The city never slept. Underneath the neon haze and the abyss of shadows it cast, a kingdom thrived—not built on honor or law, but on blood and fear. And at its throne sat Isak—untouchable, unstoppable, a god among men who dictated the balance between life and death with the flick of his fingers.

In a world where survival was a game of power, Isak reigned supreme, his name an unspoken commandment whispered in reverence and dread. He was a phantom in the night, the storm before destruction, a man who held no weakness, no attachments. Love was an illusion for fools, and mercy was a story for the naive. He was a being sculpted from war and ruin, his heart an empire of ice that no warmth could ever thaw.

But beneath the mask of the ruthless mafia king, behind the empire he built both in the underworld and in the business world, lay a secret only a handful knew—power that could bring cities to their knees, destruction that was beyond human comprehension. He was not just feared because of his influence or his brutality. He was feared because, if he wished, he could burn the world to the ground with his own hands. And no one, except the few who stood beside him, knew the truth.

And then, he saw her.

It was an ordinary night, and yet, in that moment, something shifted. She stood on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vast city bathed in golden lights. The wind tangled her hair, carrying whispers of a world that had been both cruel and kind to her. She didn’t flinch, didn’t waver—she simply watched, as if searching for something in the sea of glowing windows below.

Isak could have walked away. Should have. But just as he was about to turn, she did something that made his breath catch.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then exhaled, as if releasing all the weight she carried. And when she opened them again, a faint smile played at her lips—not of sadness, not of defeat, but of quiet acceptance. A delicate defiance against everything that had tried to break her.

Isak felt something foreign stir within him. It wasn’t curiosity, nor was it fascination. It was deeper, more primal—an unexplainable force tethering him to her existence. His fingers twitched at his sides, a battle waging within him. He had built walls, fortified and unshakable, but with one fleeting moment, one silent act of resilience, she had found a crack. And it unsettled him.

She was supposed to be nothing. Just another passing face in a world he ruled. But as he turned away, something in his chest tightened, a pull he couldn’t ignore. His steps felt heavier, as if some invisible force demanded him to stop, to look back, to understand why this girl—this mere fragment of a life far removed from his own—unraveled something inside him he had never dared to acknowledge.

He didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t believe in weakness. But now, for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had already lost a battle he never saw coming.

The city glowed beneath him, endless lights flickering like dying stars. Isak stood by the window of his mansion, his fingers curled into fists as the image of her lingered in his mind. That girl—her quiet defiance, the way she smiled despite her sorrow—it had disturbed something buried deep inside him.

He exhaled sharply and shut his eyes.

And then, the memories dragged him back.

The scent of old books and expensive whiskey. The heavy weight of judgment pressing down on his small frame. The presence of a man who was more a shadow than a father.

Ragnar Varen.

The name was spoken in hushed tones, feared in every corner of the underworld. A king who ruled not with affection, but with power that made men kneel and beg. He was a man of ruthless ambition, his heart carved from stone. To him, family was a matter of legacy, not love.

Isak was never meant to be part of that legacy.

He was the son of a mistress, a woman who had been nothing more than a fleeting indulgence for Ragnar. A mistake. But she had loved Isak fiercely, sheltering him in a world that had no place for them. For five years, she had kept him safe, hidden from the cruelty that lurked within the Varen estate.

Until the night it all came undone.

He was five. Too young to understand the weight of betrayal, yet old enough to feel the coldness of death creeping into his bones.

The nightmares always came the same way—flashes of crimson, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, the suffocating silence before the scream that never fully formed. His mother’s last moments haunted him like a specter, dragging him into that night over and over again.

The mansion had been silent, the kind of silence that suffocated. He had run through the corridors, searching for his mother. The air smelled strange—metallic and thick. His small feet hesitated as he stepped into the grand hall.

She was there.

His mother lay motionless on the cold marble, her dark hair fanned around her like ink spilled over silk. Blood pooled beneath her, a deep crimson stain spreading across the floor. Her delicate fingers twitched as if grasping for something—someone.

Isak froze.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Her lips parted, trying to form words, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out. Tears clung to her lashes, her eyes glassy yet filled with a desperate kind of love. Even as life drained from her, she was searching for him.

His small hands shook as he stepped closer, his knees buckling beneath him. "Mama?"

Her lips moved again, but the sound barely reached him. His ears roared with the weight of something he did not understand. Something final. Something monstrous.

A distant rustle echoed in the silence—footsteps vanishing into the darkness. The ones who had done this were already gone, leaving only the wreckage behind. Isak was too young to know their names then, too innocent to understand the depth of their cruelty.

But he would learn.

His mother’s body jerked slightly, her fingers curling toward him one last time. A faint, broken whisper escaped her lips.

