ARSHILA POV
The drawers slide open one by one as I search through them quickly, my fingers moving through documents, files, and small objects without stopping.
Then the last drawer opens.
Inside it is a gun.
For a second I simply stare at it, the dark metal resting quietly against the velvet lining as if it has been waiting for someone to find it.
The weight of the moment settles slowly in the room, thick and quiet, like the air itself knows something dangerous has just changed.
I think I should play dirty.
The thought slides into my mind without hesitation, and the moment it arrives, it feels strangely natural.
My hand moves before my conscience has the chance to argue. I reach inside the drawer and wrap my fingers around the grip.
The metal is cool against my skin, heavier than I expected when I lift it out. Whoever chose this weapon clearly knew what they were doing.
It feels balanced, expensive, and far too real for the calm silence of this study.
I check the hallway instinctively before tucking it behind my back.
The waistband of my pants holds it easily, hidden beneath my shirt where no one will notice unless they get very close.
The cold press of metal against my spine sends a small shiver through my body, but I force myself to stay calm.
If Zayan searches for this gun later, he will know exactly who took it.
And if he does not notice…
That might be even better.
I slide the drawer shut and quickly check the rest of the desk again, but nothing else inside seems worth the risk of touching.
Papers, contracts, meaningless business reports. Nothing that looks like proof of anything dangerous.
Which means the gun might already be the most valuable thing I can take from this room.
I step away from the desk and open the study door carefully.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, the mansion still wrapped in that strange silence it always carries when Zayan is not inside it.
My eyes immediately move toward the small black camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.
The red light is on.
Of course it is.
For a moment I simply stare at it.
Then I raise my hand and give it a slow, deliberate middle finger.
If someone is watching, they deserve the greeting.
I walk down the corridor toward the storage room at the end of the hall, keeping my steps calm and steady as if nothing unusual is happening at all.
The door creaks slightly when I push it open, revealing rows of cabinets and drawers filled with random things the mansion apparently refuses to throw away.
Perfect.
I move toward one of the lower cabinets tucked into the far corner of the room and open it quietly.
The drawer inside slides out with a faint wooden scrape, and without hesitation I take the gun from my waistband and place it inside.
For a brief moment my fingers linger on the grip.
A strange image forms inside my mind.
The barrel of the gun raised.
Pointed directly at Zayan's head.
His expression completely calm while I demand answers he has been hiding for who knows how long.
And if he turns out to be the monster I am starting to believe he might be…
I would pull the trigger.
The thought does not scare me as much as it probably should.
I close the drawer.
The storage room falls silent again as if nothing inside it has changed.
When I step back into the hallway, my expression is perfectly normal. Anyone watching would think I simply came here looking for something ordinary.
The main hall appears a few seconds later, wide and bright under the afternoon light pouring through the tall windows.
And someone is standing there.
Izar.
He is leaning casually near one of the pillars, arms crossed over his chest like he has absolutely nowhere important to be.
The man looks annoyingly perfect, the dark shirt fitting his broad shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal.
There is nothing about him that suggests he grew up in the kind of place people whisper about when they think no one is listening.
No one who grows up in hell is supposed to look this good.
The bastard looks like he belongs on a luxury perfume advertisement.
My lips curl slightly before I even realize it.
I walk toward him with an easy smile.
"How are you doing, bro?" I ask casually.
Izar glances down at me, clearly amused by the greeting. His expression shifts into a relaxed grin as he straightens slightly.
"Doing well," he replies. "You look suspiciously cheerful today."
I tilt my head, studying him for a second before speaking again.
"Tell me something," I say lightly. "What do you think it costs when someone hides too many secrets?"
His eyebrow lifts slowly.
"That depends," he says. "Are we talking about money… or consequences?"
A quiet laugh slips from my mouth.
"Good answer."
Izar watches me carefully now, that familiar sharpness returning to his eyes. The man might pretend to be relaxed, but there is always something calculating behind that calm expression.
"Let me guess," he says, his voice carrying a trace of amusement. "You're suddenly interested in secrets."
"Everyone should be," I reply. "Especially in a house like this."
He chuckles softly.
"Do you have any secrets?"
I shrug lightly.
"Not as many as you."
The smirk that appears on his face is slow and entertained, like he enjoys the game more than the conversation itself. He gives me a small, exaggerated bow before stepping past me toward the foyer.
