As Thalas expanded at an unprecedented pace, nearly every sector of commerce in Cilicia surged in tandem. A relentless race for wealth and dominion ensued, from ruthless criminal syndicates to high-ranking government officials-all competing to amass fortune and influence. This struggle spread to every stratum of society, igniting fierce competition and compelling waves of migrants to flood into Thalas in search of employment within its sprawling mining industry.

  Stability remained elusive, teetering on the brink of chaos, until Gerard White emerged as the undisputed architect of power. Under his iron grip, no significant endeavor in Cilicia could proceed without his explicit sanction. Consolidating his dominion, White systematically secured a commanding stake in Thalas's lucrative mines, harnessing vast fortunes that he funneled into virtually every industry across Cilicia. Whether by direct ownership or clandestine maneuvering, he ensured that no enterprise flourished beyond the shadow of his control.

  Inevitably, White accumulated adversaries at every turn. Yet, his supremacy remained unchallenged. His foes, fractured and frail, waged war not only against him but against each other-a dynamic he had masterfully orchestrated. With cunning precision, White manipulated their rivalries, ensuring that their discord served as the very shield that safeguarded his reign.

  Not far from Neapolis, concealed from the prying eyes of the roads, stands a heavily guarded structure. Armed sentinels patrol its perimeter, their unwavering vigilance ensuring that nothing escapes unnoticed.

  A sleek black SUV glides through the heavily secured gates, its tinted windows concealing the occupant within. As the vehicle rolls to a stop, a tall, impeccably dressed young man emerges. With a practiced motion, he straightens the lapels of his tailored suit. His polished shoes click against the pavement as he strides toward the warehouse, exuding an air of effortless authority.

  Beyond the gates, an expanse of barren concrete stretches toward the looming warehouse-its cavernous interior repurposed from a mere storage facility into a staging ground for something far more sinister. A dozen armed guards flank a line of men, their backs pressed against the wall, their postures rigid with dread.

  "Turn around," the young man commands, his voice smooth yet laced with quiet menace.

  A heavy silence hangs in the air before the captives obey, their battered faces now exposed to his discerning gaze. His eyes sweep over them with calculated indifference before settling on one man at the center-a middle-aged figure with a swollen face, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

  "Who’s in charge?" the young man inquires, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

  One of the guards gestures toward the battered man, his bruised and bloodied visage a testament to the brutality he has already endured.

  The young man cocks his head, regarding the unfortunate soul with something akin to amusement. "I see my men have been... thorough," he muses, a glint of cold amusement as he surveys the damage inflicted.

  "Step forward," the young man commands, his voice edged with steel.

  The gang leader hesitates before taking slow, measured steps toward him. As he nears, the young man draws a pistol-but instead of aiming it, he extends it, grip-first.

  "Take it."

  The prisoner remains motionless, his breath shallow, uncertainty flickering in his weary eyes. The young man gives the gun a small wave and repeats:

  "Take it. There’s no need to be afraid."

  With visible reluctance, the gang leader reaches out and grips the firearm.

  The young man steps back and raises his voice, his words cutting through the air like a blade:

  "You, fully aware that I am the owner of the restaurant-"I, Benjamin White!"-still had the audacity to attack it!"

  The accusation hangs heavy in the tense silence. Then, his voice shifting to a calm, almost conversational tone:

  "Naturally, you failed. One of my men is gravely wounded, and another-"unfortunately" -is dead."

  He takes a deliberate step forward, pressing a finger firmly against the prisoner's chest.

  "Now, you have two choices." His voice is quiet, almost intimate "You can turn that gun on yourself right now, and I will spare your men. The matter ends here-your debt paid in full."

  A beat of silence.

  "Or," he continues, you execute ten of your own men-and you walk free."

  The gang leader looks down at the weapon in his trembling hands. The thought of turning it upon himself flashes through his mind, but the sheer terror of it makes him recoil. The weight of his own mortality presses against his chest, suffocating.

  Benjamin tilts his head, his patience waning.

  "Five seconds."

  The gang leader barely registers the countdown before Benjamin adds:

  "Otherwise, I kill every last one of you myself.”

  The gang leader, well aware that Benjamin White never utters idle threats, reacts on pure instinct. Without hesitation, he raises the gun, aims at one of his own men, and pulls the trigger.

  Click.

  The hollow sound echoes through the vast, dimly lit warehouse. No bullet. No recoil. Only silence.

  "Now do you see?" Benjamin says, his voice rich with amusement. "The man you’ve been following all this time wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in your head to save himself." Almost lazily, "And yet, here you all stand-alive. Don't forget who you owe that to."

