Mark and Zidan stood as though rooted to the floor, their heads bowed and their shame hanging as heavy as the dim light in the room. It was the kind of silence that doesn't just fill a space—it invades it, sinking into the walls and pressing on the chest like a weight too great to bear.
The air itself seemed to accuse them, though Lena Volkov hadn't spoken a word. She didn't need to. Her presence alone carried more authority than any outburst could muster.
Mark felt a bead of sweat snake down his spine, irritatingly slow and cold, as though mocking him for standing there. Zidan, for his part, had locked his jaw so tightly it was a wonder he hadn't shattered a tooth. Neither dared to look up.
The only sound in the room was the slow, rhythmic tapping of Lena's fingers against the armrest of her leather chair—each tap deliberate, measured, and brimming with judgment.
Lena sat like a queen on her throne, her poise unnervingly perfect. The light above cast faint shadows across her sharp features, emphasizing a beauty that was cold, calculated, and entirely without comfort.
If her looks could have been a weapon, they'd have been a dagger—sleek, precise, and designed to leave no trace of warmth behind.
For what felt like an eternity, the silence held. Then, Lena spoke, her voice low and calm, though it cut through the room with the precision of a scalpel.
"So," she began, each word carefully placed, "you were sent to tail a college student. A student. And instead of accomplishing something as simple as following him, you return humiliated."
Mark instinctively opened his mouth to respond, but before a word could form, Lena raised her hand. The gesture wasn't sharp—it didn't need to be. The air itself seemed to freeze, silencing him more effectively than any shout.
"I'm not finished," she continued, her voice carrying an edge now, like frost creeping across a windowpane. "One student. That's all it was. And yet, you're standing here telling me that he somehow defeated you?"
Zidan shifted slightly, a breath escaping his lips as he tried to gather himself. "It wasn't just any kid, boss," he managed, though his voice sounded as if it might give out at any moment. "There's… there's something different about him."
Lena arched one elegant brow, the faintest flicker of interest passing over her face. However, it did nothing to soften the ice in her eyes. "Different," she repeated, as though tasting the word for the first time. "Go on."
"He's fast," Zidan blurted, the words tumbling out now. "It was like he knew every move we were going to make before we made it. He disarmed us in seconds—he made us look like fools."
Mark, desperate to back up his partner, nodded quickly. "It's true, boss. He's not just some rich kid. He's trained—really trained. We've been at this for years, but he made us look like amateurs."
Lena leaned back in her chair slightly, her fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping. Her eyes narrowed as though calculating something they couldn't fathom. "A college student with combat skills," she said softly, her voice carrying a curious lilt. "What you're describing doesn't sound like someone from an unknown family."
Before either of them could speak, Lena's voice cut through the room, deceptively calm, like a blade slipping through silk. "You know what kind of family I mean, don't you?"
Mark and Zidan nodded, their movements jerky and uncertain, like schoolboys caught out of their depth. They didn't need her to elaborate.
Since being drawn into this world—plucked from the lowest rungs of society and given a glimpse behind the curtain—they had learned more than they cared to know about how things truly worked.
The families Lena spoke of weren't the kind you'd find around a warm hearth or passing down heirlooms. No, these families weren't defined by bonds of affection but by ironclad hierarchies and ruthless ambition.
They didn't merely live in cities or states—they owned them, and through them, they owned everything else. Like unseen clockmakers, they wound the gears of entire nations, their influence stretching far beyond what most people could imagine.
She paused, her gaze flicking between them like a hawk deciding whether or not to strike. "If he's from an unknown family, he shouldn't have the ability to take down even my weakest operatives. And yet, here you stand."
Mark and Zidan exchanged uneasy glances. Their thoughts mirrored each other's. They weren't the best in Lena's ranks, but they were experienced—enough that this mission should have been straightforward. And yet, it wasn't.
Lena rose from her chair with a deliberate grace, her boots clicking softly against the polished floor as she began pacing. "Do you know why I gave you this job?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft. They remained silent, not daring to answer.
"It was beneath my best operatives," she continued, her tone shifting to something sharper now. "I assumed it wouldn't require much skill. Simple surveillance. And yet, you've managed to turn this into something far more complicated."
Mark flinched, his pulse quickening as he scrambled for words to defend himself. "We never thought he would fight back, boss. He was supposed to be easy—a rich kid with too much time on his hands. We thought—"
"There's your first mistake," Lena interrupted coolly. "You thought." She stopped pacing, her piercing gaze locking onto him. "In this business, you're not paid to think. You're paid to succeed."
Zidan's knees felt weak, his hands trembling slightly as he clenched them into fists to hide the motion. The room felt smaller, as though the walls themselves were closing in. Mark, unable to hold his tongue, tried one last time.
"We didn't let our guard down on purpose!" he said, his voice rising slightly. "It's just… he's not normal. He's trained in something. We couldn't match him."
Lena tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with faint amusement. "Trained," she repeated, her tone turning almost mocking. "Trained in what, exactly?"
Zidan faltered, his mouth opening and closing before he finally stammered, "We're not sure… martial arts, maybe."
A faint smile curled at the corner of Lena's lips, though it carried no warmth. "So let me summarize," she said, her voice low but cutting. "A college student—one with no affiliations—managed to outsmart and overpower two of my people with martial arts."
She stopped pacing and stood before them, her sharp eyes calculating. "Enough of that," she said, her voice calm but cold, like the crack of ice underfoot. "Tell me about the money. What else do we know about him?"
