—In the past—
The Stoneheart mansion breathes in silence.
Not the gentle silence of a sleeping house, but the heavy, waiting silence of something held captive. The living room is bathed in golden light, the chandelier above casting a thousand fractured diamonds across the ceiling, across the walls, across the dark marble floor. Each crystal hangs like a frozen tear—unblinking, indifferent.
Silom Stoneheart sits on the couch.
His posture is a study in control—back straight, shoulders relaxed yet alert, hands resting on the armrests like a king seated upon his throne. His black eyes stare at nothing. Or everything. It's impossible to tell.
His face is a mask carved from ice, beautiful and untouchable—the kind of face that has learned to hide everything behind the perfect stillness of power.
Chen stands beside him.
His secretary. His shadow. His most loyal weapon.
