The pale morning light spilled through the window blinds as Miles moved rhythmically, chest kissing the floor, arms pushing with perfect form—one, two, three... His body glistened with sweat, each breath sharp and focused. A TV flickered in the corner, volume low but audible.
The Sterling Media logo spun onto the screen, followed by a serious-looking news anchor.
"Last night, the Narcotics Bureau executed a historic raid, exposing the country’s longest-running and largest drug manufacturing facility."
Miles paused for a moment, still in plank position, listening.
"The factory had operated for decades in the shadows, hidden behind layers of corruption. Several government officials who allegedly accepted bribes have been arrested and are now facing criminal charges."
"Yet," the anchor continued, "the true mastermind behind the factory remains unknown."
Miles smirked and pushed himself off the floor. Standing, he grabbed a towel, wiping his face as he muttered under his breath.
"How will you take it, Old Master?"
Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean – Old Master’s Private Base
A dark, high-tech command room bathed in cold blue light. Massive screens displayed news coverage from various global channels. One screen featured the same Sterling Media broadcast.
Old Master stood in front of it, his face lit by the glow. His expression was unreadable. Then—SMASH—his fist came down hard on a polished table, cracking the surface.
The room fell silent.
A calm but furious voice on the other end asked, "Explain."
Old Master’s tone was sharp, controlled. "This was a blunder... caused by Jehan."
"Jehan crossed the Graveyard. He was captured yesterday. That same night, the drug factory was exposed. This isn’t coincidence. It’s punishment."
"You told me your people were reliable," the voice hissed. "This bust ended everything. And don’t tell me Graveyard has a score to settle with you too."
"I never crossed them," Old Master replied quickly. "I know my limits. Graveyard doesn’t care about money or politics. They move for their own reasons. No one stops them. No one questions them."
"My apologies for this blunder."
"Apologies?" the voice snapped. "Since Edward’s son returned, you’ve been spiraling. You lost the Paradise Club. He reclaimed his father’s empire. And now this? What am I supposed to tell the cartel in Mexico? The deal’s dead."
"I’m sorry, sir. But—can’t we restart the operation elsewhere? Rebuild in silence?"
"Are you a fool?" the voice barked. "If Graveyard found the last one, they’ll find the next. I’m not investing in a sinking ship. We’re done. Pull out. The drug business is over."
Old Master stayed quiet for a beat.
"The shipment already arrived in Africa," he said slowly. "The world is still turning. And soon... it’ll be ours to command."
A low, sinister laugh echoed from the other end of the line.
"Let the throne reclaim its land."
Old Master stood motionless, eyes fixed on the flickering screen. His fingers curled into fists, jaw clenched. War was coming.
The Old Master stood still, his gaze fixed on the television screen mounted on the concrete wall. The Sterling Media logo gleamed boldly as the news continued:
"Last night, the Narcotics Bureau cracked down on one of the longest-running drug manufacturing factories in the country. Operating undetected for decades, it is now officially dismantled. Several corrupt government officials have been arrested and will face criminal charges. However, the real mastermind behind the factory remains unknown."
The Old Master’s jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white as he slammed his fist on the oak desk, cracking its surface.
His eyes narrowed. "Miles Sterling..." he muttered under his breath. "You’re flying too high. I’ll cut your wings off."
Sunlight filtered through the blinds. Miles, shirtless and focused, knocked out a set of push-ups on the cold floor. The TV played in the background, still tuned to Sterling Media’s morning bulletin, echoing yesterday’s takedown.
Miles paused mid-push-up and looked up at the screen with a faint smirk.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed beside him. He rolled to his side, grabbed it, and answered.
"Morning, Boss," June’s bright voice chimed. "Creating chaos even when you’re out of the city?"
Miles chuckled lightly. "Chaos never leaves me, I guess. Anyway, how’s the business holding up?"
"All smooth. We’ve officially transferred the head office of the jewelry business to Star Harbor. Reaper Entertainment’s selected celebrities are already onboard for the promotional campaign."
Miles wiped sweat from his brow and reached for a towel.
June continued, "And guess who’s helping me manage the jewelry chain?"
Miles raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Monica?"
