The silence inside the penthouse bedroom was so deep that even the ticking of the clock felt like a hammer striking Zain Yan's skull—again and again, without mercy. The city outside slept beneath a blanket of neon lights, but inside this room, time itself seemed frozen.
Suddenly—
"No! Maa! Jiya!!"
Zain shot upright in bed as if pulled by invisible chains. His body lurched forward, his breath tearing violently through his lungs. Air rushed in too fast, too sharp. His chest heaved uncontrollably, rising and falling like waves crashing against rocks.
Cold sweat drenched his skin. Beads rolled down his forehead, slipping into his eyes, burning them—but he didn't blink. His hands shook as they clenched the bedsheet, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned ghostly white, veins standing out like thin wires beneath his skin.
For a long moment, he just sat there.
Frozen.
Then slowly, as if his body finally remembered how to move, Zain lifted his hands and covered his face.
This was Zain Yan—
The man who controlled empires with a single signature.
The CEO who made boardrooms fall silent with just a glance.
The king who ruled the business world like a battlefield.
Yet here, in the dark, he was nothing but a broken man.
A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye. It slid down his cheek and disappeared into the fabric of the bed, leaving no trace—just like the people he had lost.
His voice came out hoarse, barely louder than a breath.
"Fifteen years…" he whispered.
His fingers pressed harder against his face.
"Fifteen years have passed… but those voices still won't leave me."
His shoulders trembled once—just once—before he forced himself to inhale deeply.
Slowly, deliberately, Zain slid one hand beneath the pillow.
Cold metal met his fingers.
The old birthday cake knife.
The moment he touched it, something inside him shifted. His trembling stopped. His breathing steadied, becoming slow and controlled. He pulled the knife to his chest, pressing it against his heart—not like a weapon, but like a sacred relic.
This wasn't steel.
It was memory.
It was blood.
It was the last thing that remained of his sister.
His jaw tightened.
Mercy had died the night Jiya did.
Echo of Punishment — The Shenzhen Warehouse
A few hours later, thunder split the sky above an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Shenzhen. Rain hammered against the rusted tin roof, echoing inside like the ticking of a countdown.
Zain stood beneath the flickering yellow lights, dressed in a long black overcoat. Raindrops clung to the fabric, glimmering faintly, but he didn't bother wiping them away. He looked almost unreal—like a fallen angel carved from darkness.
There were no tears left on his face now.
Only silence.
Only control.
Only terror.
In front of him, a man was chained to a metal chair. His wrists were raw, his breathing frantic. He struggled uselessly, the chains rattling loudly in the empty space.
Zain stepped forward.
The man flinched.
Without a word, Zain removed the expensive Rolex from his wrist and placed it neatly on the table beside him. Then, with unsettling patience, he began removing his white gloves—one finger at a time.
Leather slid against skin.
Click.
Click.
The sound of his shoes echoed across the concrete floor, each step slow, deliberate—like a funeral march.
Zain stopped in front of the man.
His voice was low, velvety, terrifyingly calm.
"The human body dies," he said softly, "but memories never do."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Do you remember an eleven-year-old boy… whose birthday you painted with blood?"
The man looked up.
The moment his eyes met Zain's—
Something inside him collapsed.
"N-No…!" he stammered. "Y-You're dead! That boy… he escaped!"
Zain stepped closer.
Closer.
So close the man could feel his breath—cold and sharp, like winter air.
Zain grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and yanked his head back violently. The chains screamed in protest.
"Death is cheap," Zain said calmly, his voice never rising.
"You gave that gift to my mother."
He leaned in, lips near the man's ear.
"But I won't be that kind."
His voice dropped to a whisper—
"I'll give you a hell where you'll beg for death every second… and never receive it."
Zain released him and pulled out a white silk handkerchief. Slowly, almost delicately, he wiped his fingers—as if touching the man had dirtied him. Then he dropped the cloth onto the man's face.
"Cut off both his legs," Zain ordered coldly.
"Take him somewhere no one can hear his screams."
He turned away.
Didn't look back.
The Shower and the Deadly Message
Back at the penthouse, the air felt empty.
Too empty.
Zain stood beneath the shower, hot water cascading over his broad shoulders, trailing down his back like liquid fire. Steam filled the space, fogging the glass—but it couldn't blur his memories.
When he closed his eyes—
Jiya appeared.
Her face pale.
Her clothes soaked in blood.
Her lips trembling as she smiled at him.
Run, she had said.
Live.
Zain's hand moved unconsciously to his chest, pressing against an invisible wound that never healed.
He stepped out of the shower wearing only a towel. Scars marked his body—some from training, some from battles no one knew about. Each one was proof of the man he had become.
Then—
Bzzz… Bzzz.
His phone vibrated on the table.
Unknown number.
Message:
"You killed My pawn and dug your own grave, Zain Yan. Does your sister Fangning know that her loving brother's hands are stained with innocent blood? Next time you cut a cake… use my gift instead."
Something inside Zain snapped.
No—
Something died.
His jaw clenched. The coffee mug in his hand shattered with a sharp crack. Scalding liquid spilled across the floor and onto his skin, but he didn't even flinch.
Pain no longer mattered.
A dangerous red glimmer rose in his eyes—one that could make even death hesitate.
Zain picked up the old cake knife from the table and dragged his finger along its edge. A thin line of blood appeared. He watched it calmly, then lifted his gaze toward the dark city beyond the window.
His voice was low. Controlled. Deadly.
"If you even dare to look at my sister…"
A pause.
"…I'll open the gates of hell inside your home."
He grabbed his phone and dialed his right-hand commander.
"Bring me the auction files," Zain ordered.
"I want everything about The Dragon's main killer. His identity. His family. His past."
A brief pause.
"I want the full report on my desk by tomorrow."
The call ended.
The room fell silent again.
But somewhere in the darkness—
death had just been scheduled.