[Continuation—Streets]
Ren ran.
His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but terror shoved him forward like a hunted animal. His thoughts were a mess—scattered, jagged.
'He saw me. He saw me. He saw me.'
The streets turned into streaks of light and shadow. He slammed into shoulders and stumbled over cracks—voices barked curses after him, but they were distant, meaningless.
All he heard was his pulse. All he felt was death at his heels. The familiar outline of his apartment building finally appeared—his last hope in a world collapsing. With whatever strength he had left, he sprinted harder.
He burst through the front door—SLAM!
"Ren? Oh, honey, you're home," his mother called from the kitchen, startled by the noise.
But Ren didn't stop. Didn't respond. Didn't even breathe. He stormed into his bedroom, shaking hands slamming the door behind him—
THUD!
CLICK—CLACK—LOCK!
His back hit the wood. Hard. His chest heaved like it couldn't contain the terror inside. Sweat trickled down his temples. His fingers trembled uncontrollably. His phone was still clenched in his fist—still recording.
Blood. Begging. Death. That voice.
That face.
Silas Moreau's cold blue eyes flashed through his mind, sharp as the gun that killed without hesitation. Ren's heart pounded harder—too fast—too loud—as if it wanted to escape his ribcage.
He slid down the door, collapsing to the floor. His breath fractured into uneven gasps—half sob, half struggle for air.
"W-What do I do…?" he whispered, voice barely audible. "No… no no no…" His pupils trembled as if the darkness itself watched him back.
He curled inward, trying to be small, trying to disappear into the floorboards. Every creak of the house sounded like a footstep coming for him. Every shadow looked like a gun raised to his head.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He wished he never opened that door. He wished he had never walked into that alley. He wished he hadn't been alive to see those ice-blue eyes turn toward him.
Because Ren knew one truth now:
Things like Silas Moreau don't let witnesses breathe for long.
***
[Living Room—Same Time]
Meanwhile… in the living room, confusion lingered in the warm glow of the lamp.
Ren's mother, Isabella, paused mid-stir as she looked toward the hallway. The slam of the door still echoed like a warning. She frowned, worry already tightening her expression.
"He seemed tense… right?" she asked quietly.
Ren's father, Daniel, sat on the sofa reading the newspaper. He lowered it slowly, brows knitted in mild concern. "He didn't even look at us."
"That's not like him," Isabella murmured, wiping her hands on a towel. "Maybe something happened with Marco?"
Daniel sighed, leaning back. "If that boy hurt him again…" There was a protective edge in his voice—one only a father could sharpen.
Isabella turned to their second son, Luca, who had paused mid-sip of his coffee. He blinked in surprise at suddenly becoming the center of attention.
"Do you know something, sweetie?" Isabella asked gently.
Luca lowered his cup, lips pressing into a thin line. He hesitated—not because he didn't know, but because he wasn't sure he should speak.
"…I heard them fighting yesterday," he admitted slowly.Isabella's brows pinched with concern.
"About what?" Daniel asked, already bracing.
Luca exhaled, "How would I know mom."
Isabella's shoulders sagged. She walked toward Ren's door, each step heavy with worry, and knocked softly. "Ren? Sweetheart? Are you okay?"
Inside, Ren flinched violently. His phone nearly slipped from his trembling fingers. His voice cracked, barely audible, like it belonged to someone else entirely. "I… I just need a minute."
Isabella exchanged a worried glance with Daniel.
"He sounded… scared," she whispered.
Meanwhile, Ren's mind was spiraling. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps. 'What do I do? What do I do? Should I call the cops?'
Then it hit him like a punch to the gut.
'No.'
'That man… he's Silas. THE Silas Moreau. He'll kill my family. No. I cannot… I cannot let anyone know what I've seen…'
"Sweetheart… you're making us worried. Is everything alright?" his mother's voice seeped through the door again, calm but edged with concern.
Ren's chest tightened. Staying locked in his room wasn't an option. His family would come knocking, asking questions… worrying themselves sick.
'What do I do?'
Not even Ren—or his fate—had an answer. Because fate was busy playing dirty games.
