Ziho moved through the streets like a living shadow, each step fueled by rage barely held in check. His fists were clenched so tight, his nails dug into his palms, drawing small crescent moons of blood. It wasn’t enough to calm him. Nothing was. Around him, the city pulsed with life, ignorant and fortunate. Power, beauty, wealth, talent—gifts thrown at people by luck. They hadn’t earned any of it. They never had to fight. He hated them for it.

A couple walked by, their fingers entwined, smiles painted on their faces, as if the world around them didn’t matter. Ziho’s lip curled. He felt the impulse to spit at them, to destroy their illusion with his anger, but Hart’s voice, sharp and cold, whispered in his mind:

“Unleash your anger at the wrong time, and you’ll drown in it.”

Ziho stopped mid-step, the words like a leash around his throat. The couple glanced at him, confused, their perfect little bubble of happiness unbroken. He stared back, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts, then exhaled sharply. Not now. He swallowed his rage, suffocating beneath it, and forced his legs to move again. His fists remained tight, blood still welling up between his fingers, dripping to the pavement unnoticed.

Ziho moved forward, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, the question gnawing at him with every step: Why do they get to live like this? His mind screamed against the injustice of it all, the sheer imbalance. They lived without fear, untouched by the dark currents of the world that had swallowed him whole. It wasn’t just the couple—it was everyone around him. People laughing, people walking with purpose, unaware of the storm that raged inside him. They were free in ways he could never be.

As he passed under the shadow of the tallest building in the city, his gaze was drawn upward, pulled against his will. The corporate tower loomed like a giant, its glass walls reflecting the fading light of day, cold and indifferent. It was a fortress, a monument to everything that was wrong with the world. Wealth, power, control—all hoarded by those at the top, while people like him were left to rot in the streets below.

Rage surged again, stronger this time, a tidal wave threatening to break. He could feel the urge rising inside him, to storm the building, to smash through the glass, to let his fury tear through everything in its path. But Hart’s words lingered like a ghost in his mind, a cruel reminder of the futility of it all. What would it change? He was a speck in their world. They wouldn’t even notice him.

Inside the tower, a sleek elevator hummed as it carried the final executive to the meeting. The man stepped out, his polished shoes clicking softly on the marble floor. The other executives sat in silence, their faces impassive, waiting. The room was bathed in a soft, sterile light, the kind that made everything feel distant, unreal. Only the faintest whispers of conversation could be heard as they prepared to discuss matters of profit and power, far removed from the suffering on the streets below.

Ziho stood there, staring up at the building, the blood from his clenched fists still dripping onto the sidewalk. His vision blurred with anger, but still, he did nothing. He was trapped, bound by his own rage, a prisoner of a world that had no place for him. One day, he told himself. One day, this will end.

Inside the glass-walled conference room, the executives sat around a sleek black table, the hum of wealth and power palpable in the air. They were calm, collected, speaking in measured tones that masked the gravity of their influence. Outside, the city stretched endlessly, pulsing with life—a machine running on the fuel they provided.

"Profits are up across the board," one of the executives began, his voice smooth and assured. "The people are buying exactly as envisioned. Our product pipelines are flowing steadily. We create the need, they consume. Everything is proceeding as expected."

There was a murmur of approval around the table. The others nodded, their gazes fixed on the projections being displayed on the screen in front of them. Charts, numbers, all symbols of their control over the economy. They had built this world, and it was running exactly how they wanted it to.

"Expansion into the outer districts has been especially lucrative," another executive added, tapping his pen thoughtfully. "The demand there is growing faster than we anticipated. We may need to push our projections for next quarter—"

"I’m sorry, but we need to address a more urgent matter," a voice cut through the discussion. The room quieted as all eyes turned to the man who had interrupted. He was older than most at the table, with silvering hair and a sharpness in his eyes that suggested he had seen far more than anyone else in the room.

"Go ahead, Carlisle," said the first executive, with a nod, though his tone held an edge of irritation at being interrupted mid-report.

