The alley's shadows pressed in, cold and suffocating.
"We were waiting for you, Sir Noa," the man said, his voice a low growl that scratched at the silence.
I stood frozen. The words barely registered—shock coiled tight around my throat, making it hard to breathe. My fingers trembled at my sides. I could only stare at him, mute, begging for sense, for escape, for anything.
He was in his forties, maybe older, dressed in a pristine black suit stretched across a wall of muscle. Yet his eyes, dark and steady, held something else—something unreadable.
"I mean you no harm," he said, nodding once. "My superior is in the vehicle." He gestured toward a sleek, black car parked at the alley's mouth.
Every part of me screamed to run, to fight, to do something—but the alley behind was lined with his men, silent figures like wolves in the dark. There was no path but forward.
"...Who are you?" I managed, my voice a whisper. "What do you want from me?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze roamed over me like he was memorizing every detail. Then he said calmly, "The one inside will explain. There's nothing to fear."
His voice was polite. His eyes weren't.
He walked past me, stopping just behind my shoulder. The air around him seemed to hum with danger, like a storm not quite ready to break.
I stood still. Scream? Pointless. Run? Impossible. In this forgotten part of the city, no one would hear me.
I took a shaky breath and stepped toward the car. The guards didn't move, but their presence pressed in on all sides. The man behind me opened the door.
I slid in.
Inside, a different kind of silence awaited.
A man sat there, older, his presence filling the space like smoke. He was smoking, actually—thin tendrils curling in the air, making my lungs tighten. His hair was silver and white, his beard matching, and the creases in his face mapped out years I couldn't guess.
He didn't speak right away. Just watched me. The way a hawk watches something small and cornered.
Then he finally spoke.
"Hey, little guy."
I flinched. His voice was a rough whisper, the kind that lingered after thunder.
"So, you're the one. Hm."
I didn't answer. I kept my eyes on the floor, heart pounding like a drum in a tomb.
He let out a slow exhale. "Told them to be gentle," he muttered. "Looks like they forgot what that means."
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, then reached down and pulled out two boxes—about the size of small books, both wrapped in deep velvet and detailed with gold trim.
He opened the first. Seven golden rings gleamed inside, their surfaces engraved with fine patterns that caught the dim light. Then he opened the second box: seven silver rings, just as stunning, just as strange.
Both sets radiated something I couldn't describe—beauty, yes, but also something dangerous. Like they weren't just objects, but promises.
"Noa," he said.
My head snapped up. He knew my name.
"I was Edward's closest friend. Your uncle. And these…" He nodded at the boxes. "These are all that's left of him."
His name struck like thunder.
Edward. The man who stepped in when the world had crumbled. Who took my sister and me in after our parents' death. Who gave me strength when I had none, and quietly carried more than he ever said.
He was gone now. Left too soon. And in his absence, we had drifted—me, especially. I'd failed him. I'd buried my grief under silence, under pretending I didn't feel anything.
I stared at the floor again.
The man's voice softened, almost tender. "He made me promise I'd find you. That you'd know when the time came. That you'd understand."
He pushed the boxes toward me.
I stared at them.
"What… are these?" I asked.
"Your uncle's burdens," he replied. "Now yours to bear."
I didn't reach for them. Not yet. My heart was thudding, my thoughts unraveling too fast to hold.
But I felt it—whatever this was, it wasn't just inheritance. It was a turning point. A door.
And once I took it, there was no going back.
I reached out...