Night came quietly, draping the city in its silver-blue haze. The hum of distant traffic seeped through the glass walls of the office, mingling with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights that cast long reflections across the polished floor. Novaeus sat motionless in the opulent leather chair, his back resting against its smooth surface, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Silence filled the room, heavy but not uncomfortable—almost reverent, as though the world itself held its breath before him.
Footsteps broke the stillness. The sound was hurried but restrained, a rhythm of respect and tension. The door swung open, revealing Marco, his expression a mix of determination and unease. "Sir," he began, bowing slightly, "we're already in the process of recruiting new men. Do you have any specific requirements for them?"
Novaeus's gaze lifted, calm and unreadable. "No," he said simply, his tone neither warm nor cold, but final. "I will leave it to you. Choose those suitable, those who can follow orders. And don't expand the territory yet. We consolidate first. Have the men patrol the streets and stop all drug distribution."
Marco blinked, almost faltering. "Sir? Stop… drug distribution?"
"That's correct," said Novaeus without even glancing his way. "We no longer need that kind of income. Retain the smuggling routes—we may need them later—but drugs are done."
"Yes, sir." Marco nodded quickly, though unease clung to his movements. Inwardly, his thoughts churned. If we stop the drug trade, how are we supposed to pay the men? It was their largest revenue stream, the heart of the entire operation. Without it, salaries, bribes, and supplies would all crumble. But Marco swallowed his anxiety, locking it behind a neutral face. He knew better than to question openly. He was an errand runner, not a strategist. And there was something about Novaeus—something that made defiance feel less like disobedience and more like suicide.
Before the silence could stretch, the door opened again. Adrian stepped in, a neat stack of papers in his hand. His composure was firm, his tone professional. "Sir, I've located the most suitable recycling plant that meets your requirements. It's in the outskirts—high walls, wide yard, large enough to park multiple trucks for hauling recyclables. Acquisition will take approximately three days. We need to prepare the payment and finalize the paperwork."
Novaeus turned his chair slightly, studying Adrian for a moment before speaking. "Perfect. Proceed. Once it's under our name, operations will begin immediately. I assume there will be no issues with the government regarding the acquisition?"
Adrian allowed himself a thin smile. "No issues at all, sir. We still have contacts within the local offices. Besides, the plant's been drowning in debt for months. The owners would welcome a new buyer. If needed, we can… encourage a swift signing."
"No need," said Novaeus, his tone sharp enough to cut the air. "We'll do it legally. I'm not in a hurry." He stood slowly, straightening his coat. "Now, prepare a car and bodyguards. I have a game to play."
"Yes, sir." Both men bowed and exited swiftly, leaving him alone again with the quiet.
For a moment, Novaeus remained still. The faint hum of the city pulsed beneath his thoughts. His reflection stared back at him from the window—a shadow in a tailored suit, cold eyes glinting under the city lights. The weight of his new title hadn't yet settled, but the world had already begun to move in his orbit. Just yesterday morning, he had been a ghost in the crowd—a name unknown, a face unseen. Now, he commanded a syndicate. A minor one, yes, but one that would serve as a foundation, a beginning.
He exhaled softly, almost amused. "From the bottom again," he murmured to himself. "Let's see how far this goes."
He needed a name for this new syndicate—a banner under which his future empire would move. But that could wait. Tonight was not for naming. Tonight was for appearances, for laying groundwork. A poker game awaited him, one that would provide a front for the wealth soon to flow through his hands. Legitimacy disguised as vice—a perfect camouflage. If anyone investigated his sudden influx of money, they'd find nothing but a string of high-stakes winnings, luck kissed by the favor of chance.
Luck was a word Novaeus never believed in, but people trusted it. That was enough.
Beyond the surface of that mask, deeper operations would unfold. Eiden, his unseen partner, would infiltrate the financial arteries of this world, weaving through its systems like a silent parasite. Seven billion people—seven billion sources of power, wealth, and data. It was a feast waiting to be consumed. Accounts left untouched, savings without heirs, money lost to bureaucracy—Eiden would reclaim it all, quietly, efficiently. The world would never notice the missing fragments, but Novaeus would. He'd use them to accelerate his rise.
