A city built on secrets. Maintained by silence. Governed by shadows.
In Holloway City, power didn't live in politics. It didn't parade itself in newspapers or television debates. It whispered behind closed doors. It moved through handshakes, favors, and silence.
And tonight, it gathered in the private lounge of the Blackwood Hotel.
The room was luxury incarnate—dark wood paneling, golden sconces, and a table long enough to seat empires. No reporters. No recordings. Just seven men who shaped the city from the shadows.
They called themselves many things: investors, executives, philanthropists.
But in truth?
They were predators.
And tonight, they were afraid.
At the center of the table sat Victor Kane. Calculated, coiled, dressed in a midnight suit that reflected nothing. His fingers tapped against his whiskey glass, the sound sharp and impatient.
"This can't continue," he said, his voice calm but barely concealing the venom beneath. "Damien Voss is back. And he's moving."
At the opposite end sat Arthur Voss. Older. Sharper. His jaw was locked, and his eyes were ice.
"He should have died ten years ago."
There was no grief in his tone. Not even guilt.
Just frustration.
Gregory Strathmore laughed under his breath. A heavyset man with rings on every finger and a mouth that didn't know fear.
"Should have," he echoed. "But he didn't. Which makes me wonder, Arthur—what exactly did you bury back then?"
Arthur didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The others knew the story. They had all signed off on it, after all. Back when Damien's death had been more convenient than his life.
Victor slammed his glass down. "He's becoming a symbol. A myth. The people are talking, the streets are shifting, and I don't like the direction."
"He's just a man," one of the others muttered.
"No," Victor snapped. "He was a man. Now he's something else. And whatever he is, he's dangerous."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "Then we deal with him."
Gregory raised an eyebrow. "You mean kill him?"
Arthur nodded once. "Clean. Final."
Victor looked around the table, eyes scanning the faces of the most powerful men in Holloway City.
Each of them nodded.
Silent agreement.
Unspoken guilt.
They had killed him once.
They could do it again.
But before the plan could leave the table—
The doors opened.
Slowly.
No knock. No announcement. Just the creak of iron hinges and the sound of polished shoes stepping onto marble.
Every head turned.
And every mouth fell silent.
Because there, framed in the doorway, dressed in black and bathed in shadow, stood Damien Voss.
Alive.
Unbothered.
Uninvited.
He stepped into the room without hesitation, eyes calm, shoulders relaxed. He walked like a man who feared nothing—and belonged everywhere.
His presence swallowed the room.
Arthur sat frozen.
Victor's blood ran cold.
Gregory? He just smiled.
Damien stopped at the head of the table. His gaze swept across the faces of the men who once ruled him, who had condemned him, who had tried to erase him.
Then, without a word, he pulled out the chair meant for the one in charge and sat down.
Comfortable. Unchallenged.
A long, taut silence filled the air.
Then Damien smiled. Cold. Slow. Inevitable.
"Did you really think you could decide my fate without me?"
No one moved.
Victor's fingers twitched under the table. His mind raced. How long had Damien been listening? What did he know? What else did he know?
Arthur's face twisted. "You have no place here."
Damien tilted his head, calm as ever. "Strange. I seem to be sitting just fine."
Gregory let out a low chuckle. He was enjoying the show.
Victor's patience snapped. "This isn't a joke," he growled. "You're finished, Damien. You have no allies. No resources. No power."
Damien tapped a single finger against the table.
Once.
Twice.
Then he leaned forward, the air around him turning colder than steel.
"No power?"
He looked around at the men who once dictated the city's future.
"Then why are you all so afraid?"
The room fell dead silent.
Victor's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He had no answer.
And Damien?
He didn't need one.
He had already taken control.
Right there. At their own table.
Where the city's future had always been decided.