Carlisle leaned forward, his expression tense. "It’s about Hart. Firing him was a mistake."

There was a pause, a ripple of discomfort through the group. Hart's dismissal had been a controversial decision, but one that had been pushed through by a majority vote. Still, not everyone had agreed with the reasoning.

"You can’t be serious," one of the others scoffed. "He was too expensive—eating up more than 10% of the corporation’s entire budget. We’ve already cut unnecessary costs, and it’s showing in our profit margins."

"I’m not saying we should bring him back," Carlisle continued, his voice steady, but with a weight that silenced any further objections. "But firing him has made him a loose end. Hart may have been expensive, but he was also integral to the future we’re trying to build. The speed at which we're moving—it's slowed. His contributions weren’t just valuable—they were critical. He advanced technology, research, things that even we profit from in the long run."

Carlisle paused, eyes sweeping the room. "Without our funding, Hart will look for someone else. He’ll sell his work to whoever can finance him. And if another power gains access to his research, his inventions…"

A silence settled over the room, heavier now. The others exchanged looks, the gravity of his words sinking in.

"You’re suggesting that we should've kept paying him his insane rates?" one of the younger executives pressed. "You can’t possibly believe that’s sustainable."

Carlisle shook his head. "No, I’m saying the opposite. We can’t allow him to work for anyone else. Hart is no longer under our control, which makes him a threat. He knows too much about our operations, about our plans. He’s a genius, yes, but without our leash, he could become a weapon used against us."

The room darkened as Carlisle's words hung in the air. The soft clinking of glasses stopped. Someone shifted uncomfortably in their seat.

"You’re talking about eliminating him," one of the women said, her voice low.

Carlisle met her gaze, unblinking. “He could cripple our monopoly. We built this empire on control, and control means eliminating threats before they have a chance to act against us."

Another executive, who had remained quiet until now, leaned forward. "Do you really believe Hart would go that far?"

Carlisle smiled, a grim expression. "Hart will go wherever the funding takes him. His loyalty is to his research, not to us. If someone offers him the resources to pursue his vision, he’ll take it, and he’ll burn the world down for it."

There was a long pause as the others absorbed the implications. The cold, clinical atmosphere of the room felt suddenly fraught with tension. The corporation had always prided itself on being untouchable, above the chaos of the world outside. But Hart... Hart was different. He wasn’t just another expendable asset. He was dangerous, unpredictable.

The tension in the room thickened, every executive quietly absorbing the weight of the situation. It was in this heavy silence that one of the bodyguards, a tall man in a dark suit, stepped into the room. His presence was met with immediate irritation—these meetings were sacred, reserved only for the highest echelons of power, and to interrupt them was unheard of.

The executives turned toward him, their expressions sharp, annoyed by the intrusion. The leader at the head of the table raised an eyebrow, his voice cold. “What is it?”

The bodyguard cleared his throat, clearly uneasy under the collective gaze of the room. “There’s someone at the reception,” he began cautiously. “He says he’s delivering a message.”

The irritation in the room deepened. A few of the executives exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from mild disbelief to outright disdain. This was not the kind of interruption they tolerated.

"A message?" one of the younger executives scoffed, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Couldn't this have waited until after the meeting?"

The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to the floor before answering. “The messenger claims he’s delivering a message from one of the underworld bosses… with the seal of another.”

A silence fell over the room once more. The executive closest to the bodyguard, an older man with a stern face, leaned forward, his voice tense but controlled. “And why couldn’t this wait until we were finished here?”

The bodyguard, clearly aware of the rising tension in the room, hesitated before answering. “The messenger said it was urgent. He wouldn’t leave without delivering it directly to one of you.”

Several of the executives exchanged irritated glances, and the leader at the head of the table sighed in exasperation, rubbing his temples. “We’re in the middle of a critical discussion, and this... interruption… is for a message from some street-level scum? We don’t have time for these insignificant matters.”