Mark, ever eager to salvage the situation, leaped in as if to prove his worth. "We followed him for a while, boss. He's got money—serious money. He went to the Jerai Royale Hotel, where we saw him meeting someone in a private room. But…" He hesitated, casting a sidelong glance at Zidan. "We couldn't get close enough to see who it was."
Lena's expression didn't change, but her gaze hardened, slicing into Mark like a blade. "So, you don't even know who he met?" she asked, her tone deceptively mild.
Mark faltered, his confidence visibly wilting. "Not at first," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.
Zidan, sensing an opportunity to step in, took over with a steadier tone. "But we followed him afterward, boss. He went to a property agency and was looking at that famous unsold building—the one by Luca Moretti."
Lena tilted her head slightly, her interest piqued. "Moretti's building?"
"Yes," Zidan continued, gaining momentum. "And he wasn't alone. He went to view it with a female agent. That's when we saw him—David Turner. It's him, boss. We're sure now. Turner must've been the one meeting Ethan at the hotel."
"And Moretti was there too," Mark added, stumbling over his words in his haste. "Both of them."
Lena's sharp gaze flicked between the two men, her interest unmistakable now. "David Turner and Luca Moretti?" she said softly, her voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How do two of the city's most influential men end up in a deal with a college student?"
Mark nodded; his relief was palpable. "We're not sure what the deal was, boss, but it wasn't small. Moretti handed over the keys and access cards to the building, and Turner talked seriously with Ethan. It didn't look casual—it looked big."
Lena leaned back slightly, her fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of her chair. Her gaze sharpened further, her thoughts moving faster than her operatives could follow.
Turner and Moretti weren't the sort of men who wasted their time on trivial matters. The fact that both were tied to this young man meant only one thing: there was far more to Ethan Cole than anyone had guessed.
"This isn't just some spoiled brat flaunting his wealth," Lena murmured, almost to herself. "He's moving in circles far bigger than we anticipated."
The room fell into silence again as Lena considered the implications. Turner and Moretti were careful men—calculating, strategic. They didn't enter partnerships lightly, nor did they tolerate risks that weren't worth taking.
And yet here they were, connected to a college student who was, by all outward appearances, nothing special. What were they seeing that she hadn't?
Lena's lips pressed into a thin line as the pieces began to fall into place. Her family, the Volkovs, had built their reputation on always being a step ahead.
To the world, they were celebrated business moguls and pioneers in real estate, technology, and finance. But in the shadows, their reach extended far beyond what any news report dared to suggest.
They were the architects of the Shadow Syndicate—a network that didn't just profit from the underworld; it owned it.
For Lena, this legacy wasn't just a birthright. It was a challenge, a test she had to pass if she wanted to claim her place as the family's next leader. She wasn't the only contender.
The Volkovs had three heirs, and the competition was as ruthless as the empire they sought to control. Novan City had become Lena's proving ground, the stage on which she would outmaneuver the other heirs. Every operation, every alliance, every acquisition was another move in the unspoken war for dominance.
Ethan Cole was suddenly more than just an intriguing figure—he was an opportunity. If Turner and Moretti had seen potential in him, so could she. "If I can secure something from him…" she thought, letting the rest of the sentence form silently in her mind.
Her lips curled into a faint smile, though there was nothing warm about it. Ethan Cole wasn't just a college student anymore. He was a player in a game far bigger than he seemed to realize. And now, he was on her radar.
"If he's tied to Turner and Moretti," Lena said, her voice quieter now, though no less commanding, "then he's not someone we can afford to ignore. He's either backed by someone powerful or hiding something far more dangerous."
Zidan swallowed audibly, his voice shaky as he ventured to ask, "What… what do we do now, boss?"
Lena's sharp gaze turned on him, and her expression shifted to one of unyielding seriousness. "We don't do anything," she said coldly. "I don't want any more mistakes. I'll handle this myself."
Mark and Zidan, visibly relieved, exchanged brief glances, their shoulders relaxing slightly. But their relief was short-lived. Lena's stern expression deepened, and her voice took on a cutting edge that made the air feel heavier.
"But let me make one thing clear," she continued, her words measured and deliberate, each one landing like the crack of a whip. "If you fail me again—on any mission—you won't get the chance to say sorry."
The men stiffened immediately, their brief reprieve vanishing as they nodded in quick, fervent agreement. Their throats seemed to close around the words they didn't dare utter.
"Now, leave," Lena commanded, a single, graceful gesture dismissing them. "And try to keep yourselves out of trouble."
Mark and Zidan wasted no time. They practically stumbled over themselves in their haste to obey, disappearing through the door with hearts racing and egos thoroughly battered. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Lena alone in the silence of the room.
Lena moved to her desk, her movements deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She accessed the sparse file her team had pieced together on Ethan.
It wasn't much—barely more than a collection of breadcrumbs—but every detail seemed to carry weight, every missing piece hinting at something larger.
Her lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Ethan Cole had become more than a target. He was a chance for her to beat the other heirs. And Lena Volkov never walked away from such a chance.
If he thought he could operate in her city unnoticed, he was mistaken. It was only a matter of time before their paths crossed. And when they did, Lena would ensure she held the advantage.
The room seemed to grow colder as she sat back, her thoughts sharp and deliberate. The game had begun, and Lena Volkov wasn't one to lose.