Moans of pain echoed through the office, slipping past the walls and making the air feel unbearably heavy. Men lay scattered across the floor, writhing in agony, their limbs twisted at angles that seemed impossible—clear proof that they had gravely underestimated the man seated before them. Some struggled to breathe; others remained motionless, drained by pain, as if each breath were a hammer striking their lungs.
At the center of the chaos, Arthur sat calmly in the boss's chair, one leg crossed over the other, as though he owned not just the office—but the entire situation. His gaze was cold.
In front of him, the office manager knelt on the floor, defeated, his face and body marked with bruises. Every breath he drew sounded like the heavy sigh of someone who had already lost all hope.
"Who the hell are you?" the man's voice trembled, thick with pain and fear. The words barely left his lips before being swallowed by his own insecurity.
Arthur smiled—a slow, cruel smile that made the air feel even heavier.
"You called me here without even knowing who you were dealing with? How careless… Well, I'm Arthur. A genius, billionaire, and the author of the book you were trying to take." He spoke the last word with disdain, deliberately mimicking the arrogant tone Tony was known for using.
Silence fell over the room. Every muscle in the man's body seemed to freeze as he swallowed hard, realizing the danger in every word Arthur uttered.
"Now answer me honestly," Arthur continued, his voice low and cutting, "who was the idiot who thought forcing a famous writer to sign a contract like that was a good idea?"
The man nearly flinched. Fear locked his throat. He wanted to cry, to run—but there was nowhere to escape. How could answering that question possibly end well?
"Answer me. My patience has limits," Arthur said coldly.
The icy tone made the man tremble involuntarily. He swallowed and, in a shaky voice, confessed, "Damian Silver… that's my boss's name."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of curiosity appearing in his eyes.
"Damian Silver, huh?"
"He's not in the building… but… it was all his order," the man replied, unable to meet Arthur's gaze. Every word dragged out under the weight of fear.
"Where is he now?" Arthur asked, lightly scratching his chin.
I feel like I've heard that name somewhere before… Where was it? he thought.
"I… I don't know…" The man was telling the truth; the hesitation and genuine uncertainty were evident in every syllable.
Arthur studied him carefully, recognizing the sincerity. The man looked as if he expected to be torn apart at any second.
"A-and… I have his private contact," the man added quickly, as if it were his only chance at survival. "I was supposed to call him after you signed the contract to report everything."
With trembling hands, he pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed the number. The connection clicked almost immediately.
On the other end, a firm voice answered, "Well? Is the matter settled?"
The man bit his lip, swallowing with difficulty as silence hung in the air like a blade.
Arthur leaned forward, fingers laced over his knee, and replied coolly,
"It's done. In fact, I'd say it was handled very well. I managed to finish everything rather quickly."
On the other end, Damian Silver immediately realized it wasn't his subordinate speaking. The coldness in the voice carried something far more dangerous. A surge of dread crossed his mind—he had underestimated Arthur.
"It seems I underestimated you," Damian muttered, trying to maintain a steady tone while already sensing the impending disaster.
Arthur let out a low laugh, pure disdain in the sound.
"Actually, you overestimated yourself."
"Oh, Damian… Damian, Damian… what a stupid choice you made. I'm serious—this may be the worst decision you've made in your entire miserable life."
Damian straightened up, forcing composure. Yet his voice betrayed a faint tremor, nearly imperceptible to anyone not listening closely.
"You're far too arrogant for a damn writer. I'm not afraid of you."
"Know your place, you filthy mutt," Arthur replied coldly.
"Etch this into that tiny brain of yours—I will not tolerate trash with a pathetic little life like yours mocking me."
"…In the end… a mutt will always be nothing more than a mutt."
On the other side, Damian fell silent. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the phone. He had no arguments left, no room to challenge.
"Now I'm going to track down your location and your boss's… and send both of you straight to hell," Arthur said as he crushed the phone in his hand and walked out of the room.
"Looks like I have work to do tonight," he murmured on his way home.
---
The rapid, rhythmic sound of keys being pressed echoed through the bedroom, cutting through the silence of the night.
The bluish glow of the monitor reflected on Arthur's focused face, revealing the cold precision of someone working with absolute control. His fingers flew across the keyboard at a speed that would make any professional hacker weep with envy.
Lines of code scrolled across the screen. The faint hum of the computer and the distant sound of In The End by Linkin Park playing in the background were the only noises accompanying the relentless tapping of keys.
With the final line entered, the program he had been developing for the past few minutes was complete. The terminal blinked several times, displaying a stream of decoded data. A faint smile curved Arthur's lips.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms and releasing a satisfied sigh.
"Ahh…" he murmured, his tone hovering between irony and triumph. "Let's see if I was really right about you, Damian Silver."
The glow of the monitor reflected in his eyes—cold, meticulous, unforgiving.
If there was one thing he hated, it was arrogance directed at him.
The urge to kill that bastard was almost uncontrollable.
If someone dared to look at him with what he perceived as a "lowly, filthy" gaze, it was an unforgivable offense in his eyes—enough to turn that person into an instant enemy, marked for death.
Perhaps it stemmed from his other persona—his emotions as Gilgamesh, buried deep within his being, still influencing him from time to time. Maybe they had been doing so even before those memories fully awakened.
For example, he felt a natural compulsion to collect things.
The number of items he had acquired and stored within his Gate of Babylon would be enough to make any museum owner salivate.
Even the artifacts he had taken after destroying the Hand would be enough for S.H.I.E.L.D. to hunt him for the rest of his life.
Even the "magic" they had used to resurrect the dead had fallen into Arthur's hands.
---
(End of Chapter)