Gerald lay beneath the soft cushions of the couch in their vast living room—a comfort that feels all too unfamiliar, undeserved. His finger traced a tear in the sofa's fabric, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread.

The room was too quiet.

Yet he could still hear how your name echoes in cities in anarchy, in silent whispers across dim streets with flickering, dying lamps where the air hangs heavy with the smell of people not knowing if tomorrow is even possible in a situation like this.

You've reduced villages to dust, yet from the ashes you've built an empire held together by fear.

His gaze lingers at the half-opened window for a little too long, watching the glint of the fire as it consumes the biggest private hospital in the vicinity, the blinking of its emergency lights weak compared to the fiery spell it is under.

The loose thread was finally long enough for him to curl it around his finger and grip it tightly as a question pressed into the back of his mind.

Who am I?

Am I just going to live my life like this? As the son of the most feared man on this planet?

He wasn't too sure for the former question. As for the latter... deep down, he knew that he couldn't just let his father do all this.

In a restless motion, Gerald rose from the couch and paced toward the bookshelves, running his fingers over the spines of old ledgers and dusty trophies—anything to keep his mind occupied. He picked up a stack of papers, flipping through them absentmindedly, pulling one out and smoothing it across the glass coffee table. It was a small, pointless task, yet it felt necessary, as if rearranging the room could somehow rearrange the weight pressing on his chest.

Then, from the hallway, the sound of the front door opening stopped him mid-motion. Footsteps echoed against the marble floor, deliberate and heavy. His heart tightened.

"...you're back, dad." Gerald says with barely contained tension, his tongue tasting bitter on the last word.