Across town, nestled deep in the leafy, opulent suburbs, Viktor sat alone in the surveillance room of his mansion—a sleek, dim-lit chamber humming with quiet menace. Walls of monitors bathed his face in pale light, each one streaming footage from his sprawling criminal empire. Every deal, every drop, every betrayal played out before him in real time. He didn’t rely on trust. He didn’t have to. Not when he had eyes everywhere.

  But tonight, the footage was different.

  Tonight, he was watching his son.

  He stared in silence, jaw tight. Mikal’s bodyguard, Seb—old, reliable, loyal in his own flawed way—stepped into the elevator at the end of their shift. The pair had just wrapped up an operation remotely piloting the Mugger Bots—machines engineered for precise, merciless theft.

  Mikal remained behind, cataloguing the stolen goods in his usual way—neat, emotionless, meticulous. Then, almost imperceptibly, one of the robots stirred. It came to life with eerie stillness, like a predator that had been waiting patiently.

  It couldn’t have been Seb. He’d already left.

  Viktor rewound the footage. Again. And again. Searching every flicker, every shadow. Nothing.

  Frustrated, he scrolled back further.

  There, Seb was transferring the loot from the warehouse floor —the items his mugger bot had stolen —into the sack. Then, with a subtle sleight of hand, he picked up what looked like a piece of jewellery. Instead of placing it in the sack, he stealthily slipped it into his own pocket. Mikal didn’t notice—too focused on entering the stolen items into the logbook.

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  But Viktor did.

  His eyes narrowed. So. Seb was skimming.

  He made a mental note. That would be dealt with in time. But not now.

  Now, there was only one priority.

  Find the killer.

  A flicker on a side monitor caught his eye. The entrance feed to their home. His wife, Eve, had returned home, arms full of designer bags from New York’s most exclusive boutiques. The butler greeted her with silent precision, relieving her of the burden. Behind her came Franco Sorrento—her brother, the world-renowned restaurateur—and his wife, Helen. All three were smiling, warm, and laughing. Blissfully unaware of the storm waiting to break.

  Viktor exhaled and rose.

  He stepped into the grand hallway—a corridor lined with rare art and bathed in golden light. The carpet muffled his footsteps. It looked more like a tsar’s palace than a home. At the top of the grand staircase, he paused, the weight of what he had to say anchoring him in place.

  Eve looked up, beaming. “Hello, darling!” Her voice was bright with cheer. She was stunning, even now, with long, dark hair and olive skin, her timeless beauty touched by age yet undiminished. “Franco’s restaurant on the Space Haven was just declared the best in the universe!” she said, laughing, proud.

  Then she saw his face.

  The smile vanished.

  She had never seen him like this.

  Viktor didn’t cry.

  But his eyes were red, rimmed with sorrow, and in his expression—steel bent by grief—she saw the world shift.

  And then, the words.

  A breath, barely more than sound:

  “It’s Mikal. He’s dead.”

  The truth—carried in silence since the moment Tucker, the crooked cop, had whispered it—spilt from Viktor’s lips. But there was no release. Only a fresh wave of pain.

  Eve crumpled.

  Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the cold marble floor. As she fell, her eyes caught the shimmer of the chandelier overhead—its delicate crystals glittering like a cruel mockery of joy. The world blurred and tilted.

  Franco and Helen rushed forward, calling her name. Viktor dropped beside her, his voice tight with panic, trying to hold her up.

  But all she heard was the hush—

  A rushing, endless silence, like waves pulling her under.

  And then—only blackness.

  Darkness.

  They had lost their only son.