The door closed behind the bodyguard with a soft click, the tension in the room only briefly easing. The head executive straightened in his chair, his voice cutting through the remaining annoyance in the room. “Hart’s loose. We can’t afford that risk any longer.”

One of the younger executives, who had been sitting quietly throughout, finally spoke. “We’ve invested too much into his research. If he takes that knowledge to another power, we lose not just leverage, but everything we’ve built. Hart knows our structure, our weak points.”

Another executive, the one who had argued earlier about Hart’s expenses, folded his arms. “So what’s your suggestion, then? We can’t afford to just pull him back into the fold—he’s far too volatile now. And frankly, I’d rather not keep paying for his madness.”

The head executive nodded. “Precisely. That’s why we take more… decisive action.” He glanced at Carlisle. “We send a team. Make it look clean. An accident, if possible, but if not… well, Hart has a way of making enemies. It wouldn’t be hard to make it look like one of them got to him first.”

Carlisle’s expression darkened, but he didn’t argue. “I agree. Hart is too dangerous, and there’s no guarantee he hasn’t already made arrangements to sell what he knows. But we can’t rely on just one method. We should also use outside channels—more discreet, harder to trace back to us.”

The others were silent for a moment, considering.

“A bounty,” one of them said, his voice low and calculating. “We’ll quietly circulate it through the underworld. Offer enough money, and every killer, rogue, and desperate fool will be hunting Hart.”

“And if the bounty fails?” another executive asked, skepticism in his tone.

“It won’t,” Carlisle responded, his eyes cold. “We offer enough, and someone will get to him. They always do. If the team misses, the underworld won’t.”

The head executive leaned forward, his tone final. “Then it’s settled. We send the hitman team tonight. In the meantime, issue a bounty to our contacts below—discreet, but generous. Hart’s head is worth a lot to us. And the sooner it’s on a platter, the better.”

There were quiet murmurs of agreement as the executives began to gather their things, the decision made. As they prepared to leave, one of them, a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper wit, paused at the door. “Wait. The messenger. The underworld boy. He’s still waiting.”

Several of the others turned to look at her, disinterested.

“Do we really need to bother with him?” one executive asked, already halfway out the door. “We’ve handled what we came here for.”

The woman shrugged. “It won’t take long. Two minutes, no more, no less. It’s probably nothing, but we’ve ignored messages from them before and paid for it. Let’s hear him out. Worst-case, it’s a waste of two minutes.”

A few executives sighed, clearly uninterested, but another, one of the older men, nodded. “Fine. Two minutes. Then we leave.”

Out of the ten executives, six agreed to stay, the rest filtering out of the room, either from disinterest or time constraints. Some didn’t care about whatever message the underworld had to deliver. Others had other meetings, other deadlines—Hart wasn’t their only problem.

The remaining six exchanged glances, a silent consensus forming. “Send the messenger up,” one of them instructed the bodyguard who had returned, still standing near the door.

The bodyguard stepped into the elevator, his broad back obscuring the luxurious interior as he pressed the button for the base floor. A few minutes later, the doors slid open, revealing the reception area, where a young boy from the underworld sat nervously on a chair, eyes wide with awe at the sleek marble floors, glass walls, and polished metal fixtures that gleamed in the corporate headquarters. Everything about the place screamed power and wealth—two things that were utterly foreign to him.

As soon as the boy saw the bodyguard approaching, he quickly stood up, his heart racing. He tried to appear calm, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. The clean air here smelled different—crisp, sterile, like nothing he had ever breathed before. He didn’t belong in a place like this.

“They’ll see you,” the bodyguard said, his tone flat and professional. “Follow me.”

The boy nodded quickly, falling into step behind the man. As they stepped into the elevator once again, the boy’s breath caught in his throat when the lift started to rise. Through the glass walls, the city began to unfurl below him—gray streets stretching out like veins, the buildings rising and falling like jagged cliffs in the distance. He had never seen the city from this high up before, had never realized just how small his world really was. The neon lights that dotted the skyline in the distance twinkled like stars, but from up here, they looked insignificant, mere pinpricks in the vast sea of urban sprawl.

