Vincent pulled his old coat tighter around himself. It offered little warmth against the biting wind that whipped through the city streets.
The snow crunched loudly beneath his worn shoes with each step as he stumbled away from the gleaming facade of the Imperial Hotel. The grand building, a symbol of wealth and power he longer possessed, seemed to mock him with its distant, golden glow.
He maneuvered past a few late-night pedestrians, his focus solely on putting distance between himself and the place that represented his downfall. As he moved, his head bumped into something soft yet firm—a woman's umbrella.
She spun around, her face contorted in an annoyed glare, framed by the shadows cast by the streetlights.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!" she snapped, her voice sharp and accusatory.
But Vincent ignored her. He couldn't afford to engage. He kept walking, his gaze fixed ahead, the cold seeping into his bones.
The farther he moved from the bustling city center, where the Imperial Hotel stood like a monument to his past, the quieter the streets became. The distant hum of traffic faded, replaced by the soft whisper of the wind and the muted crunch of snow under his feet.
He was so lost in his misery and the biting cold that he didn't notice the sleek, black car pulling up silently behind him.
Several men, bundled in thick, dark coats with hoods pulled low over their heads and faces partially obscured by scarves, stepped out of the vehicle. They approached him with an unnerving silence, their movements coordinated and precise.
Before Vincent could even register their presence or cry out for help, strong hands seized him. Their grip was like iron, unyielding and absolute. He was shoved roughly into the back seat of the car.
"Hey! Let me go!" he shouted, thrashing against their hold. For a fleeting second, he caught a glimpse of the car's interior—plush leather, polished wood, undeniably expensive.
It was a luxury model, far beyond anything he could afford now. But before he could make out any more details, a strip of rough tape was slapped violently over his mouth, cutting off his protests.
A dark cloth was immediately pulled over his head, plunging him into instant, suffocating darkness. He fought harder, kicking and twisting against the unyielding arms pinning him down.
But his struggles were short-lived. A sudden, blinding pain exploded in his head as the man sitting beside him struck him with the heavy handle of a pistol.
Everything went black.
The car sped away through the snow-covered streets, its tires leaving fresh tracks in the pristine white. It headed steadily toward the city's harbor, a place of shadows and hidden dealings.
***
Vincent awoke to a searing pain that enveloped his entire body. His head throbbed fiercely, each beat echoing through his skull, especially when he took a shallow breath.
His chest and stomach ached with a dull, persistent pain, remnants of the brutal beating he had endured. His wrists burned where the zip ties dug into his skin, cutting off circulation and leaving angry, red welts.
A strong, acrid scent of gasoline permeated the air, thick and nauseating. The smell made each breath a struggle, burning his nostrils and lungs, adding to his growing sense of dread.
Then, he heard footsteps. Distinct, sharp clicks against a hard floor. One set was unmistakably the high heels of a woman.
He pushed himself up onto his knees, his head still covered by the rough black cloth. The footsteps stopped directly in front of him.
Suddenly, the fabric was yanked away, revealing the dim, flickering light of a single bare bulb hanging precariously from the high ceiling.
Vincent blinked several times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. He was in a large, empty warehouse.
Its walls were made of plain, rough-hewn wood, and there were no supplies, no equipment—just the vast, unadorned space.
Before him, he saw two pairs of feet: one in the slender, elegant high heels he had seen at the party where his life had begun to unravel, the other in highly polished leather shoes, unmistakably a man's.
Slowly, painfully, he raised his gaze.
Selena stood before him, draped in an expensive fur coat, her lips curved into a smug, cruel smile. Beside her, Pearson casually toyed with an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his expression one of detached amusement, almost boredom.
Both of them stared down at him, their eyes cold and dismissive, as if he were nothing more than a disgusting insect, a nuisance to be squashed underfoot.
Pearson took out a gleaming gold lighter, its flame dancing briefly as he ignited his cigarette. He took a slow, deliberate drag, the cherry glowing brightly in the dimness, before exhaling a plume of smoke.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was laced with contempt. "Pathetic."
Selena, still holding Pearson's arm, tightened her grip, her smile widening. "I told you, Vincent. You were never going to win."