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak without breaking.
"I… I had… a fight with Marco," he lied, voice quivering, barely holding together. "So… let me calm down, please…"
Daniel's jaw tightened. "That bastard…" he muttered, anger flashing but controlled. "Alright, Ren… don't think too much. Calm yourself, okay?"
Ren nodded quickly, too quickly. "Yes… yes, Father."
A lie. He had to lie. He had no choice. Because if his family knew… even a fraction… the danger Silas posed would become theirs.
And right now, the man with ice-blue eyes wouldn't just start hunting Ren. He will hunt everything Ren loved and he is not ready to take risks.
***
[Moreau Mansion—Same Time]
The sleek black car rolled over the cobblestones, its tires whispering against the ancient stones. Shadows danced along the mansion's walls as men in black suits and armor stationed themselves at every entrance. Their eyes were sharp and hawk-like, scanning every movement, every flicker of light—ready to strike at the smallest sign of danger.
The passenger door opened. A man in a tailored suit and thin-rimmed glasses stepped out first.
"Sir," he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of both respect and fear. "Everything is in place."
Silas Moreau stepped out next. The air seemed to shift the instant his polished shoes hit the marble driveway. The maids froze mid-step, and the servants paused mid-task. Each of them instinctively bowed, heads lowered, as if a single glance from him could slice through them.
Silas didn't look at them. Not really. His ice-blue eyes scanned the perimeter, sharp and cold. Every corner of his estate, every shadow, and every living being seemed mapped in his mind before he even moved.
"Gideon," he said, voice low, precise, and lethal.
"Yes, Sir," his assistant replied, straightening and adjusting his glasses nervously.
Silas passed through the main hall, his presence demanding the air itself bend to him.
"What's the Update? Did you find who that boy is?" he asked, voice smooth, deceptively calm, yet carrying an undeniable weight that made even the bravest guard straighten in fear.
Silas's voice cut the silence, smooth and controlled. "What's the update? Did you find who the boy is?"
Gideon's jaw worked almost imperceptibly. "Yes, sir. He is a naive college student—Ren Foster."
Silas didn't smile. The word was a small, decisive thing—empty of warmth. He stepped inside his room, and his eyes were reflecting in the mirror like ice.
"Good," he said softly. The single syllable was a promise and a threat. "Keep an eye on him. If he goes to the police… render him unconscious. Make it clean."
"As you command," Gideon replied, quick and professional. He hesitated, then added, carefully, as if weighing each word, "There is something else, sir. Something you may want to know."
Silas's brow tightened almost imperceptibly. "Speak."
Gideon swallowed. "He is Daniel Foster's son, sir. Daniel Foster—the surgeon. The same one...years ago, sir."
Silas paused like a predator savoring the scent of opportunity. For a beat the room was utterly still.
Then Silas smiled.
It was a small, dangerous thing—no warmth, only calculation. "Atlast....we found him."
He turned away and looked out of the window, hands folded behind his back. Outside, the city breathed. Below, his men moved like ghosts, doing what was needed.
"Now, I wonder what I should do with that boy…" Silas mused aloud, voice slow as molasses.
He looked back at Gideon, eyes flat and lethal. "Keep him alive for now. Let him run. Let him think he is safe. But do not let him become ordinary."
Gideon inclined his head. "Understood."
Silas's smile widened, a crescent that did not reach his eyes. "Bring me information on Daniel Foster. His habits. His weak points. And—" he paused, savoring the word—"if the boy fears for his family, make that fear very real. Not cruelly. Purposefully. Useful. I want that boy."
"Yes, sir." Gideon's voice was steady. He bowed once, turned, and left.
Silas stood alone before the window, the city's lights reflected coldly in the glass. He folded his hands behind his back, shoulders relaxed, the picture of composed authority. His lips curved into a dark, small smirk.
"Finally," he murmured, voice soft and certain, "I found you, Daniel Foster. This time, you will pay your debt—with interest."
Outside, Rome moved on, ignorant. Inside, a slow shadow of intent gathered and waited.