His fingers grazed the cool glass as he stared, wide-eyed, at the view. The bodyguard, standing stoically beside him, barely noticed the boy’s reaction, but as the elevator continued its climb, the boy was lost in the sights. The city was a vast, indifferent machine, and here he was, one tiny cog about to step into the heart of it.

When the doors finally slid open at the top floor, the boy was frozen for a moment, too stunned by the overwhelming scale of the world he had just glimpsed. It took the bodyguard asking him to move—twice—before the boy finally snapped back to the present, hurrying out of the elevator. His footsteps faltered again as they walked down the corridor, lined with even more bodyguards, all standing alert, their eyes tracking his every move. The tension in the air was palpable, making the boy's palms slick with sweat.

They reached a large set of double doors where yet another bodyguard stood, his expression unreadable. He looked the boy over, then turned toward the room beyond and nodded.

“He’s here,” the bodyguard announced.

There was a brief moment of silence from the other side of the door before it cracked open just slightly. The messenger boy's heart pounded in his chest. He had never imagined he'd be walking into a place like this—a place where real power resided. He swallowed hard, wondering what exactly he had gotten himself into. But there was no turning back now.

"Let him in," came the sharp voice from within.

The boy hesitated for a moment, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for the door handle. He glanced at the bodyguard beside him, who gave him a curt nod. This was it.

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Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The six executives sat comfortably in their high-backed chairs, each one representing a different facet of the corporate empire. They had the air of people who were used to being in control, their gazes sharp and expectant. The boy, standing nervously at the far end of the table, felt their eyes on him like needles. His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket.

All around the room, the personal bodyguards of the executives stood alert, their expressions cold and unreadable, their hands near concealed weapons, ready to spring into action at the slightest wrong move. The boy hesitated for a fraction of a second, but then slowly pulled out a folded piece of paper and placed it on the polished glass table before them.

One of the executives picked it up, unfolding it carefully. The room grew quiet as the melody’s lyrics were revealed: "Life is not worth living. It’s simple, really. Little gaining, many giving…"

For a brief moment, the executives exchanged puzzled looks, surprised by the cryptic song. None of them had seen this before, but they were quickly drawn to what lay below, scrawled in blood: "Not every life is equal. Some are worth more to some. We have Hart. If you want your precious scientist back, prepare to reach deep into your pockets. But we are willing to let him go for a generous bribe."

As the gravity of the message sank in, a few of the executives smiled, others leaned back in their chairs with relief. The situation, it seemed, was not as dire as they had imagined.

Carlisle, his expression unreadable, finally spoke up. "Is this all?" His tone was sharp, cutting through the momentary ease.

The boy nodded quickly, his nerves on edge. "Yes, sir."

Without a word, the executives motioned for the boy to leave. The bodyguard led him out, and as soon as the door clicked shut, a brief, hushed conversation began. It didn’t even last a minute.

The boy was called back in, the same bodyguard ushering him into the room once more. One of the executives handed him the paper, now neatly folded again. "Take this back," they said curtly, dismissing him.

Before he could respond, the bodyguard next to him hastily pushed him out of the room, forcing him into a quick march toward the elevator. The boy’s heart raced as he was practically hurried through the corridor.

The paper was sealed with gold, a symbol of wealth and power that made the boy's curiosity burn even more. He glanced down at it as the elevator descended, wondering what message he had just delivered—and more importantly, what the executives' response had been. But he knew better than to entertain the thought of opening it.

His fingers twitched, his mind racing as the elevator neared the base floor. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. But before he could bring it out, a firm hand clamped down on his wrist.

The bodyguard who had been shadowing him subtly shook his head, his eyes cold and warning. Whatever the boy was about to do, he wasn’t allowed. The unspoken rule was clear: no communications inside the building.

The elevator dinged as it arrived at the lobby. The doors slid open, revealing the gleaming marble floor and the massive glass doors that led to the outside world. Without hesitation, the bodyguard stepped forward, urging the boy to follow at a brisk pace.

