The dimly lit room had a heavy, almost suffocating stillness to it. The air, thick with the smell of old leather and faint tobacco smoke, seemed to press in from every corner. Outside, the wind had begun to rise, sweeping the dust across the cobbled streets, but in here, there was nothing but the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps and the occasional rustle of fabric.
Emilia, clinging to Hudson's chest, could feel the warmth of his body, but it didn't comfort her. She sensed that something was shifting between them, a tension that was too heavy to ignore. Her small form felt like a fragile thing against the hardness of his, as if she were a leaf caught in a relentless storm, helpless to escape.
She shifted slightly, almost as if she wanted to pull away, but Hudson's hand was there, a firm pressure against her back, keeping her close. His voice was low, cold, almost dismissive. "If you're afraid now, it's a bit late, don't you think?"
Emilia froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hadn't expected to feel the weight of his words, nor the disapproval that seemed to drip from them. Was he angry with her? The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She wasn't afraid of him, not really—not of his power or his reputation. It was something else, something deeper, something she couldn't quite name.
"I'm not afraid of you," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, a feeble protest in the quiet room. "It's just... I wasn't expecting this." Her words trailed off as the reality of her situation settled deeper into her chest.
Behind them, Baiyi's voice sliced through the tension, sharper now, a teasing edge to it. "You're not afraid? What's the matter, then? Are you sure you're not just waiting for Hudson to show you what he's really capable of?"
Emilia flinched, her gaze flickering to Baiyi, then quickly back to Hudson. His silence was unsettling, as if her words, her very presence, were things he couldn't even begin to fathom. The air around them thickened again, the weight of unspoken thoughts filling the space between them.
Baiyi pressed on, his tone mocking yet somehow playful. "You're not his sister, are you? What exactly do you want him to be for you, Emilia? You're not looking for a father figure, are you?"
Emilia's heart skipped a beat, and she found herself instinctively answering, "He's not my brother." The words escaped before she could stop them, and she regretted them the moment they left her mouth. The truth was, she didn't know what Hudson was to her. He wasn't her father, nor was he a brother. He was... something else. Something she couldn't define, even as it made her pulse race in a way she didn't fully understand.
Baiyi, ever the provocateur, smirked. "Oh? Then what exactly is it you want him to be, hm? Someone to take care of you?"
Emilia's heart fluttered painfully at the thought. She didn't want to be a burden, didn't want to need him. But in the quiet of this room, with his steady grip on her, she couldn't help but wonder if she was, in fact, seeking something from him. Something she knew she shouldn't want but did anyway.
"I... I don't know," she whispered, her voice trembling. The uncertainty was overwhelming, suffocating, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was becoming entangled in something far beyond her understanding.
Baiyi, with his characteristic grin, leaned forward, his words dripping with amusement. "Well, then maybe it's time for you to go. You're causing a lot of trouble here, and there's no telling what'll happen next if you stay."
The words were a blow, more painful than she expected. She recoiled slightly, instinctively pulling away from Hudson's grasp. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to keep her composure. "You don't want me here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Hudson's eyes met hers for a moment, the cold, calculating look in them making her heart sink. For a split second, she thought she saw something flicker in his gaze—something almost soft, almost... caring. But then it was gone, replaced by the cold indifference that she had come to expect from him.
"No," he said, his voice low, but firm. "It's not that. But you can't stay. It's too dangerous for you here."
Emilia's world tilted. Her chest tightened with panic as her thoughts spiraled out of control. She hadn't been afraid of leaving before, not really. She had bounced from one foster home to another for years, each new place a reminder that she was unwanted, unneeded. But this time, it was different. The thought of leaving him—of leaving Hudson—was something that felt unbearable, as if it would tear a hole in her very soul.
"No," she whispered again, her voice breaking. "Please don't send me away."
The tears that had been gathering in her eyes finally spilled over, warm and uncontrollable. She could feel them streaking down her face, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. What did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that she mattered to him. That he would care, even just a little. But she could see it now, clearer than ever: she was just another problem to him. Just another inconvenience.
As Baiyi spoke again, offering his usual sarcastic commentary, Emilia felt herself withdraw further into the shadows of her own mind. She didn't care about his words anymore. She didn't care about the plans, the decisions. She didn't care about anything except the feeling of his arms no longer holding her, the coldness that had crept into the room the moment he let go.
Hudson's voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, cold and final. "Find a family for her. Get her out of here."
She could feel his presence retreating even before he turned to leave, and the ache in her chest intensified. She didn't understand why it hurt so much. She had never mattered to anyone before. Why should it matter now?
But it did. It mattered more than she could say.
And when he left—when he turned his back on her—Emilia was left with nothing but the bitter taste of loneliness and the overwhelming sense that she had just lost the only person who had ever made her feel something close to cared for.