  The prisoners hesitate for only a moment before shuffling toward the exit, their steps uncertain, as if waking from a nightmare.

  Benjamin watches them go, then shifts his gaze to the gang leader, who remains frozen in place. The man’s face has lost all color, his head hanging low, his body trembling as though the very marrow in his bones has turned to ice.

  Benjamin circles him slowly. The leader swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… make it quick. End it now."

  Benjamin chuckles, a low, mocking sound.

  "Oh, you're not worth the… inconvenience."

  He stops directly in front of him, locking eyes with the broken man.

  "Soon, a rather compelling video-starring you-will make its rounds in Neapolis. By the time you get home, you'll know exactly what I mean."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The leader’s breath hitches. "What… what video?" he stammers.

  Benjamin smiles, a glint of cruelty in his eyes. "You’ll understand when the rest of the cast arrives."

  With that, he turns to his bodyguards.

  "Strip him. Tie him up."

  The moment those words leave Benjamin’s lips, the gang leader erupts into sheer panic. He thrashes, convulsing with terror, his screams tearing through the stale air as he begs-pleads-for death instead.

  Benjamin doesn’t spare him another glance. He simply steps out of the building, the doors creaking shut behind him.

  "When you're done, dump him on the busiest street-naked," Benjamin orders, his tone devoid of emotion. Without another glance at the shattered man behind him, he steps out of the building, indifferent to the brutality that will unfold within. The fate of the forty-year-old criminal, now reduced to a wretched shell of himself, no longer holds his interest. What truly piques Benjamin’s curiosity is what comes next-will the man cling to his humiliation, or will he take the only escape left to him?

  Just as he slides into his car, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He answers without checking the caller ID.

  "Mr. White," a voice stammers on the other end.

  "Mr. White… your father is dead. Or rather-he’s been killed."

  His grip tightens around the phone, his voice sharpens like a blade.

  "How?"

  "In the mine territory. We're sending you the video footage now."

  A rare flicker of unease grips Benjamin. His father’s security was meticulously crafted-every risk assessed, every threat neutralized before it could take shape. No breach was possible. And yet…

  "Who?" he demands. "How did it happen?"

  There’s another pause, voice still shaken, replies:

  "The blow was to his head, sir. Likely a stone. But… we have no idea how someone managed to get close enough to do it.”

  Gerard White had long been regarded as untouchable-so deeply ingrained was this belief that even without his formidable security detail, few would have dared to challenge him. That is precisely why news of his assassination sends shockwaves rippling through Cilicia, igniting a frenzy of speculation and uncertainty.

  Among his enemies, a fragile hope flickers to life-a possibility, however slim, that his death might create a power vacuum they could exploit. But those who had truly understood the magnitude of Gerard’s influence knew better. They were well acquainted with his son, Benjamin White, a man more than capable of assuming his father’s mantle. If anything, many already feared Benjamin more than they had ever feared Gerard.

  Unlike his father, whose ruthlessness often concluded with a swift execution, Benjamin had cultivated a far more insidious reputation. Those who found themselves in his grip quickly learned that a bullet was a mercy he seldom granted. His punishments were not only physical but psychological-meticulously crafted to break a person from the inside out. The fate of his victims was not simply death but a degradation so profound that many would have chosen a bullet over the relentless torment he devised. He wielded not just violence but humiliation, and threats against family and loved ones, ensuring that his influence extended far beyond the grave.

  Yet Benjamin was not merely an agent of fear-he was also a master manipulator, a man who could forge alliances as deftly as he could dismantle them. He understood people, knew how to bend them to his will, how to win their loyalty or crush their resistance. In this, he surpassed his father, possessing a dangerous duality: the cunning to turn adversaries into allies and the cruelty to make defiance an unbearable option.

  Now, Benjamin's mind is consumed with a singular obsession-unmasking the architect behind his father's assassination. Vengeance is not just a duty but an inevitability. He must identify the culprit and deal with them accordingly. Gerard White's arrogance had often led him to underestimate threats, exposing himself to danger in ways that defied logic. It was entirely possible that some reckless lunatic had struck without fully grasping the consequences. Benjamin, however, was nothing like his father. He was methodical, calculating. He never permitted his security detail to lapse in vigilance, not for a single moment.

  After receiving the news, Benjamin retreats into his private office, isolating himself with a glass of aged cognac in hand. He reclines on the leather couch, a faint silly smile on his lips.

