The second... was underestimating me.
We moved at night. Unhinged—but controlled.
Because this wasn’t just an attack. It was a purge.
We breached the outer perimeter without a sound—cutting power in sections, looping camera feeds, slipping through the cracks his system swore didn’t exist.
My men moved like shadows given flesh, each one knowing exactly who to take out, exactly where to strike.
No warnings. No mercy.
A guard turned the corner—steel slid across his throat before he could speak. Another barely had time to register the figure behind him before a bullet, suppressed and soft, punched through the base of his skull.
Bodies were caught before they hit the ground, dragged into darkness like they had never existed.
Some of my father’s guards saw me.
And in their eyes, I caught the exact moment it clicked—recognition dawning like a slow, terrible truth.
The prodigal son.
Returned.
Not to kneel. Not to reclaim a seat at his table—but to tear it apart.
I watched it spread across their faces. The confusion first. Then disbelief. And then... fear.
Real fear.
The kind that doesn’t come from the thought of dying—but from who is standing in front of you when it happens.
One of them actually stumbled back, his grip tightening on his weapon like it could somehow save him. Another froze completely, his breathing turning shallow, uneven, like his body had already accepted what his mind was still trying to deny.
“Boss’s son...” one of them whispered, voice cracking.
“No...” another muttered, shaking his head as if that alone could undo my presence. “He’s not supposed to be here.”
But I was.
And I wasn’t the boy they remembered.
There was no hesitation in me. No warmth. No trace of the son my father once sent away.
Just something colder. Sharper. Final.
They saw it.
And it broke them before I ever touched them.
They tried—God, they tried—to resist me.
Men who had stood by him for years came at us with everything they had. Training, loyalty, desperation—it didn’t matter. They fought hard, but not hard enough.
They failed.
By the time the alarm should have been raised—
It was already too late.
