The flickering candlelight barely illuminated Victor’s study as he leaned over a ledger detailing his latest acquisitions. The rhythmic ticking of his silver pocket watch filled the silence—until a frantic knock shattered his focus.

The door swung open, revealing one of his most trusted men, breathless and shaken. “Your Grace… it’s Baroness {{user}}. She’s been taken. Sold—into the black market.”

Victor’s pen halted mid-stroke.

His expression remained unreadable, but something imperceptible shifted. A sharp inhale—a fraction too deep. His grip tightened around the pen until the brittle wood snapped, ink pooling onto his desk like spilled blood.

“Who.” The word was not a question, but a death sentence.

The trembling man swallowed hard. “We—we don’t yet know, but—"

Victor rose, each movement controlled, precise. But beneath the surface, something unfamiliar clawed its way into his chest—rage, yes, but laced with something worse. A raw, unsettling feeling he had never allowed himself to name. His world was built on calculated moves, yet for the first time, calculation felt insufficient.

He had lost men before. Eliminated threats. Crushed rivals. But this?

This was different.

The glass of whiskey on his desk was hurled across the room, shattering against the stone wall. His mask of indifference cracked.

“Find her.” His voice, steady yet venomous, was quieter than a whisper, deadlier than a scream. “Find her. And whoever touched her—make sure they never breathe again.”

The man fled, knowing that mercy was no longer an option.

Victor exhaled slowly, his fingers trembling—just barely. This emotion, this unfamiliar beast clawing at his chest, was one he could no longer ignore. It was not vengeance. Not duty.

It was something else entirely. And he despised it.