  "At last… absolute power is mine. No more answering to that decrepit old man, no more justifying my every move."

  He is certain that, in time, he will track down the assassin, but for now, the overwhelming realization of his newfound dominion fills him with exhilaration. To the world, he must play the grieving son, orchestrate a grand funeral, and make a pretense sorrow-but inwardly, he is already stepping into a new era where Benjamin White alone holds the reins of power.

  Yet, despite his triumph, he finds himself engaged in a one-sided war against a man who can no longer retaliate. Memories of past grievances resurface, fueling his resentment. He argues with the ghost of his father, recounting every slight, every injustice. It is, of course, an unfair fight-the dead do not defend themselves, they do not shift their strategies or reinforce their positions. But fairness has never concerned Benjamin.

  At this moment, the identity of the killer remains a mystery, but he knows one thing for certain-he will uncover them. He will make them regret their audacity.

  His thoughts are abruptly interrupted as his sister steps into the room.

  "Hello, Benji," the young woman announces as she strides in, tossing her sleek black leather handbag aside before languidly sprawling into the chair behind the desk. Benjamin, so consumed by his own thoughts, had momentarily forgotten about his older sister. The moment he lays eyes on her, his expression darkens.

  "And what exactly are you smirking about?" he snaps, his voice laced with contempt. "Show at least a shred of decency-our father has just been murdered."

  "Oh, Benji," she drawls, feigning exaggerated sympathy. "Don't try to convince me you're grieving-I wouldn’t believe it for a second." She swings her legs up onto the desk, crossing them nonchalantly.

  "Unlike you, I was always by our father’s side," Benjamin retorts, rising from his seat."But you, in your stubborn defiance, abandoned this family. And now, I see nothing has changed. You can turn around and leave the same way you came." He shoves her feet off the desk with a forceful hand.

  His sister merely chuckles, rising gracefully from her seat. She approaches him, places her hands on his cheeks, and regards him with a knowing smirk.

  "My dear little brother," she coos, voice dripping with amusement, "I simply couldn’t let you shoulder the burden of our vast empire alone." She playfully taps his nose with a manicured fingers. "I've come to claim my share."

  "You have no claim to anything," Benjamin hisses. "Our father left a will."

  The woman turns away, sauntering back to the desk, her long red nails deliberate rhythm on its polished surface.

  "For our father, drafting a will would have been an admission of mortality," she muses. "And that arrogant old pig was far too convinced he’d live to a ripe old age." She casts a glance over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with certainty. "I have no doubt-there is no will. So face the truth, Benji. I have just as much right to our empire as you do."

  Benjamin exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

  "Yes, you're clever," he murmurs, voice laced with mock admiration. "You’ve calculated everything flawlessly."

  In a swift, merciless motion, he seizes the heavy crystal cognac bottle and swings it with all his might against the back of her head. A sickening crack reverberates through the room as she stumbles forward, clutching her skull, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.

  "But you miscalculated one thing," he continues coldly.

  Before she can regain her bearings, he strikes again-this time with even greater force. The glass shatters upon impact, sending jagged shards cascading to the floor as she crumples with a strangled scream.

  Benjamin looms over her, eyes dark with unbridled fury. His fingers twist into her hair, yanking her head up before slamming it down against the marble floor. Once. Twice. Again. The dull thuds blend into the eerie silence that follows, interrupted only by the slow, steady spread of crimson seeping into the stone beneath her.

  He lets go, his breath ragged. For a moment, he stands motionless, his pulse hammering against his temple. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for his glass, downs its contents in a single swallow. It tastes like nothing-no fire, no warmth, just an empty liquid passing through his throat. His body betrays him, breaking into a cold sweat. Instead of dulling his senses, the alcohol amplifies the restless storm within him.

  His hand trembles as he dials a number, his voice is eerily steady.

  "Under no circumstances is anyone to enter or make calls. No exceptions. Until I say otherwise."

  Without waiting for a response, he drops the phone and collapses onto the couch. His gaze drifts to the lifeless body sprawled across the floor, but no guilt gnaws at him. Murder, to him, has always been an act of desperation, a crude display of weakness. He preferred artistry-breaking spirits. Death was an escape, a mercy he seldom granted.

  Discontent festers within him-not out of remorse, but out of disappointment. He could have played this differently, prolonged her suffering, orchestrated something far more exquisite. Had she arrived even hours later, she would have pleaded for death as his other victims had.

  A bitter exhale. A slow descent into slumber. And the crimson pool at his feet deepens in the quiet.