"Survive, my love."

And then—nothing.

The light in her eyes faded, leaving behind only emptiness.

Isak did not cry. He did not scream. He simply knelt beside her, his small hands curling into fists as something inside him shattered beyond repair.

That was the night he ceased to be a child.

The nightmares never left him. Even now, all these years later, they came like a cruel reminder. Some nights, he would wake up gasping, the phantom scent of blood clinging to his skin. Other nights, he would find himself drowning in that suffocating silence, reliving the moment her warmth slipped away from him.

For years, he buried his pain beneath steel and fire, forging himself into something unbreakable. His mother’s blood had been a lesson, a warning of what awaited those who were weak. The truth came later—whispers carried through hushed voices, hints of the ones responsible. His father's silence had been the final betrayal.

Ragnar had spoken to him once after the murder, a rare moment of acknowledgment.

"You are my blood, but do not mistake that for favor. Strength is all that matters in this world. You are either the hunter or the prey. Decide quickly."

There had been no comfort, no justice. Just a lesson wrapped in cruelty.

His half-brother had been given everything. Isak had taken nothing—until he became strong enough to claim it all.

His eyes snapped open, the weight of the past pressing against his chest. His fingers twitched, an old rage simmering beneath his skin.

His voice was barely a whisper, rough and laced with something unnameable. A promise, a question, a confession hidden beneath the weight of years.

"Who hurt you, my little girl?"

The words left his lips before he could stop them, slipping past the barriers he had built so carefully. His fingers curled tighter, his jaw clenched. Why did she matter? Why did her pain reach him when nothing else did?

He should forget her. Let her fade into the backdrop of his ruthless world. And yet—

Her image burned behind his eyes. That defiant, fragile smile. Those unshed tears. The quiet acceptance of a pain he did not yet understand.

One day, he would know. One day, he would find out what had shattered her, what had made her stand on the edge of the world as if she belonged to the abyss.

And when he did—

One day, he would make them pay. One day, he would burn the world they cherished to the ground.

Let the world burn for her.

And let them all burn with it.

Isak

The scent of whiskey and gunpowder lingered in the air, but Isak barely noticed. He sat at the head of a long, polished table, surrounded by men who ruled the underworld with blood and steel. The conversation flowed around him—territory disputes, weapons shipments, alliances on the verge of collapse.

It should have mattered.

But his mind was elsewhere.

The cliff.

Her silhouette against the night. The way she had stood there, fragile yet unyielding. The way she had wiped her tears and smiled, as if the world hadn’t just broken her.

His fingers curled into a fist against the table.

"Isak," Mikhail, his right-hand man, called, snapping him out of his thoughts. "What do you want to do about the East District?"

Silence.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening. "Do whatever you want."

Mikhail frowned, exchanging a glance with the others. Isak never gave vague orders. Never lost focus.

But tonight, something was wrong.

Isak exhaled sharply, irritation clawing at him. He had to pull himself together. He had ruled the underworld without weakness for years. He had no time for distractions.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her.

---

Moon

The library was silent except for the soft rustling of pages and the occasional whisper of a customer. Moon stacked the last of the books, her hands moving on autopilot. Her shift had dragged on longer than usual, and exhaustion settled into her bones.

But exhaustion was familiar. The dull ache of surviving another day.

She had learned young that life was not kind. That warmth was a fleeting thing, slipping through her fingers the moment she dared to hold onto it.

She had been abandoned before she could even understand what the word meant. Left on a doorstep, her cries swallowed by the night, unwelcome from the very beginning.

She grew up learning that love came with conditions. That kindness was a currency people demanded repayment for. That no matter how much she gave, it was never enough.

She had spent her childhood hoping, only to realize that hope was a cruel thing.

Now, she no longer hoped. She endured.

She worked herself to the bone, stretching every coin she earned, surviving on little sleep and cold meals that barely filled her stomach. But the world did not care. It never did.

And yet, she smiled.

She smiled because breaking wasn’t an option. Because no one would pick up the pieces if she shattered.

She smiled even when her body ached from exhaustion, when the weight of loneliness pressed against her ribs, when the world reminded her again and again that she had no place in it.

And now—now there was something else.

A presence. A feeling. A shadow lurking just beyond her sight.

At first, she had ignored it, blaming exhaustion, but it never went away. The weight of unseen eyes, the sensation of being watched—it clung to her, tightening around her throat like an invisible noose.

And yet, the cruelest part?

No one in her life would care if she disappeared.

No one would come looking for her.

As she stepped out of the library that night, the cold air bit into her skin, and for the first time in a long time, a shiver of fear curled around her spine.

She didn’t know that with every step, she was walking closer to the darkness waiting for her.

A darkness that had already set its sights on her.

---