They moved quickly across the lobby, the boy’s pulse quickening with each step. He could feel the weight of the sealed message in his hand, a dangerous burden he couldn’t wait to pass off. As they neared the exit, the boy’s mind whirled. What had he just been part of? What game was unfolding behind those high-security doors?

The bodyguard finally spoke as they reached the steps leading out of the building. "Now you can call your escorts," he said, his voice low and formal. "I’ll stay with you until they arrive."

The boy nodded, grateful for the sudden release of tension, though the bodyguard's presence still felt heavy. He pulled his phone out, his hands shaking slightly as he dialed the number. As the call connected and he spoke softly into the receiver, the bodyguard remained a silent shadow beside him, his eyes scanning the streets for any sign of trouble. The boy’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the distant hum of the city. Tension clung to the air between them, thick and suffocating. He glanced at the bodyguard, who stood stone-faced, his posture rigid yet alert, always a moment away from action.

Moments later, a black car rounded the corner, its windows tinted and its presence felt long before it arrived. The underworld escorts stepped out, rough around the edges, their eyes sharp and predatory. They moved with a fluid confidence, a kind of calm violence that simmered just beneath the surface. The bodyguard tensed, his hand hovering near his waist, and for a brief moment, the tension between them crackled like static in the air. Neither side spoke, but the weight of unspoken threats filled the space between them.

Ziho, sitting on the steps of a nearby building, watched the scene unfold. He bit into a sandwich, the bread dry in his mouth, but he barely tasted it. His eyes flicked between the bodyguard and the escorts, his body still, but his mind churning. There was always this quiet threat of violence, he thought, a constant undercurrent in the city. It didn’t matter if it was men in suits or criminals from the street—power spoke the same language, and it was always hungry.

From where he sat, Ziho felt like an outsider, a spectator in a world that played by its own rules, rules he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow. The bodyguard’s stiff posture and the escort’s swagger—two worlds colliding for a brief second, each side sizing the other up. But what would it come to? Probably nothing. It never did. He hated the futility of it. The posturing, the threats, the endless cycle of control. They'd walk away soon, unscathed, untouched by the darker truths that gnawed at people like him.

He swallowed another bite, his stomach tightening. The sandwich felt like a joke in his hands, a mundane act that mocked the storm inside him. While they played their little power games, Ziho was just… eating. Filling a hunger that had nothing to do with the food in his mouth. It was a hollow gesture, like everything else.

The standoff ended as quickly as it had begun. The bodyguard gave a slight nod to the boy, a wordless command for him to go. The escorts, too, remained professional, exchanging glances but ultimately stepping aside. Ziho watched as the boy climbed into the car, the door slamming shut with a thud that echoed through the street.

Ziho’s hand tightened around the sandwich, his knuckles white, his nails biting into his palm. He could still feel the anger simmering under his skin, the same rage that had been with him all day. The bodyguard stood alone now, his eyes scanning the street, perhaps lingering a second too long on Ziho. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Ziho could tell the man saw him, acknowledged him. It wasn’t a friendly glance, nor a hostile one—just recognition. Ziho wasn’t invisible here, but he was still powerless.

As the bodyguard turned away and started walking, Ziho felt a stab of disillusionment. Nothing ever happened. Even in moments of tension like that, the world didn’t break. The powerful people always walked away unscathed, leaving people like him to choke on their own anger. He spat a piece of bread onto the pavement, the taste bitter in his mouth.

Hart’s voice drifted back into his mind, a sharp reminder of control. “Unleash your anger at the wrong time, and you’ll drown in it.” Ziho clenched his jaw. What would Hart have done? Hart played the long game. Hart would have watched, waited, bided his time. But Ziho wasn’t Hart. He wasn’t built for patience.

The sandwich in his hand felt like a weight now, a symbol of the ordinary life he would never have. Those people—the bodyguard, the boy, the escorts—they all played their roles. They knew their place in the game. But Ziho? He was stuck between worlds, watching as others controlled their fates while he was left to gnaw on crumbs.

