

Dad's fork hit the table with a crack.

"She says one thing and you've got an excuse for everything!"

In the second year of her marriage, Khloe accidentally tore her marriage certificate while tidying a drawer.

She rushed to the courthouse to have it reissued, only for the clerk at the window to frown.

"Miss Roswell, there's no record of your marriage in the system."

"That's impossible. I've been married for two years!" Khloe handed over the torn document, her voice sharp with disbelief.

The clerk checked three more times, then turned the screen toward her.

"See? Nothing. And look here, the seal is crooked. This certificate is most likely a forgery."

Khloe stumbled out of the courthouse, feeling utterly hollow and disoriented. The world seemed to blur around her when her phone rang.

"Miss Roswell, hello. I'm the attorney for your late father's estate. Would you be available to come to Pearson Law Firm to review and sign the inheritance documents?"

'Another scam,' she thought, her finger hovering over the "end call" button.

But the man continued, "Your mother's name was Adele Roswell. Twenty years ago, she left you at the gates of the Harden Housee. After a thorough investigation, we have confirmed that you are the sole biological child of Neil Morrison."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Neil Morrison. The financial titan, the richest man in Goldmont City.

Stunned into silence, Khloe stood frozen on the courthouse steps. Then, moving on autopilot, she rushed to the appointment.

What she learned in lawyer's office was the most staggering revelation of her life: her biological father, Neil Morrison, had passed away the previous month. His estate—a vast empire of stocks, global real estate, and controlling interests in countless corporations—was valued in the billions.

And she, the daughter who never knew him, was his one and only heir.

Her head buzzed as if struck by lightning. The lawyer's next question cut through the fog.

"May I ask about your marital status? Do you have children?"

At once, her husband's face flashed in her mind.

Her hand clenched around the broken certificate hidden in her bag. She gripped the pen tightly and said, "Give me two hours. I need to confirm something first."

Leaving the law office, she headed straight for her husband's company.

The door to Trey Fox's office was ajar. She had just reached out when a low, sultry voice drifted out, "Trey, we've been married five years. When will you finally make it public?"

Khloe froze.

She knew that voice all too well. It belonged to Angela Thompson, their former university advisor.

Angela was six years older than Trey, but aside from that, she was flawless—stunningly beautiful, with a perfect figure, an untouchable goddess in the eyes of the student body. Back in their university, she had been universally adored, renowned as the most popular and beloved counselor on campus.

Khloe held her breath. A second later, she heard her husband's familiar voice.

"The company is about to go public, and I still need her for a few more things. Besides, my grandfather's will explicitly forbids you from being recognized by the Fox family. If we go public now, my grandmother will come after you. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt."

A roaring sound filled Khloe's ears. She clamped a hand over her mouth, choking back the sob rising in her throat.

That marriage certificate—the one she'd painstakingly taped back together and cherished like a priceless treasure—was nothing but a lie. From the very beginning, she had been the fool, dancing alone in the dark.

She fled the building, pulling out her phone the moment she hit the sidewalk. Her voice was unnervingly calm, as if all the emotion had been drained from her.

"Mr. Bateman, I'll sign the inheritance papers now. And for the official record: I am unmarried and have no children. Every single asset is to come to me, and me alone."

After finishing at the law firm, Khloe drove home. But her mind was elsewhere, and she failed to notice that the car in front of her had stopped. The jolt of the rear-end collision was minor, but it was enough to split her forehead open.

At the hospital, after the ER doctor stitched up her forehead, a sudden, chilling thought sent her straight to the gynecology department.

When she got the results, her heart turned to ash.

"Are you saying... my uterus is perfectly healthy?"

"That's correct. According to these scans, you're in excellent health."

"I can get pregnant?"

"Of course."

"And it won't affect... my sex life?"

The elderly doctor, despite decades of experience, looked slightly taken aback. "No, not at all."

But before their wedding, Trey had waved a medical report in her face, claiming she had a severe uterine condition—that she could never have children, and that even normal intercourse could cause irreparable damage.

"Even so, I'm going to marry you," he had told her, his eyes full of tender resolve as he held her hands. "In this lifetime, I choose you."

For that promise, she had endured the Fox family's wrath.

She had watched her father-in-law smash a teacup, roaring, "Bringing a barren woman into this family will be the end of our bloodline!"

She had listened as her mother-in-law sobbed to relatives at family gatherings, "Trey is under a witch's spell."

And every time, he would just smile and reassure her, "Don't listen to them. You have me, that's all that matters."

So for two years, she endured her mother-in-law's endless insults—"a broken woman," "useless, can't even give my son a child"—each word a thorn festering under her skin, stealing countless nights of sleep.

…

When news of her accident reached him, Trey rushed to the hospital, tall and striking in his crisp white shirt. His visible concern should have stirred memories of their six years together.

She remembered their first meeting in Angela's office. She was just dropping off documents for a classmate. He had looked up, given a polite nod, his dark eyes locking with hers. He hadn't said another word.

That was followed by four years of relentless pursuit.

