From his hotel window, the city looked like a faded painting in Yuan's eyes. Snow was falling, streetlights cast a hazy glow, but his mind wasn't there. Plans, possibilities, and mistakes swirled relentlessly in his head.
————————————————————
Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Sylas Voskresensky stepped out of his car.
The cold air hit his face, but not a single expression flickered. He didn't raise his coat collar. The villa stood before him in all its splendor the place he had hated since childhood yet could never escape.
As he entered, the marble floors echoed with his footsteps. The staff stiffened at the sight of him.
"Master Sylas…"
Their voices trembled.
"Your father… his condition is severe. He wishes to see you in his room."
Sylas didn't pause.
No nod, no response.
His face remained cold. Detached. A polished mask of hatred and arrogance.
Climbing the stairs, each step felt like treading over memories long buried.
He opened the door.
The room was heavy with the scent of medicine.
Georgy Voskresensky lay nearly unrecognizable in bed. He was already old, but now… life seemed to abandon him halfway. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. A caretaker stood silently nearby.
At the sight of Sylas, his eyes widened.
He tried to sit up.
"S-Sylas…"
His voice cracked, yet carried an uncharacteristic softness.
"My son… you've come?"
That voice.
That gentle tone.
Something inside Sylas snapped.
His eyebrows furrowed, a flash of anger sparking in his eyes. He looked at his father not like a son, but as though he were observing an object, useless and discarded.
Georgy noticed, but still spoke:
"My time is short… you can see that."
He drew a deep breath.
"You must take over the administration. Not in six months… but in two. I cannot wait any longer."
Sylas lifted one corner of his lips in a smirk, dry and sardonic.
"Short on time, you say…"
He took a step closer.
"Do you mean… you're dying?"
The room went silent.
Georgy coughed violently, clutching his chest. The caretaker moved to intervene, but he gestured them back.
"Ungratefulchild!" he roared.
"And you dare ask that?!"
Coughing, his voice rose even further.
"Did you ever grieve for me even once? Did you ever make me proud, not once in your life?!"
Sylas' voice was calm.
Menacingly calm.
"And you?"
He didn't break eye contact.
"Did you grieve for me?"
Georgy faltered.
Sylas continued
"Iwas six. I had just lost my mother."
His voice didn't waver, but each word landed heavy.
"While I mourned, you traveled, attended meetings, lived your life, and indulged yourself."
He stepped closer.
"Iwonder," he whispered, cold and sharp,
"was my mother worthless to you?"
Georgy's eyes widened in disbelief.
"If she was…" Sylas pressed,
"why did you bring me into this cursed world? Not a single day has been good because of you."
Anger flared on Georgy's face.
"How dare you speak to me like this?!"
His voice echoed.
"You are just like your mother! If she had died, then maybe…
You'd understand! But no look at you now!
Before you stands your father the Voskresensky!"
At that moment
Sylas' eyes darkened.
The moment his mother's name left his lips, all chains within him snapped.
He said nothing.
He simply turned his back.
Walking to the door, the servants rushed to intervene.
"Master Sylas-"
He didn't even glance at them.
The door slammed shut.
In the corridor, his steps were steady, each one filled with a single, unrelenting emotion hatred.
He left the villa. The cold air bit into his lungs, but he didn't care.
He got into his car.
The door closed.
The engine roared to life.
Sylas gripped the steering wheel.
And in his mind, one thought echoed
"This man… is not my father."
The car sped off into the darkness, leaving the villa and the past behind