"As long as you're having fun," he says casually.
Then he walks away.
I remain standing there for a moment, watching his broad shoulders disappear toward the front entrance.
A slow thought settles inside my mind as the silence returns.
Whatever the hell these two men are hiding behind their titles of billionaire and bodyguard…
I will find it.
Dinner ends the way most dinners in this house do—quiet, controlled, polite enough to look normal to an outsider but carrying that strange tension that always lingers between the three of us.
By the time the plates are cleared and the staff disappears into the background again, the mansion falls back into its usual silence.
I end up on the living room couch without remembering when I sat down.
The television is off now. The lights are dim. The tall windows reflect the inside of the room like dark mirrors, and the entire space feels too big for one person thinking too much.
My mind refuses to shut up.
There are still no real clues about Zayan being a vigilante. None. Every time I think I have something solid, it slips away like smoke. Nothing connects properly. Nothing lines up clean enough to prove anything.
And then there is Izar.
That thought alone makes my jaw tighten.
Why the hell did Zayan's grandfather buy a child from a fighting pit and raise him inside this house like some twisted charity project?
Who does that? Rich people adopt children all the time, but they do not purchase them like weapons and then give them education, training, and a place at the family table.
It is sickening when I think about it too long.
And maddening.
Because Izar does not behave like a victim.
He moves like a soldier.
I rub my face slowly and lean back into the couch.
Something about this entire house feels wrong lately. Not dangerous exactly. Just… hidden. Like every hallway is hiding a conversation I was not invited to.
My phone rests on the table in front of me.
I grab it.
If the mansion refuses to give me answers, the internet usually does.
My fingers type quickly.
Vigilante murders.
Several articles appear immediately, but one file catches my attention first.
Damien Cross.
I open it.
The screen fills with the investigation report. Photos, witness statements, medical notes, timeline details. I scroll slowly through the information, my eyes moving over the lines with growing focus.
This was not the vigilante.
This was the Black Wraiths.
I already know that.
Everyone knows them. The most powerful hit group in the world. The kind of organization world leaders pretend does not exist while secretly praying they never become a target.
They do not miss.
They do not forgive.
And they definitely do not care about laws.
My thumb pauses when I reach the attachments section of the file.
There is a photograph.
The caption reads:
Supreme Leader — Black Wraiths. Codename: Zy.
I tap it.
The image opens.
A masked man sits on a metal bench inside what looks like an abandoned locker room.
The photograph is grainy, probably taken from a distance or a security camera. He wears tactical gear, black gloves, camouflage pants, and a fitted shirt stretched tight over muscle.
The mask hides most of his face.
Only the eyes are visible.
Sharp. Still. Cold in a way that feels disturbingly controlled.
My fingers automatically zoom in on the photo.
Something tight pulls inside my chest.
I stare harder.
Then a memory crawls up from somewhere in the back of my mind.
The first time I saw this image.
It was a month ago.
On the television.
The news channel had been playing it during another crime report. I remember it clearly now because I made a joke about the guy looking intimidating.
And Zayan—
Zayan had been sitting right beside me.
He had watched the screen for a second.
Then he had leaned back like the entire thing was boring and said something casual that I did not take seriously at the time.
My heart starts beating faster.
I stand up.
The movement happens so suddenly that the couch creaks behind me.
My phone is still in my hand as I walk through the hallway, my steps quick and uneven now. The mansion is quiet again, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel louder.
I check the study first.
Empty.
The kitchen.
Empty.
Then I see him.
Zayan is stretched across one of the couches near the tall indoor plants beside the staircase. The soft light from the hallway lamps spills across the room, catching the edges of his face and shoulders.
He looks… relaxed.
Completely relaxed.
His arm rests loosely over his stomach, one leg slightly bent, his head tilted back against the cushion. His eyes are closed like he fell asleep sometime in the last few minutes.
For a moment I just stand there.
Then I walk closer.
Slowly.
The phone screen is still glowing in my hand.
The photograph is still open.
Zy.
The masked man.
I move behind the couch, positioning myself where his head rests against the backrest. From this angle I can see the entire shape of his face without him noticing me.
His breathing is steady.
Calm.
Too calm.
My hand lifts slowly.
Hovering above his mouth.
Then his nose.
Just for a second.
And I freeze.
Because without the mask… without the shadow… without the grainy camera quality…
He looks exactly like the man in the photograph.
ZY.