Vincent, breathing heavily, tried to reply, but the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat to the side, a small, dark stain on the concrete.
He forced out the words, his voice hoarse, "You talk too much."
Pearson chuckled suddenly, a harsh, humorless sound that grated on Vincent's nerves. Then, one of his men handed him a pistol, its cold steel glinting in the dim light.
Pearson's smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory glint in his eyes.
"And you still don't know when to shut up."
Everything happened too fast. Vincent barely had time to react, to even tense his muscles, before the gunshot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space.
A searing, indescribable pain erupted in his chest as the bullet tore through him. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud.
Warm blood immediately began to spill from the wound, spreading rapidly into a dark, viscous pool on the concrete. His vision blurred, fading to a hazy gray, and the edges of the warehouse began to recede.
Selena let out a soft sigh and turned her face away, a faint flicker of distaste crossing her features, as if the sight was beneath her. Seeing her reaction, Pearson smirked, then walked forward, wrapping an arm around her waist.
His men followed closely behind him, their footsteps echoing as they moved toward the exit. As Pearson reached the warehouse door, he suddenly turned back.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent his still-burning cigarette arcing through the air, landing precisely on a wet spot on the ground where the gasoline had been poured.
Flames erupted instantly, a roar of fire that devoured the spilled fuel. The fire spread with alarming speed, licking at the wooden walls, growing into a roaring inferno within seconds.
Vincent barely felt the intense heat of the flames consuming most of the warehouse. All he could feel was the agonizing, crushing pain in his chest, a pain that consumed his entire being.
Slowly, his eyes drifted shut. He would rather die than continue living like this, he thought, the thought a desperate plea.
Everything had been taken from him—his business, his reputation, his future. There was truly no reason to go on.
But suddenly, a voice—mechanical, yet unmistakably female—echoed not in the air, but directly inside his head.
Sovereign Syndicate Activated.
Status: Critical. Restoring the Heir...
Vincent's eyes snapped open, his vision clearing with a jolt. Before he could even process what was happening, a sudden, powerful surge of energy coursed through his body.
It was an overwhelming sensation, a rush unlike anything he had ever felt. The searing pain in his chest vanished, replaced by a strange, tingling warmth that spread through his limbs.
The blood that had been dripping from his wounds, even from his split lips, stopped instantly, drying on his skin as if by magic. Even the flames, now licking at his clothes and the edges of his vision, no longer hurt him. The heat was there, but it didn't burn.
Then, the voice spoke again, clearer and more resonant this time:
Status: The Heir has regained vital life functions.
'What's happening?' he thought in confusion, a new kind of panic bubbling up, warring with the strange sensations in his body. He saw the flames engulfing his clothes, consuming the fabric around him.
Yet, strangely, his hair and skin remained untouched, completely unharmed. The fire raged, but he felt no pain from its touch.
Then, the voice echoed once more, this time with a distinct finality:
Bloodline Restoration: Passive Effect.
Status: Abnormal Condition on The Heir's body has been nullified.
Before he could even begin to grasp the meaning of those cryptic words, a loud crack suddenly rang out from above. The warehouse ceiling, weakened by the intense heat and the ongoing inferno, groaned loudly before beginning to collapse.
Vincent, now unburdened by pain, pushed himself up. His movements were fluid, almost unnaturally swift. He sprinted toward the burning exit.
Debris began to rain down around him, wooden beams crashing, metal twisting, all dangerously close. He dodged the falling wreckage with surprising agility, weaving through the chaos, and kept running.
He only stopped once he was a safe distance away, beside another, unaffected warehouse, leaning against its cold metal wall.
Coughing several times, he bent forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. As his coughing subsided, he straightened up, a wave of immense relief washing over him for having escaped the inferno.
Then, a new chilling realization washed over him, a cold shock that quickly replaced the lingering panic.
He was completely exposed. His clothes had been utterly consumed by the fire, leaving him stark naked in the biting wind.
He quickly looked around in a frantic panic, immensely relieved that no one seemed to be nearby in the deserted warehouse district. The strange woman's voice inside his head, the fact that he had somehow survived both a gunshot and a raging fire—all of it felt utterly insignificant now.
What mattered most, more than anything else, was finding something, anything, to wear.