"Prophecies always come true—that is, if you choose to call them prophecies," wrote in her leather-bound memoirs, the ink still smelling of dried lavender and old secrets. "Personally, I prefer to call them a pre-destined blueprint. My predictions were always absolute, carved in stone and bound by fate. Every single one of them was flawless... except for one. The one that shattered everything. The prophecy of The Pink Evening."
- Sorceress S.S
The music inside the hall wasn't just loud; it was violent. It was a relentless throb of bass that vibrated through the floorboards, pulsing through the soles of Cyrus's expensive leather shoes and echoing in his ribcage. Around him, the elite of the city danced and drank, oblivious to the world outside the gilded walls.
Cyrus sat beside his mother, his posture rigid despite the heavy, half-lidded boredom in his eyes. He looked like a king forced to attend a peasant's wedding, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with a cold, analytical detachment. He hated these gatherings—the fake smiles, the scent of overpriced perfumes, and the endless political posturing of the HealCo board members.
But then, the phone in his hand vibrated. The rhythmic buzz was small, but to Cyrus, it felt like an electric shock. He caught a glimpse of the notification at the top of his screen—a secure message—and in an instant, his boredom evaporated. He was on his feet before his mother could even ask where he was going.
He pushed through the sea of swaying bodies, his shoulders cutting a path through the crowd until he reached the most secluded corner of the hall, a dim alcove shielded by heavy velvet curtains. He dialed the number immediately. There were no greetings, no polite hesitations. The moment the line clicked open, he cut straight to the bone.
"Are you certain?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register.
"Yes, sir," the voice on the other end replied, crackling with static and the sound of distant wind. "We tracked the movement as you ordered."
"How many?" Cyrus asked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the phone.
"Five in total. Lady Atousa and another woman. And three men... one of them is the same person we spotted at the gallery that day. The one with the scar."
Cyrus swallowed hard. The lump in his throat felt like a shard of lead, heavy and cold. His mind raced, connecting dots that he wished didn't exist. Before he could issue his next command, the man's voice crackled through the phone again, urgent and tense.
"Sir? They're moving into the perimeter. Give the word and I'll go in—I can neutralize the primary threat now."
"No!" Cyrus hissed, the word a sharp whisper that vibrated with suppressed panic. "Do not engage. Stay exactly where you are. If you move now, you'll blow the entire operation. Just... wait."
He ended the call abruptly, the screen's light fading to black. He pressed his palm against his burning forehead, the heat of his skin contrasting with the cold sweat beginning to form at his hairline. He needed to be calm. He needed to be the version of Cyrus that nothing could shake.
He forced his features into a mask of indifference and returned to the table, sliding back into the seat beside his mother. The transition was seamless, but his mother—a woman who could read him better than any scripture—wasn't fooled. She leaned in, her perfume a mix of jasmine and anxiety, her voice a low murmur against his ear.
"Was that Atousa on the phone?" she asked, her eyes searching his face.
Cyrus felt his throat tighten. He took a slow, deliberate sip of orange juice, the citrus stinging his dry tongue. He gave nothing more than a curt, dismissive nod.
"How is her mother doing?" she pressed, her voice laced with genuine concern. "Do they need anything? You know we owe them a debt of gratitude for last summer."
This time, he didn't even use words. He simply shook his head, his eyes already drifting away. His attention locked onto Farhan, who was slumped in a single armchair across the room. Farhan's head was tilted back against the dark upholstery, his eyes closed. Even from across the hall, Cyrus could see the fine beads of sweat glistening on Farhan's pale forehead. He looked like a man who was melting from the inside out.
His mother followed his gaze. When her eyes landed on Farhan, her hand instinctively tightened on her silk clutch. She leaned in even closer, her whisper barely audible over the crescendo of the music.
"Cyrus... if I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth? For once, without the corporate riddles?"
Cyrus tore his eyes away from Farhan, meeting his mother's gaze in the dim, flickering light. He remained silent, a wall of stone.
"Is Farhan... using something? Is he back on those pills? Is he on drugs again?" her voice flickered with a raw, motherly hesitation.
His throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. He knew the truth, and the truth was a poison that would kill her peace of mind. He paused for a long second, exhaling a sharp, ragged breath through his mouth.
