Sylas Voskresensky returned to his villa long after night had fallen. The garden lights were on, everything immaculate as always. From the outside, nothing was out of place.
But inside him nothing was.
His expression was hard as he removed his shoes. He ignored the servants' greetings, didn't spare them a glance, and went straight upstairs.
He shut the bathroom door behind him with a sharp motion.
Standing beneath the shower, he closed his eyes as hot water streamed down his shoulders. The sound of the water wasn't enough to drown out the voices echoing in his mind.
"You will take over the state."
"This is a duty."
"The matter is closed."
He braced his hands against the tiles. His fingers tensed.
"I hate you…" he whispered.
His voice was swallowed by the roar of the water, but his lips trembled.
"I hate you."
He leaned his head back, eyes squeezed shut.
"Die…"
He paused. His breathing grew uneven.
"Die."
When the word left his lips, it wasn't guilt that filled him only emptiness. No relief. No regret. Just… exhaustion.
After stepping out of the shower, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His platinum hair was wet, his face pale, yet his gaze remained cold and sharp.
"Whether you're ready or not doesn't matter."
He draped a towel over his shoulders and leaned closer to the mirror.
"I didn't want this," he said to the man staring back at him.
But the reflection gave no answer.
Two Months Later
Time did not move quickly for Sylas it pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.
Georgy Voskresensky had kept his word. Sylas's life was no longer his own.
Secret meetings.
State protocols.
Endless files.
Discussions that began early in the morning stretched deep into the night. Analysis after analysis. Slowly, unwillingly, Sylas was being pulled into that world.
In six months, he would assume control of the state.
Six months.
Georgy was preparing him methodically. At every meeting Sylas attended, advisers lingered beside him like shadows. He was taught which words to choose, which expressions carried meaning, which silences spoke louder than speech.
Sylas listened.
He took notes.
But inwardly… he resisted.
One evening, seated at his desk, documents piled high before him, his eyes skimmed over the pages while his mind wandered elsewhere.
"The Voskresensky bloodline…"
"The continuity of the state…"
He set his pen down.
"How ironic," he muttered.
"To carry the legacy of a man who hates me."
Meanwhile The Gathering in the Shadows
In another part of the city, inside a building whose name did not exist in any official record, several figures gathered around a table in a dimly lit room.
The tension in the air was palpable.
"Georgy is accelerating the process," one of them said coldly.
"He's pushing his son into the field earlier than planned."
Another leaned forward.
"He'll take over in six months."
Silence fell.
Then someone clenched their jaw.
"This is unacceptable."
Another voice followed, sharp with anger:
"The Voskresensky bloodline stands in our way again. We've waited for years. Another generation?"
A folder was placed on the table. Its cover remained unopened.
"We won't rush yet," said the voice at the head of the table.
"We observe. We prepare. One wrong move could ruin everything."
Someone else muttered:
"But time is running out."
The folder stayed where it was.
Unopened.
For now.
Sylas A Slow Acceptance
That night, Sylas stood once again by his desk, gazing out at the city lights beyond the window.
Once, that view had made him feel free.
Now, it felt like a cage.
He turned back to the stack of documents behind him, his fingers brushing over the papers.
"Six months."
Unwillingly… he was learning.
Unwillingly… he was growing stronger.
And perhaps the most terrifying truth of all
He was getting used to it.
Sylas took a deep breath. The anger was still there in his eyes, but something else had begun to surface beneath it.
A cold resolve