The night was thick with fog, swallowing everything in its cold, suffocating embrace. The damp air clung to his skin, chilling him to the bone. Lucian ran. His breath came in sharp gasps, his feet pounding against the steel rails of an endless, desolate railway track.
The world around him was eerily silent, except for the distant hum of something approaching—something monstrous. The tracks stretched into the darkness, fading into an abyss he couldn't escape. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperation.
Then he heard it.
A low, metallic roar growing louder, splitting through the thick mist like a beast hunting its prey. A train. Its headlights pierced the fog, casting ghostly beams across the empty landscape. The ground trembled beneath him.
Lucian's legs burned, his muscles screaming for relief. But he couldn't stop. He didn't know why he was running. He didn't know what had led him here. He only knew one thing—if he stopped, he would die.
The whistle shrieked. The train was close. Too close.
He tried to turn, but his feet slipped on the damp steel. His body lurched forward. The blinding light engulfed him, and the sound of metal crushing flesh shattered the night.
Boom.
His body jerks awake. His breath comes in ragged gasps, drenched in sweat.
Lucian sat upright, his chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths. The weight of the nightmare still clung to him, like a ghost refusing to leave. His fingers curled into fists, the tension in his jaw sharp enough to crack steel.
Then his gaze shifted—across the dimly lit room, to the framed photograph on the far wall.
The image was perfect, frozen in time. Her face. Ana Monroe.
A ghost of the past. A woman who had no idea what was coming for her.
Without hesitation, Lucian reached for the knife on his bedside table—a custom-made, razor-sharp blade he kept within arm's reach at all times. In one smooth motion, he threw it.
The blade sliced through the air before striking the glass with a sharp crack. It lodged itself right between her eyes, splintering the picture like fractured ice.
His voice was low, deadly, as he whispered into the silence.
"One day, Ana… you'll pay for your sins."
The storm inside him settled, but only slightly. His vengeance was patient, disciplined—like a predator stalking its prey.
The bedroom is silent, too perfect, too controlled. No fog. No train. No fear.
Just wealth.
Silk sheets, a chandelier dripping with crystals, a penthouse view that stretches over the city skyline.
But his chest is still tight. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand. He drinks slowly, swallowing the past along with the liquid.
Then—he breathes out. The fear? Gone. Buried. Like everything else.
He pushes the nightmare aside, just like he does every morning.
Time to start the day.
One by one, he reclaims control.
Glasses—sleek, black-rimmed, custom-made. He slides them on.Phone—a limited-edition model. 5:00 AM.A Rolex, cufflinks, a black silk robe. Every piece of his life, handpicked and flawless.
A sound—the doorbell.
"Come in."
The door opens. A beautiful woman steps inside. Tall, elegant, dressed in a tailored black uniform.
She bows slightly. Her voice is soft, professional.
"Good morning, sir. Your private gym is ready."
He doesn't respond immediately. Just watches as she moves across the room, carrying a velvet-lined case.
His body is flawless. Broad shoulders, sculpted abs, a physique built from control and discipline. A billionaire's body—untouched, scarred.
But then—the last thing.
The one thing that is not real.
She kneels before him, opening the velvet-lined case. Her fingers work efficiently, but with care. She retrieves his prosthetic leg, aligning it with precision before securing it in place, her touch both practiced and reverent.
Still, he doesn't flinch. He never does.
"Your schedule is in place, sir. And…" she pauses, glancing up at him. "Would you like to choose your breakfast now?"
He adjusts his silk robe, still silent.
"Make it high-protein," he finally says. "I'll train for an extra hour today."
She nods, making a note.
"Very well, sir. I'll have it ready."
She stands, bows slightly, and exits.
Alone, he finally moves.
He walks to the window, the city stretching out beneath him. His footsteps are perfect. Unhesitating. Controlled.
No one would ever guess.
No one would ever know.
But beneath the silk robe, beneath the perfection—the truth remains.
The boy on the tracks. The laughter. The betrayal.
And the revenge waiting to be served.
But beneath the silk robe, beneath the perfection—the truth remains.
The leg he lost. The part of himself that was stolen in one reckless moment.
His gaze lowers, and for the briefest second, the illusion cracks. Beneath the rich fabric, beneath the polished image—a machine, not flesh.
It took him years to master walking again. Years of pain, frustration, and endless training.
At first, every step had been a battle. The phantom pain, the unnatural weight, the humiliation of falling again and again.
He remembers the nights when he had collapsed on the floor, fists clenched, eyes burning with silent rage. Even standing felt like a defeat.
But he never stopped.
While others lived their privileged, carefree lives, he spent hours in the dead of night, pushing his body beyond its limits—forcing himself to walk, to run, to fight—until the fake leg became an extension of his own will.
Now, no one could tell.
No hesitation. No imbalance. Not even a whisper of weakness.
He turns away from the window, shoulders squared. His revenge wouldn't be rushed.
Because if he had learned one thing from his suffering—it was patience.