"I don't know," he lied, the words tasting like ash.
That single phrase only deepened his mother's dread. She knew the mechanics of his loyalty; if there was nothing to hide, Cyrus would have defended Farhan instantly. Her silence was louder than the music. She opened her mouth to press him further, her eyes brimming with a thousand more questions, but at that moment, Moein's heavy gaze shifted toward them from the head of the table.
"Father, can we leave? It's past three in the morning, and the atmosphere here is becoming... stale," Cyrus spoke up quickly, cutting his mother off before she could shatter the fragile peace.
Moein gave a slow, measured nod, his cane resting between his knees like a scepter. "Gather the others. We'll be waiting in the car. Don't dawdle."
Cyrus didn't wait for a second invitation. He stood up, his height drawing a few admiring glances he didn't care for. He scanned the pulsating, strobe-lit hall for Boran. Finally, he spotted the distinct cream-colored blazer near the bar. He pushed through the sea of intoxicated bodies, reached out, and gripped Boran's arm with a force that promised a bruise.
"Get it together," he hissed directly into Boran's ear, the heat of the room making his own temper flare. "We're leaving. Now. And don't make a scene."
He release his grip before Boran could even offer a drunken protest. He changed his course, weaving through the gamblers until he reached Araqi's table. The old man was a legend, his snow-white eyebrows knitted in deep concentration as he stared at a hand of cards that would determine a small fortune.
Cyrus leaned over, his eyes scanning the table in a heartbeat. He calculated the odds, the players' tells, and the remaining deck with a mathematical precision that was almost frightening. Without saying a word, he reached out and tapped the second card in Araqi's hand.
"Leaving already, young lion?" Araqi asked, his frown vanishing into a grin of pure delight as he tossed the card Cyrus indicated into the center. A chorus of frustrated groans erupted from the other players.
"With your permission, we'll be heading out," Cyrus replied, his voice steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his mind. "My father isn't feeling quite himself tonight."
"Don't be a stranger, son," Araqi said, rising to give Cyrus a firm, paternal slap on the shoulder. "Come visit me at the estate. I'm looking for a worthy opponent, and these old dogs have no bite left!"
"A student would never dare to challenge his master," Cyrus said, a faint, respectful smile touching his lips for the first time that night.
"Go on then. Safe travels," Araqi waved him off.
Cyrus strode back to Farhan's chair. He didn't use soft words. He gave Farhan's cheek a sharp, wake-up slap that echoed slightly. Farhan's eyelids fluttered, revealing bloodshot eyes that struggled to find focus. Cyrus sighed, a sound of pure disappointment, and hauled him up by the arm.
"Pull yourself together," Cyrus growled as they reached the cool night air. "Mom is already suspicious. If you stumble now, I won't be able to cover for you."
They reached the car, a black armored beast waiting in the shadows. Cyrus climbed in and slid the heavy door shut, the seal cutting off the distant thud of the party. The silence inside was oppressive. As the car pulled away, Boran pulled out his phone, the blaring, tinny sound of a mobile game cutting through the quiet cabin.
"Shut that damn thing off..." Farhan growled, his eyes shut tight against the passing streetlights.
The car drove down a desolate, unlit road, the city's skyline retreating like a fading dream. Cyrus checked his watch. 3:30 AM. The witching hour.
Before he could even look up, the world turned inside out. A deafening roar—an explosion that felt like a physical punch—rocked the entire car. The vehicle lurched, tires screaming. Within a heartbeat, the darkness outside was ignited by the strobe-like flash of automatic gunfire hitting the reinforced glass.
His mother's scream was a jagged blade in the dark. Cyrus didn't think; he moved. He lunged across the seat, shoving his mother down onto the floor, shielding her body with his own. Boran followed suit, dragging the dazed Farhan into the footwell.
Cyrus looked toward the front, toward his father. As he began to rise to shield Moein, a bullet shattered the front corner of the glass, whizzing past his ear with a terrifying hiss. The searing pain was immediate, a hot iron branding his skin.
"Stay down!" he roared, but the sound was swallowed by the relentless hammer of lead against steel.