L
The True Mastermind
The city shimmered beneath the veil of night, cloaked in a deceptive calm, as if unaware of the storm building atop one of its highest towers. From the edge of Voss Tower's rooftop, the entire skyline stretched out like a kingdom awaiting judgment—glittering lights, winding streets, high-rises that kissed the clouds. But Damien Voss wasn't here to admire the view.
This was the end.
And he had come to finish it.
The wind howled around him, catching the edges of his long black coat, making it snap like a battle banner in the air. His gaze was locked across the rooftop—on a figure seated in a leather armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass of whiskey resting casually in his hand.
It wasn't Victor Kane.
It wasn't Richard Voss.
And it damn sure wasn't Sergio Montoya.
No—the man who had orchestrated it all, who had twisted the knife when Damien was already on his knees, was someone Damien had once called brother.
Ethan Drake.
His best friend.
His confidant.
His betrayer.
The one who had played the long game while everyone else made noise.
The Betrayal That Ran Deep
Ethan sat with the smug calm of a man who believed he had already won. His designer coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, but his hand was steady as he swirled the amber liquor in his glass. His eyes glinted with the kind of darkness that only years of resentment could breed.
"I suppose this is where you ask why," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused, like this was nothing more than a casual conversation between old friends.
Damien took a slow step forward, his voice a low growl barely restrained. "You stood beside me when my world collapsed. You watched me fall. Watched me bleed. And the entire time…" His eyes narrowed, fury burning just beneath the surface. "You were the one tightening the noose."
Ethan's expression didn't shift. If anything, his smirk deepened.
"Not the entire time," he said with a shrug. "Just enough. Enough to make sure that when you hit the ground, you stayed there."
The words were laced with venom.
Damien's fists clenched at his sides, but he held still. The wind, the skyline, even the city beneath them faded into a muted hum.
All he could hear was Ethan's voice.
"All these years," Ethan continued, his tone turning sharper, colder. "I watched you live a life I could only dream of. The name, the legacy, the women, the power. Even when you lost it all, you still had something I didn't. Pride. Fire. And people followed you—always."
He set the glass down on the side table with a sharp clink, the sound echoing between them.
"And me?" Ethan's eyes gleamed with something unhinged. "I was the second son in every room. The shadow behind the prodigy. So I decided… maybe it was time I stepped into the light."
A Final Confrontation
Damien's jaw tightened. His voice dropped, quiet and lethal. "I would've given you everything, Ethan. All you had to do was ask."
"And that's exactly why I couldn't," Ethan snapped, standing now, his rage no longer veiled. "Because you would've. You would've handed me the scraps and made it look like a gift."
He reached into his jacket, too quickly.
Damien didn't hesitate.
Bang.
The shot rang out like thunder atop the tower.
Ethan stumbled backward, the whiskey glass shattering at his feet as he clutched his shoulder, crimson staining the front of his coat. He gasped, breath hitching, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You—" he began, staggering.
But Damien was already moving.
Slow, deliberate steps.
His gun still raised.
His expression unreadable.
"You thought you were the only one who changed," Damien said softly, stepping over the broken glass. "You thought you could manipulate the game and still walk away clean."
He reached Ethan, who had collapsed into the chair once more, blood dripping onto the concrete. With one sharp kick, Damien sent the chair toppling, the man crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses.
And then Damien knelt.
Gun to Ethan's forehead.
Breaths ragged.
Pulse unshaken.
"You're not a killer, Damien," Ethan whispered, still clinging to that last thread of superiority. "You never were."
Damien's eyes met his, dark and cold as the city night.
"I wasn't," he murmured.
The smirk that followed was bone-chilling.
The Shot That Shook the City
The gun went off a second time—louder, final, unforgiving.
Birds scattered from the rooftops.
Far below, in the streets of Holloway, heads turned. People paused mid-conversation, ears straining toward the sound that seemed to ripple through the air like a crack in reality.
For a fleeting moment, the rooftop lights flickered. Just once.
And then—darkness.
No alarms. No screams.
Just silence.
When they looked up again, the figure that had stood tall and unwavering was gone.
No blood trail. No trace.
Only the wind.
And Damien Blackwood vanished into legend.
The man who had returned from the grave to reclaim his throne… had now disappeared once more.
But not as a victim.
Not as a survivor.
This time, he left as a king.
And kings do not fall.
They ascend.