Saturday, Morning – Midtown District
The sunlight spilled lazily across Jay's apartment floor, catching the edges of half-open blinds. Dust motes drifted in the golden air, rising and falling like fragments of thoughts that refused to settle.
Jay sat quietly at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, the faint hum of the city below threading through the silence. His mind, however, wasn't with the city. It was with her.
Clara Markov.
The third heir of the family. The woman who smiled like a diplomat and struck like a strategist.
He didn't need to think about her today. But ever since she'd stepped back into his world—his civilian world—her presence had been like a scent that lingered in a room even after she left. A warning. A reminder.
He looked at the book she'd touched in the library—still sitting on the nightstand, the corner of its spine aligned perfectly with the lamp's base.
Jay flipped the cover open again, reading the underlined line:
"It's easy to wear a mask. The hard part is forgetting which face you had before."
He closed it slowly. "Cute metaphor," he muttered under his breath.
If Clara meant to intimidate him, it wasn't working. If she meant to communicate, that was even worse. Because Jay had already read the message between the lines.
She wasn't threatening him. She was testing him.
And the truth was, Jay didn't mind being tested. Not when the other player was underestimating what kind of opponent she'd just challenged.
He stood, stretched lightly, and reached for his phone. No new messages—except one from Amaya sent late last night:
"Don't overthink. Just rest, Jay. Please."
He smiled faintly. Too late for that.
Corner Café, Midtown East
The air outside was brisk but bright. Jay slipped out in a dark hoodie, gray jeans, and sneakers, the cap pulled low enough to avoid recognition—not from strangers, but from certain eyes.
The café sat at the intersection of two quiet streets—one leading toward the antique book row, the other toward the business plaza Clara had been seen frequenting.
Jay picked a corner seat, the one with a clear view of both the door and the reflection in the window glass. He ordered a black coffee and stirred it absentmindedly.
The place smelled of roasted beans and paper—a mix of academia and distraction. People came and went, unaware that the boy sitting near the window was dissecting them like lines of code.
Old habits died hard.
A literature student walked in, clutching a stack of papers. Jay struck up small talk—an idle question about the café's new playlist turned into a harmless chat. Another customer mentioned the antique store next door, and somehow, Clara's description slipped into the conversation.
"That girl with the navy coat and braided hair? She comes here sometimes. Always polite. Always reading those old political theory books."
Jay's hand twitched slightly. He masked it behind a sip of coffee.
"She talked to that businessman's kid once… Marius Cain, I think," said the man behind the counter. "They looked deep in conversation. Classy type of crowd."
Jay's lips curved. Not a smile—just acknowledgment.
Marius Cain. A merchant heir with business ties across multiple old-money families. The kind of connection Clara would need to anchor herself here.
She was doing exactly what he expected—planting her presence, testing waters, building alliances through civilian fronts. The question wasn't what she was doing. It was why now.
He leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded, mind racing quietly.
The last time Clara made a move like this, she was setting the stage for a political reshuffle within the estate hierarchy. Back then, she'd baited the younger heirs with charm and logic—and then quietly dismantled their supporters from underneath.
But here? In the city? Away from noble oversight?
This was something else.
Jay finished his coffee, dropped a tip beside the cup, and stood. "Let's see what board you're playing on this time."
Saturday, Afternoon – Midtown Plaza, Near St. Ivy
The plaza was alive with chatter. Students, office workers, and couples filled the open-air cafés and benches. Jay blended into the crowd, scanning faces without looking like he was scanning.
His steps slowed when he passed the glass-front bookstore.
Through the reflection, he caught sight of something familiar—a navy coat disappearing into the alley on the opposite side.
His pulse didn't spike. His breath didn't change. He simply stopped at the display window, pretending to look at a shelf of bestsellers while watching the reflection sharpen.
Two people. One was Clara. The other, a man in a gray overcoat—Marius Cain, if the photos he'd seen in estate files were accurate.
Jay listened through the faint hum of traffic, reading their lips more than hearing the words. Clara's gestures were controlled, deliberate. Marius looked skeptical, but interested.
Then, almost as if sensing his gaze, Clara's head tilted slightly. Just enough.
