That morning, the glass walls of the master bedroom stood bare—no curtains, no veil to shield it from the world. And so, the first light of dawn entered unhindered, spilling into the room like a flood of gold. It wasn’t just sunlight… it felt like something sacred. Like healing. Like forgiveness.
Like something he no longer believed he deserved.
The pale golden beams stretched across charcoal-gray walls, where elegant gold trimming traced the corners like delicate veins. The ceiling above was painted the color of night—jet black, almost swallowing the light that tried to touch it. The floor was soft underfoot, clothed in a plush ash-gray carpet that absorbed the silence.
But even with all this light… the room felt cold.
He stood quietly before the full-length mirror—silent, sharp-edged Damien West.
A long storm-gray coat draped over his broad shoulders, paired with dark jeans and a simple black hoodie beneath. Immaculate white sneakers grounded him, but nothing could steady what stirred inside. His face—stoic as always—was framed by tousled brown hair that fell slightly over his eyes.
He didn’t look at his face.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkXZnwTUDGt
He looked through it.
Lifting his hand, he brushed the strands back, smoothing his reflection into something more composed. Then, he picked up a cold glass bottle of cologne, sprayed it at his neck, and closed his eyes.
For a moment, he stood still—letting the scent seep into him like armor.
As if that fragrance… that familiar scent… might hide the rot beneath the surface.
He exhaled, slow and heavy, before stepping out of the room.
The mansion was still.
Dead still.
As he walked through the long corridor, sunlight painted soft lines across the dark wood beneath his feet. The air was clean, but it felt sharp—like grief had cut through it and left it raw. Dust floated in the golden beams like ghosts that never left.
And then he reached it.
The grand hall.
Sunlight gleamed off the ebony curves of the piano. The bookshelf stood tall and tired, filled with old worlds and forgotten wars. Outside the tall windows, a pair of birds sat quietly on the ledge, unmoving—as if even they had paused to mourn with him.
He turned slowly.
Faced the piano.
And for a few seconds… just looked at it.
And then, without a sound, Damien sat down on the bench—his back straight, his jaw tight, his eyes staring at the black and white keys with the weight of a hundred buried memories.
He didn’t play right away.
He simply… sat.
Listening.
To the noise inside his own chest.
To the ache.
Because no matter how tightly he had shut the doors inside him… the pain had started leaking out.
Then, quietly—like a confession—his fingers touched the keys.
A single note.
And then another.
Until finally, the melody began to rise… the rhythm of Kara Sevda—a song of unhealed love, of sorrow so deep it didn't even scream anymore.
The music filled the room.
Filled him.
Every note bled with something he could never put into words.
Every rise and fall of the melody was like his soul asking questions he would never get answers to.
His fingers trembled slightly as he played.
But his face stayed still.
No one watched him.
No one heard.
There was no one to say, “I see you. I know you’re hurting.”
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because grief is cruel. But lonely grief... that’s a grave in itself.
The bookshelf stood in silence. The fireplace stared in silence. The world... moved on in silence.
And Damien—this boy who had lost too much, this man who had buried his emotions so deep they turned to stone—he kept playing, not because he wanted to, but because it was the only way left to keep himself from falling apart.
But then…
He stopped.
The keys fell silent beneath his hands.
He didn’t move.
His shoulders hunched forward just slightly, as though the music had taken the last bit of strength from his spine. His hands slowly retreated from the keys and rested in his lap—still, as if they no longer knew what to do without pain to express.
He sat there.
Alone.
In a mansion full of light… still wrapped in shadows.
And then quietly, Damien stood up… turned away from the piano…
…and walked out of the hall without a single sound.
Because no one saw the way he broke that morning.
No one knew what that melody cost him.
And no one came to stop him from carrying that silence back into himself.
That morning, the sun rose gently over the white mansion nestled among blooming purple lavenders. There was calm, a sense of ease in the air—but only because everyone had slept late last night and planned to wake up a little later than usual.
But with Greyson in the house, such plans were impossible.
