The room Gavin Jefferson stepped into wasn't on any official floor plan.
It was beneath the Alectra Private Bank — a polished, golden institution in the city's financial core that fronted for something much older, much darker.
A man waited for him inside.
Leaning back in a leather armchair, sipping tea like he owned the sky.
"Gavin," the man said without looking up. "You're late."
Gavin's shoulders twitched. "I had… complications."
The man finally raised his gaze.
Milo Varn.
CEO of The Yurei Group, a shadowy syndicate masquerading as a venture capital empire. But behind the sharp suits and sterile portfolios lay mercenaries, hackers, assassins — and money so old it bled history.
"Ah yes," Milo said with a smirk. "The prodigal niece. Elsa Jefferson. She's… surprising."
"I want her out," Gavin growled.
Milo set down his tea. "Careful, Gavin. Blood doesn't clean off well. Even corporate blood."
"I don't want her dead," Gavin said. "Just… ruined. Broken. Humiliated."
Milo nodded once, thoughtful.
"And the husband?"
Gavin scoffed. "A nobody. Just a glorified assistant with a decent jawline."
That made Milo pause. His eyes flicked to the side.
"…Have you ever tried to verify who he is?"
Gavin blinked. "He's clean. Too clean. Probably changed his name."
Milo smirked, but said nothing more.
Because even he wasn't sure yet — only that someone powerful was pulling threads in Jefferson Global, and the patterns were… ancient.
Still, Milo raised a single hand.
A dark-suited man stepped out from the shadows.
"This is Danton," Milo said. "One of our precision tools."
Danton bowed slightly. Calm. Unreadable. His aura cold like wet steel.
"He'll be assigned to your niece. Quietly. If there's a truth to dig up… he'll find it."
Meanwhile, Elsa stood in her grandfather's private library — the one Wallace Jefferson hadn't entered since his stroke.
She touched the spines of the leather-bound books, each one labeled with legacy, profit, and war.
Clarissa, her aunt, leaned in the doorway.
"You're not scared, are you?" Clarissa said with a teasing grin.
Elsa looked up. "Should I be?"
Clarissa tilted her head. "You just took down Uncle Gavin in front of the entire board. That's not power-play material. That's execution."
Elsa returned the smirk. "Let them come. I don't flinch."
Clarissa stepped inside.
"What if I told you I don't want to fight you?" she asked. "What if I want in?"
Elsa raised a brow.
"I'm listening."
Because Chess's silence had taught her something lately: power isn't always about making noise. Sometimes, it's about making people come to you.
Far across the city, in a forgotten district where the neon lights never reached, Danton entered a small ramen shop.
It looked abandoned.
Inside, a man waited for him at a corner table.
Chess Golding.
No disguise. No smile. Just eyes sharp enough to cut clouds.
"You're early," Chess said.
Danton bowed, quietly. "They sent me."
"I know."
"You let me follow her."
"I wanted to see who they'd send," Chess said, pouring tea into a second cup.
"You're not what they think."
"No," Chess said softly, "I'm worse."
Danton stared at him. Something ancient stirred behind those words — not malice, but weight.
"Will you stop me?" Danton asked.
"Will you make me?"
A beat.
Danton took the tea cup.
"Let's see where the game leads."
And with that, the two men — predator and predator — sat in silence, sipping tea in a place where no one else dared to breathe.
Later that night, Elsa received an anonymous envelope.
Inside was a photo.
Her.
At the boardroom. In the library. At home.
All taken from a distance.
One note was attached:
"The game has started. Don't trip."
Her heart pounded. But she didn't panic.
She looked out the window.
The world was full of eyes.
What they didn't know…
Was that someone was already watching them back.