The soft clink of shoes against marble echoed into the room.
Sir Gary stepped into the dining hall, posture composed, hands behind his back. His eyes took in the scene with calm calculation: bloodied gauze, the open first-aid kit, Emilia kneeling beside Jonathan, her fingers still hovering over a half-wrapped wound.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
"You've been fighting again," he said, tone as casual as if he'd remarked on the weather.
Emilia looked up sharply. "Again?"
That one word sliced the air between them.
Jonathan's jaw tensed.
"Enough, Emilia," he muttered — as he pulled his arm away from her touch — not violently, but with finality. Her hands, still holding the gauze, dropped uselessly to her lap.
She watched, stunned, as he rose to his feet with effort, his body stiff but refusing to show weakness.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't look at Sir Gary.
Instead, he reached for two unopened bottles of whiskey from the table's edge — ones Emilia hadn't noticed earlier — and turned toward the hallway without another word.
"I'll be in the study," he said flatly.
And then he was gone.
His figure disappeared down the corridor, the sound of the glass bottles brushing together trailing behind him like a broken melody.
Emilia remained frozen on the floor, hands sticky with antiseptic and blood, staring at the empty doorway.
She had never seen him like that.
Not cold — he'd been cold before.
Not violent — she had seen that too.
But this?
This was something else.
---
At a discreet location – 9:45 a.m.
The slap of paper hitting the table echoed through the dim room.
Scattered across the polished wood were grainy surveillance photos — Emilia, in different angles and expressions, walking through the crowded street. One of them caught her wiping at her face, eyes red. Another showed her standing still, blankly staring into nothing.
The man behind the table didn't flinch. He leaned forward slowly, picking up one of the photos with gloved fingers.
"What did you get," the thick voice said from the shadows.
A cigarette lit up briefly in the dark, glowing like a single eye.
"I want every detail."
He dropped the picture, picking another one where she was seen smiling with Katherina.
"She's clean... mostly," a voice replied.
"Name's Emilia Ámara Salvador. Born in Catalonia, Spain. Parents — Armand and Leila Salvador — moved to the U.S. before dying in a house fire on her ninth birthday. Suspicious timing — fire investigators never solved it. She bounced around the foster system until she was twelve Then... she vanished. No trail for nearly two years until she popped up under the care of her uncle Gabriel during a social gathering."
The man behind the table hummed, amused. "Gabriel Salvador That worm."
"She escaped him too. Ran off again before she turned sixteen. Whatever happened in that house—she never spoke of it."
He leaned closer into the light now, voice low and hard.
"And now she's with Thane."
A pause.
"But we don't know why."
The glow of the cigarette pulsed again.
"Find out."
The cigarette burned again — a faint crackle in the silence.
Then a fingertip tapped once on the photo of Emilia smiling with Katherina.
"And this one," the voice said coldly. "She's in too many frames. That's not a coincidence. Find out who she is. What she does. Why she matters."
A beat.
"And if she's a weakness…"
The glowing end of the cigarette tilted slightly. Ash scattered across the photo like gray snow.
"…use her."
A sharp flick. The cigarette was stubbed into the ashtray — the sound soft but final.
Then the lights hummed faintly.
A low overhead fixture buzzed to life, casting a single beam across the table revealing the ice cold-stare of Leonardo Fernando.
---
It had been weeks since Emilia received those messages.
But she hadn't told Jonathan.
She hadn't told anyone.
And strangely — she wasn't falling apart. Not outwardly. She woke up, got dressed, ate when she remembered, read, wandered, watched movies with Sir Gary when she felt like.
She kept living.
Or at least… existing.
Jonathan, on the other hand — wasn't.
He hadn't been around.
Not in the way he used to be.
He left early. Came home late. Some nights, not at all. No explanations. No warnings. No one questioned it.
Not even her.
And that should've been a good thing. She had the house to herself, most nights. No brooding glances from across the room. No unexpected orders. No words twisted like knives just to see how deep they'd land.
But…
Emilia exhaled, staring out the window of the upstairs landing.
It wasn't relief she felt.
It was something closer to unease.
Especially after that morning at the dining. The blood. The open first-aid kit. The look in his eyes when he walked away without so much as a glance back.
Something had shifted in him.
And whether she liked it or not… she felt it.
Emilia blinked and turned away from the window.
It wasn't her problem.
And yet—
Something in her gut twisted.
---
BLACK CORP
The hallway lights hummed low as Jonathan stepped out of the boardroom, his shoulders taut beneath the charcoal-grey suit. The meeting had gone longer than it should have — filled with excuses and half-baked reports — and now all he wanted was silence.
He adjusted his cufflink and walked toward his office.
The door was cracked open.
His steps slowed.
That was his first sign.
The second — the faint scent of cheap floor cleaner. Too fresh. Too intentional.
He pushed the door open fully.
And there he was.
Leonardo Fernando.
Dressed in a janitor's uniform, complete with gloves and a name patch that read "Mitch." He was seated in Jonathan's chair, turned away, spinning slowly back and forth like he owned the place.
Jonathan didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
He just stepped inside, the door whispering shut behind him.
Leonardo's voice broke the silence — low, amused, dragging syllables like a blade.
"Emilia Ámara Salvador.
Born to Armand and Leila Salvador.
Catalonia natives, moved to the U.S., died in a suspicious house fire. Hmm.... Ever wonder why her parents and sibling died in that fire and she didn't " A pause. Then a soft chuckle. "Lucky little phoenix, isn't she? Rising from ash while her family turned to cinders."
Jonathan said nothing.
But the vein in his temple pulsed.
He stopped spinning.
But didn't turn yet.
"Leonardo," he finally said, voice smooth as silk, gritted between clenched teeth.
"I see you've been doing your assignments."
Leonardo chuckled softly — then finally rolled the chair to face him.
The grin on his face wasn't amusement.
It was possession.
"I see why you took her," he said, slowly pulling off the janitor gloves one finger at a time.
"She's feisty."
A long beat passed.
Jonathan stepped closer, his expression unreadable.
"You broke into my building dressed like a cleaner. Do you want me to be impressed, or insulted?"
Leonardo leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head like it was just another Tuesday.
"I didn't break in," he said with a smirk. "They let me in. All I had to do was promise your receptionist an unforgettable deadly night with me" He gave a slow shrug. "As for your guards, I just put them to sleep. Don't worry, nothing permanent. Let's say... eight hours, maybe ten. They'll wake up with a headache. Or not wake up at all — depends on the mood I left them in." He smiled wider, slow and cruel.
Jonathan's jaw flexed.
The fingers at his side curled slowly into a fist.
Still, his voice came out even. Low. Icy.
"I'm guessing this isn't a social call."
Leonardo tilted his head, eyes gleaming like a predator playing with its food.
"Depends. You serving drinks?"
Jonathan said nothing.
Leonardo's grin widened — that slow, infuriating smirk that used to rile him even when they were boys training under the same roof.
Except now, the stakes were bloodier.
Riskier.
Deadlier.
Leonardo stood, peeling off the janitor jacket and tossing it carelessly onto Jonathan's desk.
The holster beneath flashed for a second — leather, sleek, tailored to a man who didn't miss when he aimed.
"I came to talk," he said simply, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder.
"About Emilia?"