Waking up early, the very first thing he did—considering it a personal responsibility—was slap Max, who was snoring away right beside him. And with that, both of them got up and headed down to the lounge.
Chandler, Thomson, and Carl had spent the whole day on duty yesterday, and barely got any proper rest at night either. But Max, standing tall with revenge in his heart, made sure they didn’t oversleep either. His logic?
“Why should I suffer alone? Let’s all feel the wrath of His Majesty.”
And so, armed with a jug of cold water, Max woke them up one by one.
Now, in the kitchen, Chandler and Carl—wearing aprons—were preparing breakfast for Greyson, since he had said:
"You all seem so worried about me since yesterday... surely you can make me breakfast too."
Hearing that, Max could only grind his teeth in frustration.
Meanwhile, sounds of clattering dishes drifted from the kitchen to the lounge, where Greyson was seated comfortably—legs stretched out on the table, blanket pulled to his knees, eyes on the news. Every now and then, he’d toss a new chore Max’s way.
And Max, unwillingly, would get up every time.
A little while later, Lena stepped out of her room. She could hear quite a bit of noise from downstairs—mostly Max’s unmistakable voice, loudly regretting the day he befriended Greyson.
Peeking over the railing, Lena saw Carl and Chandler in aprons, setting the table—and already halfway into an argument. From a distance, she could clearly sense that the third World War was about to begin.
Thomson was nowhere in sight.
Max, on the other hand, was either handing Greyson a book—which Greyson would read for a moment before saying, “Not enjoying this, bring another,”—or bringing him snacks, or changing the TV channel because, according to Greyson, the remote had mysteriously disappeared.
Max, however, was sure Greyson had hidden it himself.
Lena stepped down the stairs and walked straight into the lounge. Across from her, on the couch, Greyson sat in black trousers and a plain white T-shirt. His messy black hair fell slightly over his forehead, and in one hand he held a book. A blanket was stretched over both his legs, while his left arm rested lazily on the sofa armrest, fist tucked under his lips as he watched the news on TV with full focus—completely ignoring Max’s constant complaints.
"Good morning," Lena said cheerfully with a soft smile as she entered and sat down.
Max, already fuming, shot a daggered glance at Greyson, who immediately straightened up the moment Lena walked in. From under the left cushion, he casually pulled out the TV remote and turned the volume down—despite having claimed earlier that the remote had mysteriously vanished.
Pointing at Greyson in frustration, Max grumbled, "Good... huh. There's nothing good about mornings when you have a friend like this. They’re just... mornings. Plain and painful."
Ignoring Max shady commentary, Greyson turned to Lena and added, “You too.”
That was the last straw for him.
"You too...? You toooo...?" he repeated, clearly losing his mind. "Look at this traitor smiling sweetly! I swear, this man changes colors faster than a chameleon."
Lena tucked a stray lock behind her ear and smiled politely. “How’s your injury now?”
Greyson casually lifted his arm—still wrapped in a bandage—and gave a light shrug.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Just then, kitchen noises echoed into the lounge. Curious, Lena asked, “The cook’s not here today? Why are those two making breakfast?”
Before Greyson could answer, Max jumped in, sounding like a scandalous housewife ready to spill tea.
“This is punishment,” he declared. “For caring too much about him yesterday. Now we all have to suffer. And look!” He dramatically pointed to the right side of his face.
“This guy slapped me right here while I was asleep—like I was some innocent creature just dreaming of peace.”
Lena stifled a smile, first looking at Max, then at Greyson, before getting up.
“I’ll go help those two in the kitchen before they burn the house down.”
And with that, she walked off.
The moment she was out of sight, Greyson snatched the remote and launched it straight at Max—hitting him square on the head. Furious, Max grabbed Greyson’s brand-new phone, and despite all the warnings hurled at him, dropped it right into the nearby fish aquarium.
Lena stepped into the kitchen to find Chandler and Carl in the middle of a disaster disguised as breakfast prep. Their knife seemed more at war with the eggs and bread than actually helping.