He adjusted his tie and walked out of the office. The echo of his steps filled the hallway, sharp and deliberate. The building was still alive with quiet motion—men in suits, guards posted at corners, the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to the air. Those who saw him move instinctively stepped aside. None dared speak. His presence alone commanded silence.
Outside, three cars waited, engines idling softly. The limousine gleamed under the streetlights, sleek and black like a blade in the dark. Adrian stood near the door, posture straight, eyes forward. "Sir, everything is ready."
Novaeus gave a single nod and entered the limousine. The door shut with a satisfying click, sealing him in a cocoon of leather and muted light. The convoy rolled forward, engines purring in unison as they slipped into the flow of the night.
City lights blurred past the tinted windows. Billboards flickered, neon signs painted the streets in color, and far in the distance, the casino's tall spire glimmered like a lighthouse of sin. Adrian sat quietly across from him, hands clasped over his lap, eyes downcast. Even in silence, tension lingered. Novaeus noticed but said nothing. He preferred quiet; it left space for thoughts to breathe.
He leaned back, letting the rhythm of the road guide his mind. Plans took shape like gears turning in a clockwork maze. The recycling plant would serve as more than just a front—it would be a vessel. A legitimate business capable of laundering money, creating employment, and offering cover for logistics. From there, expansion would be organic, unnoticed. Every acquisition would feed into another until the web was too large to trace, too deep to cut.
That was how empires were born—not from chaos, but from control.
The limousine slowed as they approached the casino. Its facade shimmered under the electric glow, every window alive with laughter, music, and greed. A monument to human desire. Adrian stepped out first, then opened the door for his superior.
The moment Novaeus emerged, heads turned. The manager, Julian, stood near the entrance, recognition flashing across his face. He had expected someone else—the previous boss—but it was Novaeus who stepped out, composed and silent, surrounded by bodyguards. The image radiated quiet dominance.
Julian quickly adjusted his posture and greeted him with professional grace. "Mr. Nova," he said, smiling despite his confusion, "you grace us again tonight. I trust your rest was pleasant? May fortune favor you once more."
"Thank you, Julian," said Novaeus, his tone flat but polite. He didn't slow his pace as he entered. The marble floor gleamed beneath his shoes, the air thick with perfume and money. He settled into one of the seats near the bar, ordered a meal, and let the sounds of the casino fill the space around him—the shuffling of cards, the metallic clink of chips, the subdued roar of distant laughter.
He ate in measured bites, drank sparingly, his expression unchanging. Around him, eyes watched from the corners—women drawn by his presence, men whispering about his return. None dared approach. His guards stood nearby, silent pillars of warning. It wasn't protection he needed—it was perception. Power was often measured by how others behaved in your shadow.
The night deepened. The music shifted from bright jazz to slower, richer tones. Wine glasses clinked, and the chandeliers swayed subtly with the air conditioning's breath. Time slipped forward until, finally, the hour struck nine. The casino's atmosphere shifted—the air itself seemed to tighten.
The final game was about to begin.
Players gathered near the exclusive table, each face painted with practiced confidence. Dealers adjusted the cards, chips stacked neatly in front of the velvet seats. Somewhere in the crowd, whispers of speculation rippled—who would win, who would fold, who would fall apart under the weight of the night.
And then, as if on cue, Julian approached and bowed slightly. "Mr. Nova, your table is ready."
Novaeus rose without a word. His coat moved like liquid shadow as he walked, the low hum of conversation dimming wherever he passed. The guards followed at a respectful distance, clearing a path without lifting a finger.
The heavy doors opened to reveal the private hall—dimly lit, gilded with gold trim, a shrine built for those who gambled with more than money. As Novaeus entered, the other players looked up, some curious, others wary. None spoke. The dealer stood at attention, hands steady, waiting for the final seat to be filled.
Novaeus took his place at the table. His expression didn't change. He merely adjusted his cufflinks, then rested his hands on the felt surface.
The night had begun to move, and all the pieces were where they needed to be.
The dealer glanced around once, ensuring everything was in order. The final card had not yet been revealed, but the weight of the game—the unspoken tension of what was to come—already hung thick in the air.
And as Novaeus sat there, eyes reflecting the shimmer of the chandelier above, one could almost feel the city itself bending toward him—quietly, unknowingly—like fortune itself preparing to kneel.