Ziho’s gaze lifted to the corporate tower looming overhead, its reflective glass catching the dying light of the sun. The same cold fortress of power that he’d passed earlier. A fortress built on the bones of people like him. People who didn’t get to choose their fate, who were crushed underfoot while the powerful walked untouched.

“One day,” Ziho muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. “One day this will end.” But even as he said it, a bitter truth gnawed at him. The weight of his own anger felt like a chain around his neck, growing heavier with every passing moment. He didn’t know if he’d last long enough to see that day.

As the underworld car disappeared around the corner, a flicker of memory shot through him, jagged and sudden. It was like a shard of glass—sharp, unsettling. He saw himself back in his apartment: Hart pacing, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor, his mind clearly elsewhere. Ziho was in the midst of a workout, the rhythmic sound of his breathing and the clink of weights almost drowned out by the quiet hum of the city outside.

Then, just as he’d taken a break, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes drifted to the window. That’s when he saw it—the same car. It roared past, its engine a low growl beneath the hum of the city. Hart’s voice filtered through the walls, barely more than a murmur, but Ziho caught the words: “Prototype... need to get it back.”

Ziho hadn’t paid it much attention at the time; Hart was the type to share what was necessary and nothing more. But now, standing on the street, the world around him buzzing with life, that snippet of conversation felt heavier, more deliberate.

The uneasy alliance between the underworld and corporate powers never sat right with him. He could see it now—the tension simmering beneath their thin veneer of cooperation, two predators circling each other, both too cautious to strike first. The prototype… could it be caught in the middle of that clash? Hart, once a corporate scientist, had enemies in both worlds. But if anyone wanted to make a move, the underworld was the perfect candidate.

Ziho walked past the building, his mind clouded with thoughts of Hart’s cryptic murmurs about a "prototype." The setting sun cast long shadows across the street, its dying light reflecting off the glass windows of the towering structure beside him. He stopped for a moment, leaning against a lamppost, when he spotted someone pacing nearby, muttering under their breath.

It was De. He seemed frustrated, almost frantic, as he rifled through his pockets and glanced around the ground, clearly searching for something.

Ziho frowned, his interest piqued but not exactly pleased.

Ziho stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tense air. "Lose something?"

De’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he recognized Ziho. "Nothing you’d be interested in."

"Yeah, maybe not," Ziho muttered, stepping aside. He hesitated, then added, "You know anything about a prototype?"

De’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but he quickly masked his surprise. "What makes you think I would?"

Ziho shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "Heard something. Working with Hart, y’know. He mentioned it when he thought I wasn’t listening."

De’s expression hardened. "Hart." He repeated the name with a mixture of disdain and interest. "So you’re mixed up in that now? Working for him?"

"Something like that," Ziho admitted, though his jaw tightened.

The two men stood there, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air. Ziho could sense De’s mind working, trying to decide how much to share, if anything at all.

De’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "You’ve no idea what you’re involved in, do you?"

Ziho’s gaze hardened. "Probably not. But I’ll find out."

De hesitated, glancing around the street, then back to Ziho. "What if I know something about it? But I won’t say a word… unless you arrange something for me."

Ziho raised an eyebrow. "What kind of 'something'?"

"A meeting," De said quietly, the slyness returning to his voice. "With Hart. And I’ll only talk if he’s there."

Ziho raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. "Why? You two don’t exactly seem like you’d get along."

De shrugged. "That’s none of your concern. But if you want to know about the prototype, that’s the price."

Ziho stepped forward, anger simmering. Without a word, he grabbed De by the collar and lifted him off the ground with one hand. De’s eyes widened as Ziho brought him face to face.

"Tell me now," Ziho growled. "Or I’ll make sure you regret it."

De’s face twisted in pain, but his defiance didn’t waver. "You’ll have to do better than that," he hissed. "I talk when Hart’s there. Not before."

