*April 1st, 8:12pm*—Bellingham Penthouse
(A new month welcomes new Chaos)
The penthouse was still. No Tony, no Cristiano, just the workers and Aaron. The kind of silence that wrapped around a man's shoulders like a tailored coat—heavy, familiar, and not entirely unwelcome. Aaron moved through the room like a ghost himself. The wine glasses clinked softly as he cleaned them with practiced hands, each motion deliberate, economical. He returned the chessboard to its original state, white king forward, black pieces arranged like an army in waiting.
He paused.
"He laughed more last night. That hasn't happened in weeks."
The echo of that sound lingered longer than Alina's perfume. Still, her scent hovered faintly in the air—floral, crisp, with something a little wild underneath. He glanced toward the couch, where the cushion still bore a shallow imprint from where she'd sat. A rare smile crept onto his lips, it was quick and subtle, like a secret not meant to be shared.
He tucked a strand of silvering hair behind his ear and moved toward the kitchen to rinse the glasses. Each task was a ritual. He found comfort in order.
(He had an inner Monologue)
"Miss Alina ward…"
He dried his hands slowly.
"A curious one. Sharp, bold, and too brave for her own good."
He placed the glass back into the cabinet with a gentle clink.
"She's waking something in him he buried a long time ago."
Aaron had seen that flicker in Tony's eyes the previous night. A light, a crack in the armor, hope, maybe? Or something deeper, more dangerous. Emotions had a way of cracking men open like porcelain if they weren't careful. And Tony couldn't afford to shatter. Not now. Not when the wolves were circling and the vultures were already arguing over the bones.
As he walked through the brightly lit hallway toward Tony's room, his steps slowed..
The game was shifting. Again.
He rested one hand lightly on the office doorframe, just outside the shadows.
(Flashback Slice)
It had been three months ago.
The hallway was quiet, too quiet. Aaron had come to bring Tony a folder, a simple request from downstairs—and then he saw him.
Tony was on the floor, back against the wall, his breathing ragged, his tie half-loosened, eyes wide and unfocused. The image was seared into Aaron's mind.
He didn't call out.
He didn't panic.
He knelt.
Placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder.
He didn't speak a word.
Tony had looked up, eyes glassy with something far too old for someone so young.
And then he said—"I can't breathe like him. I'm not him."
Aaron simply handed him a glass of water. No pity. No advice. Just presence.
He never told a soul what happened.
(He couldn't and he wouldn't.)
"He carries too much, too soon," Aaron thought now, standing in that same hallway.
"And yet the world expects him to roar like his father. Even when he isn't really HIM"
He finally entered the room.
The room was awash in cool light, shadows bending across the expensive rugs and walls lined with books that had rarely been read for a long time. Aaron approached the console, typing in a passphrase only two people in the world knew.
(Himself and Tony)
The screen bloomed to life. Reports scrolled by.
Clara's tracking logs.
She'd been visiting the East Yard sector again—near the old textile building. Unusual.
Dent.
He was poking at the Monaco accounts again. Sloppy. Or intentional.
Alina.
That name blinked up briefly.
A file—UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY: NIGHT – INNER TOWER PARKING GARAGE.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
So she was already digging deeper.
She reminded him too much of someone else—someone he'd thought lost a long time ago.
He pressed his fingers to his temples.
(Aaron's Agenda was simple)
People thought Aaron was simply the Bellingham butler. Maybe a valet with a past in service.
The truth was… more complex.
He once served Cristiano Bellingham. A man of power, cunning, and cruelty—but also discipline. Aaron was one of the few who had seen the elder Bellingham both roar and weep. He had watched him bleed, betray, and build empires on fear and favor.
AAaron had looked at young Tony, confused, too small for the suit—and swore silently:
"I will not let him be eaten alive by this world."
So he built a net.
Behind the scenes, he arranged soft alliances and deadly silences. He tracked the movements of old enemies and new players alike. The Mafia. The bankers. Even the whispers in Parliament that believed the Bellingham fortune could be split, sold, or swallowed.
He wasn't a guardian.
He was a shadow.
And shadows didn't sleep.
(He was tony's angel.)
He returned to the main lounge after finishing the terminal update.
The lights were low now.
The city spread out before him like a circuit board of golden lights and hungry windows. Somewhere up those stairs, Tony was finally asleep, body exhausted from holding up the weight of ten lives.
Aaron walked over to the corner bar and made himself a cup of black tea. No sugar. No milk.
Steam rose like the breath of ghosts.
He sat by the large window, tea in hand, watching the city blink beneath the stars.
He was tired, but not weary. His kind of fatigue came with age and burden—not regret.
He took a sip, then reached for a slim laptop he kept hidden behind the sideboard drawer.
The login screen faded quickly. No passwords—just a fingerprint.
He typed into the secure comms line, fingers quick, precise.
---
> TO: CROWBASE SECURE (LEVEL 11)
SUBJECT: REACTIVATION CODE – PHANTOM VAULT
INITIATE 'REVENANT PROTOCOL'.
BEGIN SHADOW PHASE 1.
THE BOY IS STRONG.
BUT NO KING RISES ALONE.**
He paused before sending.
His eyes flicked to the ceiling, where Tony slept above, unaware.
Then back to the glowing screen.
> "It's time I remind the shadows who he really is."
He hit send.
The city lights blinked once more.
And somewhere in the underworld, old machines began to hum again.