The city hummed with its usual drone, a monotonous sea of lights and distant clamor. But inside the glass-and-steel tower that crowned the skyline, Hudson was anything but at ease. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he couldn't quite tell where he was. The soft hum of the building's endless array of security systems—the faint buzzing of cameras, the drone of the air conditioning—should have been a comfort. Instead, it felt oppressive. His mind raced, calculating, reassessing the state of affairs in the blink of an eye.
The clock on the wall showed a time that jolted him upright. Damn it! He cursed under his breath, feeling the sharp sting of panic clawing at him for a split second. Not the kind of panic that left a man paralyzed, but the kind that sharpened his mind. His fingers curled into fists, the knuckles popping like a slow, deliberate warning. The entire building, every inch of it, was wired. Monitored. Guarded. He knew that. But the feeling of vulnerability was a nagging irritation, something that went beyond logic.
He stood, abruptly, his broad frame moving with the tense grace of a lion about to pounce. Today was too important. Today marked the moment when the Twelve Eagles' reach could either extend like a vast empire, or collapse under the weight of its enemies.
Shit! He could feel the weight of the responsibility crushing his chest.
The elders—his lieutenants, his trusted allies—would be waiting, already on edge. And he hadn't even bothered to show up on time. A mistake like that wasn't something a man in his position could afford to make. He stormed out of his office, taking the stairs two at a time as if the very act of moving swiftly could clear his mind of the dread that had started to settle there.
By the time he reached the fifteenth floor, his pulse was steady but his mind was a whirlwind. The room was already filled—too many people for such a small space, each one shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his silence.
Hudson stopped at the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the gathered faces.
"Hudson?" A voice trembled in the back of the room, uncertain, afraid.
And then another voice, the soft sound of someone choking on their own words, "Help... help..."
His brows furrowed deeply. What the hell is going on here?
He scanned the room, watching his subordinates shift under his gaze, their eyes avoiding his. Something was wrong—something deeply wrong. He felt it in the stillness, in the way the air had turned to lead, in the unnatural quiet that gripped the space. No one dared speak. No one dared move. A room full of seasoned criminals, hardened by years in the underworld, and yet they all stood as still as statues, their breath as quiet as thieves in the night.
Hudson's eyes narrowed to slits, and the weight of his gaze was enough to make anyone feel like they were about to be torn apart. "What the hell is wrong with all of you?" His voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder, but the fury behind it was unmistakable.
Around him, the tension escalated. His lieutenants exchanged furtive glances, each one growing more uncomfortable with every passing second. Jason, the most jittery of them all, swallowed hard, beads of sweat dotting his forehead.
"It's... your... your beard, Boss..." Jason stammered, his words almost a choking whisper.
Hudson didn't move, but his lip curled in a disdainful sneer. "What about my beard?"
The air was thick with the anticipation of disaster, the quiet sound of Jason's rapidly escalating panic filling the space between them.
"It... it's... white, Boss. It turned... white."
For a moment, Hudson didn't respond. He simply stared at Jason, his face a mask of disbelief. White?
Then, without warning, he gestured sharply. One of the lackeys—pale-faced and trembling—hurried to place a mirror in front of him. Hudson's hand shot out, gripping the edge of it as though he were holding the very weight of his world in that reflection. He caught his own gaze, but what he saw was nothing like the man he had always known.
White. His beard had turned white.
A growl of pure, unrelenting fury tore from his throat. His fingers clenched around the mirror, but he didn't break it. Who in the hell... Hudson's mind raced. His jaw locked, the muscles in his face twitching in sheer anger. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to dye my beard white?!
A cold, piercing rage flared up within him, so potent that it seemed to suffocate the air around him. His eyes, dark and stormy, scanned the room again. Every face now bore the same terror, the same haunted look, but it wasn't the usual fear of their leader's wrath—it was something else. They were terrified of what he might do next.
"Who did this?!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap, the fury in his chest boiling over like molten lava.
One of the bolder men shifted uncomfortably, but no one dared speak. They all knew better than to cross him. Hudson's teeth ground together. This was a deliberate insult. Someone was playing games with him.
His eyes flared with that familiar deadly rage—the kind that could flatten entire empires in a single breath. And yet, as he stood there, his chest heaving with anger, something else flickered in the back of his mind. Damn it, he thought with a sudden flash of cold humor. I look like a damn old man... a Christmas tree ornament.
But there was no room for laughter in this moment.
He turned to leave, his dark presence a shadow in the doorway, leaving a room full of terrified men in his wake, each one wondering who would be the unlucky bastard to take the fall for this latest blunder.
Hudson was never one to forgive easily. And tonight, someone was going to pay for this. They always did.