"Nope," June grinned on the other end. "It’s Miss April. She joined yesterday. I figured I’d put her talents where they fit best."
Miles leaned back against the couch, a small look of surprise crossing his face. "April joined the office? That’s a surprise. Good to hear. Alright, I’ll meet the old jeweler today then. Can you set it up?"
"About that... actually, he’s not in Brightvale at the moment. Left for some urgent work yesterday. He’ll be back tonight."
Miles exhaled through his nose and rubbed his temple. "I should’ve met him yesterday... It’s fine. I’ll just do some shopping for the family and roam the city."
June chuckled softly. "Boss, enjoy your week off then."
The sun had begun its climb over Brightvale, painting the towering skyline with soft amber hues. The city buzzed with the energy of ambition—sleek buildings made of steel and glass stretched towards the clouds, each one a monument to money, power, and influence. Among them, hidden like a ghost in plain sight, was a young man who had once walked through fire.
Miles, freshly showered and sharply dressed, stepped out of his safe house and into the vibrant chaos of the city. His luxury car glided through wide corporate avenues, finally coming to a halt between the headquarters of two massive conglomerates. The branding of global giants loomed overhead, yet he walked among them unnoticed.
He parked and entered a stylish corner café nestled beneath one of the city’s many towering corporate offices.
Inside, the café had a warm, minimalist charm. Soft jazz music floated in the background, mixing with the gentle hiss of espresso machines and the clinking of porcelain cups. Wooden beams ran across the ceiling, blending seamlessly with the soft, golden lighting. Green plants framed the windows, filtering the light that poured in. The scent of roasted beans and fresh bread wrapped around the guests like a comforting shawl.
Miles chose a quiet window-side table with a view of the bustling streets and the skyline beyond. The seat was cushioned, the table polished oak.
A young waitress approached, her presence gentle yet professional."What would you like to have, sir?" she asked with a polite smile.
Miles scanned the menu briefly, then looked up. "An espresso. Bread and butter."
She nodded. "Please wait for a while. I’ll bring your order shortly."
He gave her a subtle, appreciative smile as she walked off. Turning toward the window, he noticed a gleaming skyscraper just across the street. The top floor bore a bold sign in gleaming chrome letters:
Miles narrowed his eyes slightly."ACE... huh."
His breakfast arrived. Perfectly toasted bread, golden butter, and a rich espresso. He savored each bite slowly, soaking in the city’s rhythm.
But peace was short-lived.
Suddenly, loud voices pierced the calm.From a few tables away, an unpleasant scene unfolded—three sharply dressed men in office attire had surrounded the same young waitress. Their tone was mocking, their laughter arrogant.
One of them grabbed her wrist."Come on, sweetheart. Smile a little. We’re just being friendly."
"Let go of me," the waitress said, her voice shaky.
"You got such a cute voice too," another said, leaning closer.
Miles set down his espresso.
He walked toward them without a word.
One of the men turned, sneering."Oh? You want to be a hero here, huh?"
Before the man could laugh, Miles raised his hand and brought his fist down—not on him, but on their table.
The wooden table shattered under the sheer force of the blow.
Utter silence swept through the café. All eyes locked on Miles.
Even the music seemed to stop.
The corporate men froze, terror flooding their faces. They could feel it—not just strength, but something colder, deeper. A man used to violence.
Miles stared at them, calm and unblinking."You were saying something?"
They couldn’t utter a word. One by one, they stumbled away and left the café, their arrogance melted into panic.
Miles turned back and dusted his sleeve."Sorry about the table," he said to the manager behind the counter. "I’ll pay for it."
Then he walked back to his seat like nothing had happened.
A few minutes later, the waitress returned to his table, her voice trembling with gratitude."Sir... thank you. For the help."
Miles took a sip of his coffee."Don’t worry. They won’t bother you again. I’ll take care of them."
She smiled, still recovering from the shock.
Moments later, she returned again—this time with a small plate. On it sat a delicate cupcake, topped with soft pink icing and a cherry.
"This is for you, sir. On the house."
Miles looked at it, then at her.He smiled softly."Thank you."
Outside, the city moved on. But inside, the storm had already passed—and left behind a quiet sense of justice.