Ellios stood across the street from The King's Night Club, staring at it as though it might disappear.
It didn't.
The building rose with quiet arrogance, its exterior painted a deep, deliberate yellow—not neon, not garish, but commanding. The color felt intentional, symbolic, almost confrontational. Suit wearing guards stood at the entrance, their posture disciplined, eyes sharp, bodies blocking the doorway like living statues.
Ellios tightened his grip on his coat.
What am I doing here?
The question repeated itself in his mind, unanswered.
After separating with Hastur at the café, Ellios had fully intended to return to Blade Group immediately. He had barely made it three blocks before his phone rang, the caller ID already tightening his chest before he even answered.
His father.
Not biological—not truly—but the man who held his fate in his hands nonetheless. The current patriarch of the Blade family. Marcus.
"You are late."
The voice on the other end had been sharp, cold, unimpressed. No greeting. No inquiry. Just accusation. As if it's his not his first time.
"I'm on my way," Ellios had said immediately, already turning the wheel. "I apologize."
His father replied. "Your position demands discipline. You do not have the luxury of wandering."
"Yes," Ellios said, forcing calm into his voice. "I understand."
"See that you do," the man snapped, before hanging up.
Ellios had stared at the darkened phone screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he smiled.
He smiled as he always did—soft, polite, reassuring. The kind of smile that said I belong here. The kind that hid exhaustion and swallowed resentment whole.
As he parked beneath Blade Group's towering headquarters and hurried inside, Hastur's words echoed uninvited in his mind.
You smile to seek approval. To prove yourself worthy of the space you occupy.
The thought unsettled him more than his father's anger ever had.
The day unfolded as it always did.
Meetings layered atop meetings. Reports. Presentations. Negotiations. Ellios moved through them with practiced ease, voice confident, posture perfect. He made decisions that affected thousands of lives, signed documents worth billions, smiled at investors who watched him like hawks.
To them, Ellios Blade was flawless. A perfect weapon of Marcus Blade. An ensurance of his throne among his power hungry family.
But every break—every pause between obligations—his mind betrayed Ellios.
Yellow.
He remembered the man in yellow standing at the edge of the cliff, calm as the sea raged below. Like a spell.
Benefactor.
The word echoed faintly, irritatingly. Why had Hastur called him that? Was it mockery? Gratitude? Or something else entirely?
Ellios tried to rationalize it. He must have been thankful, he thought. I showed up when he had no one. Maybe he saw me as some kind of savior.
The idea made him smile.
He was no savior.
He had barely saved himself.
By midday, Ellios forced the thoughts aside. He buried them under work, under numbers and authority. Whatever Hastur was, whoever he truly might be, Ellios told himself it didn't matter.
Hastur hadn't needed his help.
Ellios had done enough.
That should have been the end of it.
And yet.
When the sun dipped low and the office lights dimmed, Ellios surprised his secretary yet again.
"I'll return myself," he said, gathering his coat.
She hesitated. "Sir, are you sure? Tomorrow's schedule—"
"I know," Ellios replied. "Good night."
He didn't wait for permission.
Now, standing across from The King's Night Club, Ellios exhaled slowly.
The street was alive with low music, muffled laughter, engines passing by. The club pulsed subtly, as if breathing. A place of indulgence. Of excess. Of secrets.
This was not his world. He really doesn't like coming to places like this. There might be a chance for him to meet his family. And he really doesn't want that, thus he chose to go back.
Ellios took a step back.
I should leave.
The thought was clear. Logical. Sensible.
Yet his feet did not obey.
Instead, they carried him forward—across the street, up the steps, toward the guarded entrance. His heart thudded louder with every step. He felt ridiculous, overdressed, exposed.
As he reached the door, his fingers moved on their own. They showed the yellow card given by Hastur.
The guard glanced at it once.
His posture changed immediately.
"Welcome," the man said, stepping aside. "Please follow me."
Ellios blinked. "I—"
But the door was already opening.
Inside, the club was nothing like Ellios expected.
It was not loud chaos or blinding lights. The atmosphere was controlled. Gold accents gleamed under soft illumination. Music flowed low and rhythmic, vibrating through the floor rather than overwhelming the senses.
People lounged rather than danced. Conversations murmured instead of shouted. Power gathered here—not recklessness.
Ellios was guided past the main floor, past private rooms, deeper into the club. Staff greeted him with practiced respect yet carried hidden pity. Drinks appeared before he could ask.
"You are a VIP member," a hostess informed him politely. "Please relax. You will be well taken care of."
VIP.
Ellios frowned faintly. Since when?
Before he could ask about Hastur, a familiar voice cut through the music.
"Well, isn't this a surprise."
Ellios turned.
His blood ran cold.
"Victor," he said.
Victor Blade—his stepbrother. Tall, broad-shouldered, smiling with the kind of charm that never reached his eyes. He wore indulgence like a second skin, arm draped casually around a beautiful entertainer who laughed too loudly at nothing.
"Brother," Victor continued cheerfully. "What a coincidence. I didn't think places like this were your style."
Ellios straightened. "I was just leaving." Unfortunately he met with one of the worst member of his family.
Victor laughed. "Already? But you just arrived."
"I have an early morning meeting," Ellios said, tone polite but firm. "Excuse me."
He turned.
A hand clamped onto his arm.
"Come on," Victor said lightly. "Don't be rude."
Ellios stiffened. "Victor."
Victor's grip tightened just enough to remind him who held physical advantage. "Relax. You're a family."
Family.
The word tasted bitter.
Ellios was guided—no, escorted—toward a lavish booth. Victor's friends lounged there, surrounded by male and female entertainers draped across laps, laughter spilling freely. Glasses clinked. The air smelled of alcohol and desire.
Victor gestured grandly. "Everyone, this is my little brother. The pride of Blade Group."
Ellios forced a smile.
"There he is," someone said. "The golden boy."
Victor pushed Ellios down beside him and pressed a glass into his hand. "Drink."
Ellios hesitated.
"Don't tell me you're still like this," Victor said mockingly. "Always smart. Always calculating. Lighten up."
Ellios's fingers tightened around the glass. He really don't feel like drinking this.
But if he refused, he would be labeled arrogant. Cold. Uncooperative. Unworthy. Worse if Marcus Blade heard that he embarrassed family.
So he drank.
The alcohol burned, sharp and unpleasant. He suppressed a cough.
Victor leaned closer. "You know," he said softly, "it's good to see you here. Makes you seem…more human brother."
Ellios smiled again.
That smile.
To prove yourself worthy of the space you occupy.
Hastur's voice echoed cruelly in his mind.
Victor draped an arm around Ellios's shoulders, laughing loudly. "Let's enjoy the night, brother. You work too hard."
Ellios nodded, heart sinking.
Somewhere in the club, unseen and unbothered, Hastur watched.
And Ellios Blade, CEO of Blade Group, sat trapped in between, realizing too late that stepping through yellow doors had never been a simple choice.