Just one look at the kitchen was enough to know these two men were born for battle—not breakfast.
Smiling, Lena walked over to Chandler, who was supposedly frying an egg—but in reality, he was burning it. Carl, on the other side, was struggling to get fresh juice out of oranges like it was some form of revenge.
She glanced at the mess on the countertop, then rolled up the sleeves of her white shirt and walked over to the fridge. Politely nudging Chandler aside, she first whipped up a perfect omelet, then some half-fried eggs, followed by pancakes and golden toasts. Then she made coffee.
Meanwhile, Chandler and Carl had stepped back and taken seats, now resting their elbows on the counter, quietly watching her speed through the breakfast like a trained chef.
Soon, the table was neatly set.
Greyson, Max, and Lena pulled out chairs and sat down. Greyson then called out to Carl, Chandler, and Thomson to come join them for breakfast.
Thomson entered from outside, drying his wet hands, pulled a chair, and sighed deeply as he sat.
“Where were you?” Lena asked.
“The boss told me to trim the garden plants and fix their setting,” Thomson replied with a pitiful look.
Lena smiled softly and began serving him—first the omelet, then the juice, and one by one, she passed around the rest of the food.
By the end of it, Carl, Chandler, and Thomson had officially declared Lena as their sister-in-law.
But Max, still playing the role of Cinderella’s evil stepmother, remained stubbornly unconvinced.
At the head of the long, elegant dining table, Damien was silently cutting into his omelet with a fork and knife. Every now and then, he took a sip of juice, then reached for the glass of water, drank a couple of gulps, and calmly set it back down. Leaning back in his chair, he dabbed his lips with a napkin, then without looking, addressed the secretary standing quietly behind him.
“Did you find out who that man in the black cloak was last night? The one seen on the upper corridor? And how the hell did he get past all that security?”
The secretary shifted nervously and replied in a hesitant tone, “I’m sorry, sir… we still have no leads. It’s as if he just… vanished.”
Damien’s eyes remained fixed on the painting mounted on the opposite wall. “Any guesses?”
The secretary exhaled. “It feels like Zero’s work… but I don’t understand why he’d come after you.”
Damien stood from his chair slowly, the tension in the room shifting with his movement. “That,” he said, walking a few steps before turning back, “is something only Zero can answer.”
He paused again before asking, “Did you call Grandpapa’s business manager?”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary nodded, “He should be here shortly.”
Damien gave a slight nod, then descended the marble stairs into the lawn, his expression unreadable. A black-suited guard brought his car around the front porch and quietly walked away. Damien, without a word, moved toward the vehicle. His voice was calm but firm as he addressed the secretary behind him, “Today’s weapon delivery — it needs to go through. This deal could bring us significant profit. Oversee it personally. I don’t want any mistakes.”
“Yes, sir,” the secretary responded, bowing slightly.
Damien slid into the driver’s seat of the black Mercedes, started the engine, and pulled forward. Within seconds, the car rolled out of the mansion gates, swallowed by the quiet morning mist.
Greyson sat in the lounge, working on his laptop. From time to time, he paused to answer a few calls. Max had left for a visit to the construction site after breakfast, while Chandler, Thomson, and Carl had already been sent back to the agency — on Greyson’s orders.
Earlier that morning, Greyson had received a call from an unknown number. The voice on the other end had said just one thing:
“I know where and when the weapons are going to be smuggled. You’ll have the time and location soon.”
And with that, the call had ended.
After hearing those words, sleep was out of the question for Greyson. He had immediately contacted the agency and issued orders to raid the suspected location as soon as it came through. He also tried to trace the number — but it turned out to be untraceable.
Still, the call stirred something in him. Curiosity. Restlessness. The voice had known too much.
Whoever this person was… they weren’t just a source. For now, they were a puzzle Greyson was determined to solve.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD0pqBNl6yA
230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOvcOYSW30v
Damien, his face concealed beneath a black mask and the hood of his black hoodie draped low over his head, moved silently through the narrow, dimly lit alleys. The streets were tight and suffocating, but as he walked further, the gloomy passage gave way to a string of cafes and restaurants. Yet the very air of this place revealed the truth: this wasn’t just a casual hangout spot—it was a haven for those involved in the filth that eats away at society.
