Darion
The cigar smoke curled in the dimly lit study as Darion leaned back in his chair, staring out at the estate. His fingers tightened around his glass, the weight of it grounding him, but his thoughts were elsewhere—far from the luxury he'd spent years clawing for.
Weak. The word burned through him like a sickness. His father had called him that—over and over again. He'd been the second choice, the one who had inherited the empire only because his younger brother had disappeared. No legacy, no honor—just a name, a title that barely fit him.
A sharp cough broke his train of thought. His hand flew to his chest as pain flared beneath his ribs. His lungs had been weakening for months now, the disease growing worse. The doctors called it rare, and that made it worse. He'd never get the cure, not with his condition. But he could find power, find something to make him stronger than the world that kept telling him he wasn't enough.
That was why he turned to the Syndicate—to chemicals, botanicals, and drugs that could make him live longer, stronger. He didn't care about the cost. He'd fight until the end, even if that meant twisting the world around him to survive.
The glass in his hand shook. Arielle.
She had been the final piece. Her father's company would have made him complete, would've proved to everyone—especially his father—that he wasn't weak. But Arielle had betrayed him. She had turned to Shepherd, the man with no power. A boy who didn't deserve her.
The bitterness that rose in his throat was sharp, but it didn't matter. He'd make her see. He had to.
Arielle's betrayal had hurt more than he'd admitted, but it was her rejection that left him broken. He wanted her, but more than that, he needed control. He needed to prove he was the one who deserved to lead.
Arielle had to keep the child. The one she carried. Shepherd's child.
The idea burned like fire in his chest. If she wouldn't marry him willingly, he would make her. The child was the key. It would be his. He'd made sure of it. If Arielle didn't want to comply, he'd make her.
She belonged to him.
The coughing fit returned suddenly, harsh and painful. His chest constricted as his breath became ragged. Darion slammed the glass down on the table with a violent crack, his body trembling, fighting the pain. His heart raced as the truth hit him like a blow—he couldn't let anyone see his weakness. Not even Arielle. Not now.
The Syndicate had given him a second chance at life, and he would do anything to repay them. If it meant controlling Arielle and proving his power—then so be it.
She would stay with him. She would keep the baby. And when he had that child, he would prove to everyone—to his father, to the world—that he was strong. Not weak.
And no one would ever call him that again.
---
The guards pushed Shepherd into the ballroom. The laughter that had followed him had changed into whispers. He felt all the eyes boring into the back of his skull as they pulled him across the hall.
Their words were more hurtful than their punches. Shepherd felt his heart beating as though it wanted to get out of his chest. He turned his neck but only once, to take one final glimpse of Arielle.
Now she was surrounded with guests. With her face in her hands as a frightened bride. But as her fingers parted a moment, he caught the truth.
Her eyes were dry.
She did not cry.
She never was.
Shepherd's knees hit the marble floor hard as the guards shoved him down just outside the ballroom doors. His lip was bleeding. His vision was still blurry from the punches. The pain burned, but the shame burned worse.
The night stretched out like an endless void. A black SUV idled in the driveway, its windows tinted, engine humming softly.
Shepherd's pulse quickened, his body feeling heavy, as though the air itself was pressing against him. He took a breath and forced the words out, his voice unsteady. "Where are you taking me?"
No answer. Only the sound of metal zip ties being pulled free.
A guard grabbed his arms, yanking them behind his back. Shepherd struggled, but they were too strong. The zip ties bit into his skin, tight and unforgiving.
"This isn't legal," he muttered, but the guard's cold eyes silenced him.
They shoved him into the back of the SUV, the door slamming shut with finality. The car sped off into the night, the city lights blurring into darkness. Every bump in the road sent pain through his body, his mouth tasting of blood and sweat.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Shepherd couldn't tell. The world outside the window turned black, swallowed by an impenetrable forest.
The car slowed, and Shepherd's stomach dropped.They were far into the woods miles away from the city and civilization.
The door opened. Cold air hit him like a punch. The guards dragged him through the muddy forest floor as the harsh vines tore through his skin. He struggled, but their grip was too strong. They dragged him down a narrow path into the middle of the forest.
Then they stopped again
One of them held a metal rod thick and heavy. Shepherd's legs buckled under him.
"Are you really going to kill me?" Shepherd's voice was hoarse, but the tremor in it betrayed his fear.
The smaller guard nodded. "Orders are orders."
The larger one grunted, "You messed with the wrong people. Hope you learn your lesson in the next life."
The first hit came without warning, cracking across Shepherd's ribs. Pain exploded in his chest, leaving him gasping for breath. He collapsed, struggling to breathe, but the blows kept coming—each one more brutal than the last.
They laughed as he crawled, desperate to escape. The third blow struck his face, splitting his skin above his eye. Blood poured down, blurring his vision.
Another hit. Then everything went black. No sound, no movement—just the pulse of his heart and the weight of silence.
The guards stood over him for a moment, their boots thudding on the dirt.
"Leave him," one said coldly. "Let the forest finish the job."
The SUV's engine roared off, and Shepherd was left in the quiet forest and the cold hands of death. Rain began to fall, soaking into his clothes, mixing with the blood on his face. His fingers twitched.
Then the light came.
It hovered just above his face, glowing faintly, like a distant star. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating. But then it grew, its edges sharp, as if it were alive.
A strange sound filled the air—soft, almost like a heartbeat made of wires, pulsing gently in the stillness.
And then the voice came.
Cold and detached.
—
> "Host detected. Vitals critical. Subject: Shepherd Nexon. Condition: Fatal trauma. Sight failure. Internal bleeding."
—
Shepherd's chest rattled as he coughed up more blood. His lips were numb, barely able to form words, but somehow, he heard the voice again.
—
> "Red Night protocol ready.
>Host: Do you want Revenge?
[ACCEPT]
[DECLINE]
Shepherd's mind was a haze, his thoughts fleeting, but one word broke through the fog.Revenge.
Accept.
The light pulsed brighter, the air crackling as something shifted in him.
> "Host Confirmed. Stabilization in progress."
Then, darkness.
But not the same as before.
This time, he wasn't dying.
He was changing.
—