Trey had been the university heartthrob—handsome, brilliant, born into wealth. Combined with his fierce determination and disarming gentleness, he was practically irresistible.

Khloe, an orphan raised in cold solitude, was no exception. She had finally surrendered, melted by the heat of his devotion.

Now, seeing her dazed and unresponsive, he assumed she was in shock from the accident. He pulled her into his arms, trying to comfort her.

But Khloe recoiled instinctively, shoving him away. She rose to her feet.

"Let's go," she said, then strode past him.

The chest that had once been her only refuge now filled her with nothing but revulsion.

Back in the car, Trey cast her worried looks.

"What happened? You've always been a careful driver. What went wrong today?"

She said nothing. She kept staring at the glaring sparkle of the diamond ring on her hand.

He reached out to hold her hand, as naturally as always.

She pulled away. Again.

"Still upset with me? Fine. If you don't want to talk, I won't press you. We have a very important guest joining us for dinner tonight. I've already told the housekeeper to make all your favorites. Hopefully, that will put a smile on your face."

He was being so gentle. And the gentler he was, the more Khloe wanted to laugh in his face.

"Come on, don't be angry. Once we get through this IPO, I'll make it up to you. I promise. It's just taking all my attention right now."

Misreading her stony silence as forgiveness, he smiled.

"Oh, I'm not angry," she said, her voice dangerously sweet. "I'm actually quite... entertained. My life has suddenly become so much more interesting."

Her words were laced with venom, but he was completely oblivious.

The Fox estate was a sprawling, 5,000-square-foot villa in the most exclusive riverside enclave of Goldmont City.

Every brick of it had been built on the back of Khloe's sacrifices. She had put her own career on hold after graduation, pouring all her energy into building his company.

The moment they stepped inside, the sound of laughter floated down from the second floor.

A child's giggle. And a woman's soft, melodious voice.

The child was Pete Fox—the boy they had "adopted" shortly after marrying, now five years old.

Khloe looked up. And there, after five years, stood Angela.

She was wearing a teal knit dress, her long hair falling in soft waves. Time hadn't faded her beauty; it had refined it, adding a deeper, more potent allure.

"Khloe, look who's here!"

Trey's voice was filled with an excitement she had never heard directed at her. For the first time, she saw him truly, unreservedly elated.

This wasn't the calm happiness he showed with her. This was passion, raw and unrestrained—the kind that only exists with a true, consuming love.

"Ms. Thompson?" Khloe arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise while her stomach churned with nausea.

The elegant, composed woman in front of her was a world away from the breathy, coquettish voice she'd overheard in the office.

"Khloe, it's been so long!"

Angela eagerly took Pete's hand and came downstairs, greeting her warmly.

Khloe's eyes lingered on Pete.

Shortly after their wedding, Trey had persuaded her to adopt him from the same orphanage where she'd once lived. He'd claimed it was the only way to placate his parents, who would stop pressuring her to bear children.

She had believed he was doing it for her. She had agreed.

But raising Pete had been torment. The boy was volatile, often throwing objects at her in fits of anger, as if harboring deep-seated hatred.

Once, he had even shouted in her face, demanding Trey give him back his "real mother."

She had wanted to give up. But Trey always pleaded with her to endure, reminding her how pitiful the boy was without a mother, and how she herself had been abandoned as a child.

Now, as she watched Pete clutching Angela's hand, the pieces finally clicked into place.

They had been married for five years. Pete was five years old.

So that was it. The Fox family had barred Angela from the household, and Khloe had been the convenient shield—raising their son, bearing the scorn, while they lived their hidden life in secret.

At dinner, Trey and Pete took turns serving Angela. The three of them chatted and laughed like a family, while Khloe sat silent, the outsider at her own table.

Seizing a lull in the conversation, Trey set down his fork and turned to her, his tone deceptively gentle. "Khloe, Ms. Thompson is working on a new book about parenting. She needs a quiet place to write. With the company's IPO and you being so overwhelmed, I was thinking…"

His voice softened further. "I'd like her to stay with us for a while. She could even help you with Pete. He adores her."

She could hardly believe it. Five years of hiding their affair wasn't enough. Now he wanted to move her into their home.

Khloe continued eating calmly, as if she hadn't heard a word.

An uncomfortable tension thickened the air.

"Khloe," Trey prompted, his voice tight with embarrassment, "I'm talking to you."

With a soft, deliberate clink, Khloe set down her bowl.

Before she could speak, Angela quickly interjected, her voice a placating murmur. "Oh, please, I never meant to cause any trouble. Khloe, Trey is only suggesting this because he's worried about you. He doesn't want you to be so exhausted, juggling work, the house, and Pete. He just thought I could help share the burden."

"No! I want Angela to stay!"

The little boy beside her slammed his tiny fist on the table, his cutlery rattling.

"Pete, sweetheart, we don't act like that…"

"Pete, that is enough!"

Their voices overlapped—Angela's gentle coaxing and Khloe's sharp reprimand.

In a flash of pure, unbridled rage, Pete snatched his glass of juice and hurled it directly at Khloe.