Beneath these eateries, in their darkened basements, businesses were breathing that could rot a civilization to its core.
Scantily dressed women passed by Damien—some guiding intoxicated men by the shoulders, others bargaining with sleazy clients. Damien pressed down on the cap over his head with two fingers and took long strides until he pushed open the door of a café. Inside, mellow jazz played faintly, mingling with the soft buzz of conversation and the aroma of hot, steaming coffee. Under the golden ambient lights, people laughed and chatted without a care in the world.
He passed through the warmly lit interior until he reached a gated door in the back. A tall guard stood before it, dressed in a sleek black three-piece suit. As Damien stepped forward to open the basement door, the guard extended an arm, blocking him.
“Card?”
Entry to that area required a special access card—this place wasn’t for everyone. White collars by day, but by night, they drowned in colors far darker than society ever dared to admit.
Damien’s honey-brown eyes locked onto the guard’s face—and in one swift, practiced motion, he struck the side of the guard’s neck with the back of his fist, precisely at the pressure point. The man collapsed instantly, unconscious.
Stepping over the limp body, Damien opened the door and descended.
Inside, the basement shimmered with multicolored lights. Laughter, music, and clinking glasses echoed as people huddled around tables playing cards, smoking cigars, and losing their senses to wine and whispers. Damien’s eyes, trained and cautious, scanned the room. He recognized a few familiar faces—slurred and swaying under the glare of neon.
Without pausing, he made his way forward, climbing the spiral staircase at the far end, and walked straight down a long corridor lined with doors on both sides. He ignored the muffled sounds and continued until, with a single kick, he busted open one of the doors.
His hands remained in the pockets of his charcoal-grey coat as he stepped inside—then immediately turned his face away in irritation. Two girls, dressed obscenely, sat beside a man on the sofa. Upon seeing Damien, they gasped and jumped up in fear.
“W-who... who are you?” the man stuttered, his voice trembling.
Damien walked closer, a small, cold smile playing on his lips. “Let’s save the introductions for next time,” he said. “You see, I’ve been looking for someone since morning—Zero. After wandering all over the city, someone finally mentioned your name.”
Without warning, Damien slapped him hard across the face. The man’s head snapped to the side. The girls screamed faintly and scrambled out of the room in panic.
Damien calmly propped his leg up on the sofa, leaned forward, and stared into the man’s eyes. His voice was ice-cold.
“Who is Zero working for now? And where is he?”
“That’s confidential, I can’t—”
Smack. Another vicious slap echoed in the room. Damien grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him to his feet—then slammed his head into the wall. Blood streaked down the man’s forehead as he crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain.
Damien leaned down, grabbed him by the collar again, and pulled his face close. Only his piercing honey-colored eyes were visible through the mask.
“Confidential can go to hell,” he hissed. “I’m asking you one last time... Where. Is. Zero?”
The man was trembling now, voice cracking with terror.
“H-he’ll... Zero will kill me if I talk—”
Damien didn’t wait. He slammed the man back against the wall, pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband, and shot him in the leg.
The room erupted with the man’s blood-curdling screams.
Damien stared down at him, his voice emotionless.
“I won’t leave you alive either.”
Gasping, sobbing through the pain, the man finally broke. “A-all I know is... Zero’s refused to take on any missions lately. He’s gone off the grid. Some people say... he’s on a personal mission. But no one knows what it is. No one.”
Damien listened silently, his breath steady. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.
Pulling out his vibrating phone from the coat pocket, Damien walked along the side of the street. Even now, several girls and boys passed by him, caught up in their own worlds. His honey-colored eyes flickered down to the name glowing on the screen for a brief second—then, without answering, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.
Suddenly, a girl in revealing clothes moved in close beside him and purred seductively,
“Hey… handsome. Come with me… I’ll make you feel good.”
