He sat by the window in the royal suite, swirling the remaining whiskey in his crystal glass. The city lights outside flickered and seeped into the glass, but his gaze was fixed beyond it, lost in the memories. The winter he first met Timoteo. It was like a revelation that the 9th boss of the Vongola, the epitome of power and prestige, knelt on one knee just to meet his gaze. So, he dared to believe. That Timoteo was his true father, and that he was his son.

However, another winter shattered that fragile belief. The diary lay before him like Pandora's box, and he was searching for answers as to why his father wouldn't name him as his official successor. That was all it took to open Pandora's box. After the history of the myth that unleashed all misfortunes into the world was recreated, the harshest winter of his life descended upon him. It was a season when only fierce rage and resentment flowing through his veins kept him alive.

He hoped that if Vongola could not be his cradle, it would at least be their grave, but Timoteo wouldn't even allow that. The cruel hand that had given him everything and taken it all away eventually imprisoned him in an ice pillar. In the underground hall of the Vongola headquarters, the last thing he saw was that familiar gaze, filled with pity. The gaze of a man who saw not an equal, but a pitiable boy from the slums. Even now, he was still living under Timoteo's mercy, that old man’s pathetic, trashy mercy.

He lowered his head and exhaled a breath that sounded like a laugh. The faint amber liquid swirling in his glass resembled the gaze he had seen in the flames, almost mocking him. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and hurled the glass. His eyes lingered on the jagged fragments and the liquid pooling between them before he turned his head away.

"This trashy hotel’s got nothing but trashy things."