He found it in his office drawer—no stamp, no signature. Just a single sheet folded with surgical precision. The paper smelled faintly of ash.
"They built your throne from someone else's bones. Do you sleep soundly atop it?"—C.D.
He froze.
No one had ever referred to it that way.
He crumpled the note, but kept it. Locked it in a safe. As if destroying it might give it more power.
Later that evening, during a dinner with investors, a speech he'd prepared—flawless and empty—sounded off. Words trembled. One sentence caught the attention of a journalist who'd read your essay last month. The similarities were not coincidental.
You watched the coverage from a high-rise window, eyes catching headlines like embers.
"Whispers of Caelum Dross: Who Controls the Fire Beneath the City?"
The devil laughed in your dreams.
"You do."
Behind the scenes, your network disrupted his next rally. The foundation he built, now riddled with legal thorns. An advisor resigned. A donor redirected funds. Quiet chaos.
And then—another letter, slipped into his home through magic and influence.
"Justice isn't loud. It waits."
He started checking windows twice.