A sharp glint of disdain flickered in Damien’s eyes. Without even glancing her way, he gripped her wrist firmly, pushed her aside, and without a word, strode across the street with long, purposeful steps. And just like that—he vanished once again into the shadows of the narrow alleys.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Damien shut the door behind him. He yanked off his mask and cap, tossing them onto the passenger seat. Running his fingers through his hair, he let the messy strands fall onto his forehead before leaning back in the seat, closing his eyes for a moment.
After a brief pause, he opened the dashboard and took out a second phone. Over 50 missed calls flashed across the screen—from Silas and his secretary. Damien first dialed Silas.
The call was picked up on the second ring. Damien had just opened his mouth to say
“Hello” when Silas’s furious voice roared from the other end,
“Where the hell have you been? Why the hell weren’t you picking up my calls!?”
Damien pulled the phone away from his ear, annoyed, and said dryly,
“I’m not your secretary. I don’t sit around waiting to take your every damn call. What do you want?”
Silas, now even more incensed, growled,
“Hey! Damien West, stay in your damn lane. Don’t make me remind you of your place—I won’t take long.”
Grinding his jaw, Damien fought back his temper and growled,
“What the hell is the problem now? Just say it.”
Silas snapped,
“The shipment that was supposed to be delivered today never arrived. And we’ve just been informed—OTF agents raided the location and seized all the weapons. Do you have any idea how critical this deal was!? We’ll lose the trust of every remaining client if this keeps happening!”
Damien listened, jaw tight, one hand gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. After a moment, he muttered,
“I’ll call you back,”
—and hung up without waiting for a reply.
Slamming his foot on the accelerator, Damien sped off.
Back in the lounge, Greyson had been working for a long time. Finally, he took his eyes off the laptop and exhaled deeply. Rolling his stiff neck side to side, he relaxed his tense muscles. Then he leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes.
Moments later, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled something out. A USB drive.
Holding it up to eye level, he stared at it silently for a few seconds. Then, sitting upright, he plugged it into the laptop. He picked up his earbuds, inserted them, and began playing the video.
As the footage played, his face tensed. Whatever was on that USB, it wasn’t something pleasant. His jaw clenched as he watched in silence, the room heavy with the unspoken weight of the truth.
Suddenly, Lena entered the lounge holding a tray. The moment she stepped in, Greyson quickly shut the laptop.
Startled, Lena paused for a second, then walked over to him with a soft smile.
“I made some soup. Drink it first, then take your meds,” she said gently.
Greyson looked at her. She stood in front of him wearing a simple white top and brown skirt, her half-tied hair softly falling around her shoulders, her makeup-free face glowing with quiet care. There was a delicate, innocent beauty in the way she worried for him—and it pulled something in him.
He smiled faintly and nodded. Lena placed the tray in front of him and then sat on the couch a little away from him, kneeling to pour the soup into a bowl.
Greyson watched her—this quiet, kind girl on her knees, gently preparing soup for him. His face clouded with thought.
Softly, he asked,
“Who else was in your family?”
Lena looked up at him in surprise, confused.
“Why… what happened? Did something happen?”
Greyson offered a faint smile.
“No, nothing happened. Just a question… popped into my head.”
Lena nodded with a soft smile and handed him the soup bowl. Then she sat back on the couch, a small distance away, her gaze on her swinging feet.
“There was… one of Dad’s younger brothers. Lucian.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJLogzzeGrJ
And… he had a son. He was my cousin—my best friend, my brother… my everything.”
Greyson looked at her. The moment she spoke of her cousin, her face lit up with joy and fond memories.
“His name was Dami… Damien,” she said with warmth.
“He was my only childhood companion, my only true friend.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGSOZGy96MO
Then one day… Grandpa kicked Uncle Lucian out of the house. Took away his rights, his property, everything.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡukfTiXAvs2
I guess… maybe he did something wrong.”
She shrugged slightly in confusion, unaware of the tension that suddenly flashed across Greyson’s face—something he immediately masked.
