After passing a series of automated checkpoints verifying Aarav's credentials, they entered a private garage. A sleek, obsidian-black vehicle with tinted windows waited. Aarav opened the back door. The man stepped inside, the door closing with a soft click as the engine hummed quietly to life.
The car glided through a hidden tunnel leading into the city's underbelly. Outside, the world was a blur of neon and light—a society transformed beyond recognition. The First Knight sat rigidly in the passenger seat, silent and vigilant, ready for threats that might never come. The man leaned back, letting the gentle motion of the car soothe him, the passing lights reflecting off the dark windows like a mirror of a world he now had to navigate.
The car glided to a silent stop in front of a majestic hotel. The Saffron Spire lived up to its name—a modern fortress of glass and gold piercing the night sky. Yet, they didn't stop at the main entrance. The car slipped past the glimmering lobby, descending a private ramp that spiraled into the earth, deep into an underground parking level reserved for the most high-profile guests.
The engine fell silent. Aarav, the First Knight, was out of the car in an instant. He moved with the quiet, practiced grace of a predator, his masked gaze sweeping the garage, analyzing every shadow and corner for threats. Satisfied, he opened the back door.
The man inside stretched, letting out a long, weary yawn. His casual, nonchalant demeanor was a stark contrast to Aarav's taut vigilance. Together, they moved toward a concealed elevator, its polished steel doors blending seamlessly with the wall. A biometric scanner pulsed softly. Aarav placed a hand on it, and the doors opened with a quiet hum. The lift closed behind them, sealing them off from the world above.
They emerged on the 34th floor—a silent, exclusive domain rarely used. The hallway stretched before them, vast and dimly lit, doors spaced far apart, a testament to the privacy and luxury afforded to its occupants.
They walked along the plush carpet to door 3402. Aarav drew a key card from his jacket, sliding it into the reader. The lock clicked softly. He held the door open, stepping aside with a silent gesture.
"I need something to eat and drink," the man said, voice low, final.
Aarav replied evenly. "It will be sent up immediately."
The man stepped inside. The suite was lavish, a sharp contrast to the sterile lab he had left behind. Golden light bathed the furniture, the perfectly made bed gleaming in soft warmth. He simply nodded, closing the door behind him. A long-awaited nap beckoned, yet he knew he was not alone.
He moved toward the bathroom, a sanctuary of marble and polished chrome. Warm water cascaded over him, a welcome shock after 150 years of stillness. He let it wash away the lingering chill of the cryogenic pod, the faint residue of a life paused.
Draped in a towel, he faced the full-length mirror. His reflection was both familiar and strange. A man in his mid-twenties, lean and powerful, with no trace of age, stared back. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the firm, unyielding skin. The last time he had seen himself, he was sixty, the body slowly succumbing to time despite his indomitable will. Now, it was perfect once more.
A quiet, satisfied smile touched his lips. He was ready
A soft knock at the door broke the silence. A plush white bathrobe wrapped around his body, he walked toward it. When he opened the door, Aarav stood there, masked and impassive as ever. In his hands, he carried a room service tray.
On the tray, three silver-domed dishes gleamed under the warm light, and a chilled bottle of wine rested beside a polished glass. The sight was almost humorous—a luxurious, domestic gesture delivered by a stoic, armored knight.
He took the tray, the simple weight of it grounding him after the heavy burden of the past. Pausing before stepping back inside, a flicker of curiosity crossed his eyes.
"Would you care to join me?" he asked quietly, a gentle invitation.
Aarav shook his head. "I must decline, sir. My duty is to remain at my post."
The man nodded, acknowledging the professional boundary. He stepped back into the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Aarav remained in the quiet hallway, vigilant.
He set the tray on a small table, the silver domes catching the light. With practiced ease, he opened the bottle of wine, pouring a modest amount into a glass. He sipped, letting the rich, complex flavor wash over him—a forgotten pleasure, a taste of life reclaimed.
But a single glass would not suffice. Not tonight. He set the glass down, lifting the bottle to drink directly, each gulp a fiery reminder of both indulgence and escape.
He moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath him, veins of neon pulsing through the night. The sight was breathtaking, overwhelming, a metropolis alive and ordered, yet distant.
As he stared, his mind flickered elsewhere. Within the dark liquid of the wine, he glimpsed a different city—a brutal, broken place of alleys, flickering neon signs, and desperate survival. A city he had built in his youth, from the ground up, a mirror of his own ruthlessness and cunning.
He recalled the boy he once was: a middle-class engineering student with a family, a little brother, and a future that felt impossibly wide. That life ended abruptly. Survival demanded another path. He found it on the streets, joining a gang to make it through each night. His talent was natural, preternatural even—a sixth sense for his opponents' movements, the ability to mimic them flawlessly after a single observation.
He rose through the ranks not with fists alone, but with a mind honed for strategy. He gathered a loyal group, visionaries and pragmatists alike, and together they forged an organization. Funded by a brutal but elegant business model, they dismantled rival criminal empires and absorbed their assets and influence.
The Black Dragon Society emerged from shadows and chaos, seen by the world as a righteous force—a light against the darkness of organized crime. But the truth was far murkier. Saints were absent; their foundation rested on the backs of former mafia bosses, gangsters, and criminals. They were willing to do what others could not, willing to walk paths others dared not tread.
The bottle of wine, once a vessel for pleasure, became a tool for escape. He drained the remaining liquid, the rich warmth burning down his throat, then set it aside with a soft clink.
He turned to the food on the tray, the silver domes still warm, but only nibbled a few bites. Flavor was lost amidst the haze of memories and wine. Exhaustion, held at bay by adrenaline and emotion, finally claimed him. He swayed slightly, then collapsed onto the plush bed, surrendering to a long, dreamless sleep