Before Ziho could respond, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"Hey! No funny business here."

Ziho’s head snapped toward the voice. A corporate guard stood a few feet away, hand resting on his stun baton, eyes watching them closely. Ziho cursed under his breath and quickly lowered De to the ground.

The guard tilted his head, a silent warning to drop the act. Ziho forced himself to take a step back, fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to reign in his frustration.

De coughed, straightening his jacket and fixing Ziho with a triumphant look. "You heard him. No trouble around here."

Ziho stared at De for a moment longer, his mind racing, then sighed. "Fine. I’ll set up the meeting. But you better hold up your end of the deal."

De smirked, straightening his collar. "I always do."

For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension still thick between them. Ziho watched De carefully, unwilling to trust even the faintest smile that curled at the edge of his lips. Something about the man's ease bothered him, as if De thrived in moments like this.

De sighed, glancing around as though searching for something. "By the way," he said, voice softer now, almost casual, "have you seen a paper around here? One with a melody written on it?"

The question caught Ziho off guard. De's tone lacked its usual sharpness, carrying a hint of vulnerability. Whatever this paper was, it seemed to mean more to De than just notes scribbled on a page.

Ziho frowned. "A melody? No. Haven’t seen anything like that."

De’s shoulders slumped briefly, disappointment flashing across his face before he masked it with his usual calm exterior. "If you do," he said quietly, "let me know."

They began walking, the conversation drifting into silence as the sound of distant traffic hummed in the background. Ziho had expected their exchange to end there, but then De slowed his pace, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

"You ever thought about working with me?" De asked, his tone cautious but probing. There was something almost genuine in his voice, as if this wasn’t just another manipulation.

Ziho hesitated, mulling over the question. He had thought about it—briefly. De had power, influence, and a strange clarity about his goals, even if those goals were twisted. For someone like Ziho, who often felt directionless, De’s certainty could be appealing. But he couldn’t ignore the way his gut twisted at the thought.

"Yeah," Ziho admitted slowly. "But I feel more like working with Hart."

De’s expression darkened for a fraction of a second, but he quickly composed himself, nodding as if he had expected that answer. "Hart…" He let the name hang in the air, his tone edged with something Ziho couldn’t quite place. "He offers stability, doesn’t he? Security. A place in the corporate machine." He scoffed. "But you know, don’t you? He’ll never trust you fully."

De’s words lingered in the air, the suggestion of mistrust cutting through the conversation like a knife. Ziho’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "What are you talking about? Hart isn’t part of the corporate machine anymore. He was fired."

De’s confident smirk faltered. His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the revelation. "Fired?" he echoed, disbelief creeping into his tone. He studied Ziho’s face, searching for any hint that this might be a trick. "Are you sure about that?"

Ziho nodded, his gaze hardening. "Yeah, I’m sure. You sound surprised. Thought you knew everything, De."

De’s expression shifted from surprise to something more calculating, his mind clearly working through this new piece of information. "Interesting," he murmured, half to himself. "That changes a few things."

Ziho’s suspicion deepened. "How do you even know about Hart?" he pressed, taking a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "What’s your connection to him?"

De, regaining his composure, offered a thin smile. "I’ll explain everything in the meeting. When Hart’s there." His voice was smooth again, but Ziho could sense he was holding something back.

"That wasn’t the deal," Ziho said, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He was tired of the half-truths, the cryptic answers. But before he could press further, a flicker of genuine concern crossed his face. "You haven’t seen him lately, have you? I haven’t in days."

De’s eyes darkened, the playful edge gone. He shook his head. "No. Not recently." He paused, considering Ziho’s question carefully. "Should I have?"

Ziho exhaled, his concern deepening. "He usually checks in, even if it’s just a message. But… nothing."

De studied him for a moment, his gaze sharper now. "And you think that means something?"

Ziho hesitated, glancing away, uncertain of what to make of it himself. "I don’t know. But something feels… off."