Lena looked down again, her voice lowering.
“A year after Uncle left… Mom and Dad had a terrible accident.
Their car fell into a ravine.
They didn’t make it.”
She looked up at Greyson with a pained smile.
“I was only four years old.”
Greyson glanced at Lena with a sorrowful gaze.
But she didn’t look back. Her eyes remained lowered to the floor as she continued in a soft voice.
“After my mom and dad died, Grandpa became my whole world. He took care of me, stayed by my side day and night. When I graduated college, he wanted me to go abroad for higher studies. I didn’t want to leave him alone… but he insisted, and I had to go.”
Lena smiled faintly, her voice carrying quiet pain.
“I was always a quiet girl… lost in my own little world, focused only on studies. I never had many friends.”
She looked down, fiddling with her fingers.
“When I finally finished my degree, there were just a few days left before I was coming back. I was so excited to see Grandpa again. The university had thrown a farewell party for the students—I got all dressed up and attended. Everything was perfect. I had so much fun…”
But her voice faltered. Her face tensed. Her smile faded.
“But when I was coming back from that party…”
There was pain in her expression now. Her voice cracked. A lump rose in her throat. She fought back tears as she spoke—
“…some people grabbed me. They took me to a dark place. Their leader… tried to sexually harass me. I managed to escape somehow… but they had already hurt me. A lot. For a long time… I couldn’t recover from that.”
Lena’s voice trembled, but she smiled through the pain and lifted her eyes toward Greyson.
He wasn’t looking at her.
His head was bowed, eyes locked on the bowl of soup in his hand. He stirred it slowly, expression tight. When Lena looked at him, he paused—but still didn’t raise his eyes.
He knew her eyes would be filled with tears. And he didn’t want to look into them.230Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ47FCIOxGaN
Because if he did… he would lose his composure.
He couldn’t afford that.
So he just kept stirring his spoon, quietly.
Lena looked at him for a moment, then said with a fragile laugh,
“And maybe I still haven’t recovered…”
She was mocking herself. Trying to smile. Greyson felt that.
Just then, Lena stood up. And Thomson entered the lounge, holding a file in his hand. He gave Greyson a formal nod.
“Good evening.”
He smiled briefly as Lena walked past him, lowering his head in greeting. Lena returned the smile softly before walking out.
As she left, Thomson stepped forward and handed the file to Greyson, who opened it and began scanning the pages intently.
“This has all the details of the weapons we confiscated in the raid,” Thomson explained.
Greyson flipped through the pages sharply, eyes skimming everything with precision.
“Any problems during the raid?”
Thomson nodded grimly.
“Four of our men were seriously injured. Three are stable, but one is in critical condition.”
Greyson’s brows furrowed. His sternness softened just a little.
“All four should get proper treatment. Nico must make sure of it.”
Thomson nodded. Greyson returned to the file, then asked,
“Were any of the smugglers captured alive?”
Thomson's jaw clenched.
“We had one… but he took poison and killed himself.”
Greyson’s voice grew colder.
“And who provided them with that poison…?”
Thomson gave a clueless shrug.
Greyson closed the file halfway.
“Fine. You can go.”
Thomson turned to leave just as Lena entered the lounge again, carrying three lunchboxes.
She stopped in front of him and extended them politely.
“You guys work so hard, day and night. Here—please take these. And give one to Chandler and Carl too.”
Greyson looked up from his file toward the doorway, watching Thomson—who seemed unsure where to look: at Greyson, at Lena, or at the boxes.
Greyson gave him a subtle nod, a silent cue.
That was all Thomson needed. He quickly took the boxes from Lena’s hands, as if he’d been waiting for Greyson’s permission all along.
He smiled brightly, almost childishly.
“Thank you.”
And then walked out with a spring in his step.
Lena turned her head toward Greyson, who was already buried back in the file again.
She exhaled a deep sigh—and quietly made her way upstairs toward her room.
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ns216.73.216.23da2
and then Add to home screen.