A few miles away—high above the West End's steel-ribbed shipyard—Moraine Valez stood at the center of his newly conquered kingdom.
The penthouse around him was all ruthless luxury: marble, chrome, and a panoramic view of a city that refused to sleep…unless he commanded it so. A wall of monitors washed the room in shifting light—thermal scans, camera grids, and the pulse of new nightclubs now wearing his sigil.
Moraine himself was draped in a black silk robe, obscuring nothing of the lethal restraint in his posture. The phone between his fingers was merely a formality—his voice held all the executioner's authority.
"The inventory is complete," a man reported, breathless on the other end. "They seized half the assets, but the rest have been secured by us. The girls… had already been sold to Kazan. They were gone before we arrived. Couldn't do much for them. Qurais' men are all scattered. Did you speak to him?"
Moraine's expression did not alter. He listened, eyes narrowed, the emerald sharpened by the flickering feeds.
"No," he replied at last, almost lazily. "If Qurais cannot control his own lieutenants, then he doesn't deserve what he cannot protect." His tone cooled further—sub-freezing, absolute. "The West does not tolerate weakness. Zeke's death, though untimely, gave us precisely the chaos we needed. Blame Qurais. Blame fate. Blame the stars. Just make sure the trail dissolves into ash—or better, leads straight to the East." A pause. "Regale has far too much time now that the heir of their dark empire has returned home."
He ended the call with a careless flick, the device clattering against polished mahogany.
Crossing the room, he reached the waiting drink—a single tumbler of amber that glowed like captured embers. As he lifted it, the scar along his jaw glinted pale against bronzed skin—an old betrayal carved into flesh.
"They're impatient," he murmured, voice low.
He wasn't speaking to his reflection in the glass—but to the quiet sentinel in the shadows.
Diana Orkuz sat with her back perfectly straight, her dark suit severe, her beauty weapon-sharp. "He fears Vance Regale's return," she answered without flourish. "The old man believes only Vance can unite the East long enough to stop your expansion."
Moraine's eyes slid to hers as he took a slow sip, savoring the taste of dominance. "Which Regale," he drawled, "do you imagine ordered these little trespasses in my domain?"
Diana's fingers tapped once against the leather armrest—her tell, a soft signal that information was aligning into opportunity. No one sold secrets with her expertise. She was the queen of shadows.
"The elder," she said at last. "My sources insist Vance hasn't earned the reins yet. Though make no mistake—he's involved."
A humorless smile curved Moraine's mouth—refined menace wrapped in silk. "You give him too much credit," he said. "Vance postures with charm and brute force—as easy to read as a child with stolen toys. The other Regale, however…" Moraine's voice dropped into reverence edged with fear. "He is a ghost. A whisper dressed as a man. He spills blood without ever stepping into the light. But, I concede, Vance's reappearance is irritating."
He turned toward the window—toward the sprawling city that pulsed beneath his rule like a living, unwilling heart. "He doesn't move unless he seeks something."
Diana's lips pressed together—there was so much she could argue. Moraine was underestimating Vance. The younger Regale was not a child. He had so many layers that she believed the man himself must often wonder which one was his true self. He was a labyrinth of charisma and cruelty wearing the face of a prince. A man who carried a kingdom like a burden he secretly adored.
But she offered what Moraine valued more: conclusions over opinions.
"He sent men to the West last night. Searching. Aggressively," she said. "They wanted a boy."
Moraine stilled—danger crystallizing in his eyes.
"A boy?" His voice dropped into a velvety threat. "What sort of boy demands Regale Security trespass on my land?"
"We don't know the details yet. He is just a boy from Middle Nolan studying in the University." Diana leaned forward, voice soft, precise. "But the description is… striking. Dark hair, dark eyes. Fast. They chased him from the docks to a hospital, but lost him. They think he's some East End elite… a runaway. And he wasn't alone." She hesitated. "He traveled with a blond—blue eyes. They were running away on a bike. One caught, the blonde escaped."
Slowly—almost reverently—Moraine lowered his glass onto the polished counter. The faint clink of crystal against wood echoed like the trigger of a memory. And then it struck him—sharp, unbidden:
Blue eyes alight with defiance. A smirk honed into a weapon. A stolen kiss—tasting of cheap beer, adrenaline… and trouble.
His jaw tightened, and something dark flickered in his gaze—something dangerously close to fondness. But then another face intruded. Dark hair, colder eyes, loyalty wrapped like barbed wire around his tongue. Moraine's expression soured instantly.
"A runaway," he echoed, the word dragged out with mocking disdain. "Does he also carry a mouth full of insolence and a habit of stabbing people in the back?"
Diana's eyes widened; the slightest gasp parted her lips.
"You know them?"
His fingers rose—almost absently—to trace the white scar along his jaw. The gesture was intimate, a twisted affection simmering beneath his skin.
"I taught those little vipers everything they know," he said, voice curling with pride and bitterness alike. "Including how to wield the knife one of them later buried in me."
A sinister smile unfurled on his lips wrapped in heartbreak and malice.
"I always knew he'd come back. Debts have a way of returning home."
He stepped closer, his shadow spilling across Diana's chair and voice soft as satin and twice as lethal.
"What does Vance want with Kai?" he asked, angling his glass so the light fractured in crimson shards across the room. Diana always proved herself useful.
But she just stared at him—eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief.
"Kai is alive? Didn't he die at the hands of Tommie three years back? Jordan had been manning the streets alone…for God's sake… what sick game did that old man play?"
Moraine laughed—low, indulgent, cruelly entertained.
"You give the man too much credit. It was the boys who played the West for a fool. The best of us, in fact." His voice dipped, reverent for half a heartbeat. "But their champion is dead now." His lips curled with disdain at the mention.
His gaze sharpened like glass cutting through silk.
"So… back to the point. How did Kai end up in Vance's orbit?"
Diana swallowed, finding her voice through the shock.
"Vance had been seen with this boy more than once. Their attachment wasn't worth speculation until last night. He sent an entire army of his men, with city authorities, hunting every street. Orders were to secure him at any cost… but no injury. One of his men actually hit the boy's bike to stop him—and Vance blew his head off."
She shivered.
"Kai only survived because well...he is Kai. But he could have died. The boy seems to be Vance's new obsession these days."
"He knows there's a war on the streets," Moraine murmured, the strategist in him already drawing lines of conflict. "He is locking in his weakness. Smart move."
But the dismissal was too quick. Diana saw the gap, the truth Moraine refused to entertain: this wasn't strategy.
This was sentiment. Man's effort to keep what's precious to him close when there is trouble. But she kept the opinions to herself.
Moraine hummed to himself, lost in cold calculations that loved no one.
"Find the blond," he instructed, voice flattening into command. "You know him now—he's the more careful of the two."
She was right. It was sentiments, after all. History between Jordan and Moraine - no one in the West's Inner Circle was stranger to it.
Then came a pause—heavy, electric—thick with a promise of war.
"If Vance thinks the runaway is a lost lamb, let him keep him. Let him pet his poison. The closer he is to Regale, the more useful he becomes later."
He raised his glass again as though it were a toast—to vengeance and to betrayals.