Jay shifted instantly, feigning a glance toward the next shelf. A heartbeat later, the reflection showed her walking away.
No direct confrontation. No contact. Just a reminder.
She knew he was there.
Jay returned home with a stillness that wasn't quite calm. He kicked off his shoes, tossed his keys on the counter, and moved straight to his bedroom closet.
Behind the suits and the untouched estate gifts lay a narrow wooden trunk. The hinges creaked softly as he opened it.
Inside was a small folder marked with a faint silver crest—The Markov Compass.
He laid it on the table, flipping it open with careful precision.
Contacts. Territories. Financial links. Estate families and their allies. Everything his father had once deemed "essential for an heir's survival."
Jay traced the lines with a pen, connecting Clara's father's name to the merchant branch that Marius Cain managed. The link wasn't direct, but it was there—a faint, invisible thread.
A quiet smile touched his lips. "So that's how you're doing it."
She wasn't attacking. Not yet. She was preparing. Which meant Jay still had time to decide how he wanted to play this game.
He leaned back in his chair, the city's light falling across the desk. His mind mapped out every potential path—how she might try to influence local politics, who she might recruit, how she might test his reaction.
But what she didn't know… was that every step she took was still inside his board.
He reached for his phone and opened the encrypted app again.
To: K.O.
"Continue surveillance on Clara Markov. Prioritize civilian contact mapping. Maintain distance. No estate identifiers."
A reply came seconds later:
"Understood. Report within five days."
Jay locked the screen, leaned back, and exhaled slowly.
The war hadn't started yet. But the board was set.
And he already had the first move.
His phone buzzed again.
Tyler:
"Yo! Match's tomorrow, 10 AM. You better not ghost me."
Jay:
"I'll be there. Don't choke this time."
Tyler:
"Bro. I'm reborn. This time I'm the main character."
Jay smirked. "Then I'll bring popcorn."
He pocketed the phone and stepped back out into the sunlight. For all the tension brewing underneath, life still moved forward. Tyler's enthusiasm, Amaya's texts, Sofia's teasing messages—those were reminders that his life wasn't just a game of nobles and heirs.
It was also a life he'd chosen.
The one he still intended to protect.
No matter how many Markovs he had to outplay to do it.
The city outside his window had turned into a scattered painting of light — warm yellow windows, blue-gray skies bleeding into dusk, and a faint hum of traffic that never quite went away.
Jay sat at the dining table, a glass of water beside him, the Markov folder still open like an unfinished chessboard.
He wasn't moving any pieces tonight — not yet. He was just watching them.
From the outside, his apartment looked almost untouched — minimal furniture, clean surfaces, the faint smell of coffee and cedar. But on the table lay a spread that could have belonged to a seasoned strategist: maps of St. Ivy District, civilian business directories, old family connections, and a handwritten list titled "Possible Reach Points."
At the top of that list: Clara Markov.
He studied the name for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
To anyone else, Clara might seem like a curious girl from a wealthy background — ambitious, smart, maybe a little too self-assured. But Jay knew better.
He knew the rhythm of her thinking — the way she layered her plays, using charm as misdirection, strategy as defense, and empathy as a blade.
And yet… she still didn't understand him.
She thought he'd abandoned the Markov throne because he was afraid of it. That he'd walked away to live quietly among ordinary people.
But the truth was far colder — and far sharper.
Jay hadn't run away from the throne.He'd simply grown too clever to be trapped by it.
The sound of the kettle broke the silence. Jay poured hot water into a cup of instant coffee, the faint aroma filling the space.
As he stirred, his phone buzzed once — a message from an encrypted channel flashing across the screen.
K.O.:
"Update: Clara Markov scheduled a private dinner with Marius Cain at The Silver Terrace tomorrow evening. Confidential booking under alias. No estate security present."
Jay frowned slightly. Tomorrow night?
Which meant she was moving faster than he'd expected.
The Silver Terrace wasn't just any restaurant — it was one of those high-profile yet discreet venues where business deals happened in whispers. It sat just a few blocks from the main stadium where Tyler's quarter-final match would take place.
Two separate events. One day.
He exhaled quietly. "Convenient."
He typed back:
"Good work. Maintain visual contact until I say otherwise."