De’s silence stretched between them, but his mind was clearly spinning with possibilities. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Keep an eye out, then. For both our sakes."

Just as Ziho started to walk away, De’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, recognizing the contact—Ony. His brows furrowed as he answered.

“Ony, what is it?”

There was a crackle on the other end of the line, followed by a hurried voice. “De, I was in the market, just doing some shopping, when I saw Hart.”

“Hart?” De’s voice sharpened, and Ziho, though walking away, caught the sudden urgency in De’s tone, his steps slowing slightly.

“Yeah,” Ony continued, his voice strained. “But it wasn’t right. I followed him, kept my distance. He didn’t even notice me. He was… taken.”

De’s grip tightened on the phone. “Taken? By who?”

“Gangsters. They came out of nowhere. But the strange part is, there was no fight. They walked right up to him, and he went with them. No resistance at all.”

A shadow flickered across De’s face, revealing a glimpse of something deeper—a concern buried beneath layers of calculation. He hesitated before speaking, almost to himself. “If they’re picking him up this easily... maybe he really isn’t a corporate anymore.”

Ony’s voice sharpened with surprise. “Wait, what? You think he’s out of the game?”

De’s brow furrowed. “It’s possible. I’ve heard someone say that, and now this... It adds up. But we can’t be certain.”

Ony’s tone became cautious, his disbelief barely hidden. “If that’s true, it changes things. Do you think the gang knows?”

De’s expression hardened as he made a quick decision. “It might not matter to them. Keep watching, and don’t let anything slip. We’re still in the dark.”

“Got it,” Ony said. He paused before adding, “I talked to Rif about this.”

De’s eyes narrowed. “You did? What did he say?”

“He’s already here,” Ony said carefully. “He’s supposedly trying to de-escalate the situation.”

De’s brow furrowed. “Supposedly? What does that mean?”

“I don’t have all the details, but it’s better if we discuss it in person,” Ony replied, his voice tense but steady. “I’ve been watching for a couple of hours now, but I haven’t seen either Rif or Hart. The tension around the market is rising; civilians are starting to clear out, and more gangsters with concealed weapons are moving in.”

De's jaw tightened as he absorbed Ony’s words. “Understood. Keep an eye on things,” De said, ending the call and pocketing his phone.

Seeing Ziho stride away, De's heart picked up speed. He jogged after him, reaching out to tap Ziho’s shoulder. “Wait!” he called out, urgency in his voice.

Ziho spun around, eyes flashing with irritation. “What now?” he snapped, his voice tight.

De took a breath, feeling the weight of the news he had to share. “I just got a call,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hart’s been taken by gangsters. Someone I trust is keeping an eye on him, and it’s bad. If we don’t move fast, we could lose our chance to find out what he’s really up to.”

Ziho’s expression shifted from annoyance to disbelief. His jaw tightened, and without warning, his fist shot up. “Stop playing games with me!” he shouted, his fist hovering inches from De’s face. “Hart’s got nothing to do with you. Why should I believe a word you say?”

De didn't flinch. Instead, he held Ziho’s gaze, his own expression hardening. “Because if we don’t act now, we might never get the answers we need about Hart. Whatever he’s mixed up in, this is our chance to find out. And you know you’re just as curious as I am.”

Ziho’s fist trembled, knuckles white, but something in De’s tone made him pause. Slowly, his arm lowered. He let out a heavy breath, frustration clear in the tight line of his jaw. “If you’re lying to me,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “you’re going to regret it.”

“I’m not,” De said simply, his words steady and without a hint of fear. “You want the truth? Then we need to move. Now.”

For a tense moment, they stood locked in a silent confrontation. Then, with a reluctant nod, Ziho stepped back. “Fine. But don’t expect me to trust you.”

“Just follow me,” De replied, already turning away. Ziho hesitated for a heartbeat, gathering his resolve. No matter the danger, he couldn’t leave Hart to face it alone. He fell into step beside De, his eyes still burning with suspicion as they moved swiftly through the fading light toward whatever lay ahead.