The roaring engine of a Lamborghini Aventador reverberated through the prestigious parking lot of Zenith University, a sprawling institution known as the intellectual crown jewel of the nation. The car, painted in an icy shade of matte silver, came to a smooth halt, drawing the eyes of students who loitered nearby.
The driver's side door opened, and out stepped Roniel Armstone, his tailored outfit—a dark designer blazer paired with slim-fit trousers—clinging perfectly to his tall, athletic frame. His sharp jawline, piercing gray eyes, and neatly styled jet-black hair could have made him the envy of any modeling agency. But today, frustration marred his otherwise impeccable features.
He patted his pockets, then cursed under his breath. "Damn it," he muttered. "Forgot the mask."
The face mask had become his shield, a way to keep the world at bay. Now, he stood exposed, his identity on full display. He couldn't afford to go back home; missing class wasn't an option. Yet, as he began walking toward the lecture hall, the murmurs started.
"That's Roniel Armstone, isn't it?" a girl whispered to her friend.
"Yes," the friend replied, her voice tinged with awe. "Son of the Armstone. You know, the business tycoon? Practically runs the country behind the scenes."
The first girl blushed. "I've been crushing on him since the first day I saw him. He's so…"
"Out of your league," her friend interjected, a mix of pity and realism in her tone. "Guys like Roniel don't notice girls like us. He's untouchable."
Roniel clenched his jaw as he heard the whispers growing louder. He hated being stared at, being talked about like some rare artifact. His long strides carried him past the throngs of gawking students.
His silence made him enigmatic; his looks and wealth made him untouchable. The air of detachment he carried was intentional—a carefully cultivated armor. As he walked, the sunlight caught the platinum cufflinks on his blazer, a small but deliberate display of luxury.
Near the entrance to the lecture hall, two girls were engrossed in a lively conversation.
"I swear, he looked at me during class yesterday," one of them giggled.
"Don't be ridiculous. Guys like that don't—"
Their banter was cut short as Roniel, distracted by his own thoughts, bumped into one of them. Books and papers went flying, scattering across the ground.
The girl looked up, startled. Her large hazel eyes locked with his, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her soft curls framing a delicate face. Her friend stood frozen, watching the scene unfold.
Roniel broke the silence, his voice cold. "Watch where you're going."
The girl's cheeks flushed. "I—I'm sorry," she stammered.
He narrowed his eyes, his tone sharper. "Sorry for your stupid self girl.Make sure this doesn't happen again because the next time this happens I won't be this polite."
The girl's friend stepped forward, her face burning with indignation. But before she could speak, the girl placed a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her.
Roniel walked away, his posture rigid, leaving the girls behind.
"Why didn't you say anything?" the friend demanded. "He was so rude!"
"I don't know," the girl murmured, still watching Roniel's retreating figure.
Roniel approached his friend, Marcus, the only person he spoke to at the university. Marcus, lounging against a bench, smirked as Roniel approached.
"What's got you in a mood, lover boy?" Marcus teased. "You bump into someone special?"
"Don't start," Roniel said curtly. "Love doesn't exist. It's for the weak."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? And what makes you so sure?"
Roniel's gaze hardened. "Love is just a distraction. A weakness people use to control you. Power—that's what matters. And power doesn't need love."
"Fair enough," Marcus said, shrugging. "So, where's your mask? Forgot it at home?"
Roniel nodded.
"Why do you wear it anyway?"
Roniel's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Because I'm a man of power and influence and many people want to destroy but fortunately people can't destroy what they don't see."
Marcus laughed. "Always so cryptic. Why are you so quiet all the time?"
"Because power whispers my dear friend. It does not talk." Roniel replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
In another part of the city, an old man entered a dimly lit room. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, and a frail woman lay on a bed, her pale face framed by silver-streaked hair.
"My husband," she whispered, a weak smile gracing her lips.
He knelt beside her, his hand trembling as he clasped hers. Tears streamed down his face. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice breaking.
She stroked his cheek with what little strength she had. "Don't be. This is my fate, and I accepted it long ago. Love demands sacrifice, and so does power. I am very happy in the midst of all this because I know I am taking this sacrifice for people who are worth it and that is all that matters."
"I wish he could see it that way," he said bitterly.
"He will," she whispered. "One day, he'll understand. He might even have to do the very things he despises you for."
The old man leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Goodbye, my love."
In the opulent halls of the State House, the president sat in his office, his brow furrowed. A text appeared on his phone. He read it, his expression darkening.
"I don't have a choice," he muttered. "He made me who I am. This is how I show my gratitude."
Back at the university, lectures had ended. Roniel and Marcus exited the hall, the latter pulling out his phone as it vibrated.
Marcus looked at the screen and froze. His usually easygoing demeanor evaporated, replaced by visible fear.
"Who is it?" Roniel asked.
Marcus hesitated before answering the call. "Hello," he said into the phone, his voice trembling.