Moonlight washed over the Saint estate without warmth.
The mansion stood at the city's edge, all white stone and tall windows, glowing softly under layers of gold light. Music drifted into the night—violins, laughter, the dull clink of crystal. Cars lined the driveway like trophies, polished and expensive. Men in black suits stood at every entrance, faces blank, eyes always moving.
Inside, wealth filled the air.
Perfume. Silk. Champagne.
They had gathered to celebrate the birth of Willioms Saint's newborn son.
Three years ago, Willioms had been nothing.
A drunk. A gambler. A man whispered about with disgust. Then, suddenly—money appeared. Doors opened. The kind of power that didn't come with explanation.
Some called it a miracle.Others knew better.
Willioms raised his glass, smiling wide.
"My friends!" he called. "Thank you for honoring my family on such a blessed night. Please—drink, eat, enjoy yourselves!"
Applause followed. Music swelled. The party continued.
Only Willioms noticed when one of the guards, standing far down the hall, lifted a gloved hand.
A signal.
Willioms excused himself, irritation tightening his jaw as he moved through the corridors.
"What is it?" he hissed when he reached the guard. "This had better be worth interrupting my night."
"There is an intruder," the guard replied calmly. "Someone who should not be here."
Willioms scoffed. "You idiots are paid to prevent—"
The blow came without warning.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke choking.
His vision swam. His head rang with a deep, punishing ache. He tried to move.
He couldn't.
Pain radiated from his arms and legs in sharp, distant pulses. When his eyes finally focused, he saw the wall in front of him—too close, too upright.
He was pinned there.
Nails—thick iron spikes—held him in place. One through each limb. The pain came in waves, delayed but absolute.
A shadow moved.
"Oh," the guard said lightly. "You're awake."
Willioms screamed.
The sound bounced uselessly off stone.
"What do you want?" he sobbed. "Money? Power? I can give you anything—anything!"
The guard stepped closer.
"Three years ago," he said quietly, "you were a parasite. You stole charity money meant for a sick child and spent it on drink and cards."
"I don't—!" Willioms coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about!"
"You raped a girl," the guard continued, voice steady. "She died giving birth."
The words landed heavier than any blow.
Willioms went still.
"…What child?" he whispered. "I only just became a father."
The guard leaned in.
"Your son's name was Toka."
Something inside Willioms collapsed.
His eyes widened. His breathing turned shallow and frantic.
"H-how do you know that?"
The guard reached up and removed his mask.
The face beneath it was young, but hollowed by years that should not have touched it. Dark hair framed eyes that held no warmth at all.
Eyes Willioms recognized.
"Y–Yuri…?"
Yuri studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he was deciding whether something still mattered.
"So," he said softly. "You remember."
"You're my nephew," Willioms cried. "Please—listen to me—"
Yuri's voice cracked like ice breaking.
"Henry Saint was never my father," he said. "But that doesn't matter."
He stepped closer.
"I want to know how you got rich right after my mother died."
"It wasn't me!" Willioms sobbed. "It was Henry—and someone else. A man I didn't know. He was there the night she died. He came back the next day with you and Lilly. I swear—that's all I know!"
Silence followed.
Yuri closed his eyes and breathed once. Slowly.
"Good," he said.
Willioms looked up, hope flickering in his eyes.
"You and Henry are the same," Yuri continued. "You both fed on people weaker than you."
He reached for a blade.
"Toka trusted you," Yuri said. "You begged for money in his name. When he died, you didn't even bury him."
Willioms wept openly now, shaking. "Please… mercy…"
Yuri pressed the blade against his skin.
"Mercy," he said quietly, "is for the living."
The cut was clean.
Yuri turned away before the body finished falling.
Behind him, Willioms Saint died alone—pinned to the wall by the weight of everything he had done.