.•♫•♬• 卂 •♬•♫•.
.•♫•♬•♬•♫•.
.•♫•♬ •♬•♫•.
The piano drifted through the room like a sad song dressed in elegance — too beautiful to ignore, too heavy to enjoy.
A young man sat alone at a lavish table, untouched dishes crowding his space.
"This tune… it's new," he whispered, twirling the red wine in his glass.
"If anyone used this in a musical premiere, it would crush the box office," he muttered, voice low, tired.
'Funny how art sells sadness so well.'
But the ache in the music twisted inside him.
"Still… no one plays like that without losing something first."
He took another drink, pretending the burn in his throat was enough to drown the ache.
"The manager should kick him off the stage," he whispered. "It's ruining my celebration."
Yet the celebration itself was a ruin in disguise — built on promises he no longer trusted.
'All of this… for what?'
.•♫•♬ •♬•♫•.
The melody lingered, refusing to die, while he cut into his dinner as if going through the motions.
.•♫•♬ •♬•♫•.
.•♫•♬ •♬•♫•.
.•♫•♬ •♬•♫•.
Ten minutes later, applause crashed through the hall. People rose, eyes shining, grateful for the emotion they didn't understand.
The old man merely blinked through them as he straightened his pristine white tuxedo, eyes empty, like he'd long forgotten how to absorb admiration.
Five guards stepped ahead, guiding him through the room like he was royalty carved from stone. The guests watched with reverence… fear… worship.
But... he saw none of it.
His gaze drifted — cold, indifferent — until it landed on the only person who wasn't paying him attention.
The young man.
He was eating irritatedly as though surroundings noise was disturbing his isolation.
A quiet stillness crossed the old man's face as he watched.
One Second.
Two Seconds.
Three Seconds.
Then—
Something unfamiliar pricked at him.
"Get me everything about him," he murmured to the guard behind him.
People feared him, praised him, called him with many names.
But once — long ago — he had been like that.
He remembered what it meant to be lost.
....
"Huff…"
He pushed another piece of meat past the knot in his throat. The spice burned, or maybe that was just the sadness refusing to stay buried. His eyes stung either way.
He set the forks down, breath unsteady.
"I guess… I'm done," he whispered, swallowing the hard meat.
His hand trembled slightly as he gulped the water down, trying to wash away the taste of everything that hurt tonight.
The water did nothing to steady him as a dry gag escaped his throat.
He stood, smoothing out his black blazer like it could tidy up his life, and slipped a few bills inside the menu book.
Then he turned away from the lights and laughter behind him, heading deeper into the building toward the lodging hallway — away from the people who are genuinely happy.
His steps dragged and his head swam as he thought about his life.
'I had enough of this shit.'
'I will leave.'
'Yeah… tomorrow.'
"I'll check out tomorrow…" he muttered, stretching as if his bones were already too tired for tomorrow to exist.
Dazed, he made his way to the elevator doors.
But just as he reached for the elevator doors, two hands — enormous and steady — pressed against his chest.
He blinked once and the dizziness vanished in a flash of alarm as his gaze climbed up the broad figures in front of him — black suits, rigid posture, guns unmistakably holstered at their hips.
"What… what do you want?" he asked, voice thin and breaking.
"Sir," one of the guards finally spoke, his tone polished and cold, "the Director would like a word with you."
The young man's heart stumbled.
"D-Director? Who are you talking about?"
The guard didn't blink. "William Brandst. Director of EXCON."
The name struck harder than the hands that stopped him. His throat closed, words scrambling.
"W-William… Brandst?"
"I… I…"
Everyone knew that name.
You didn't need to explain who he was — the name alone was enough to make people pause.
At twelve, he graduated university.
At thirteen, he was already a star, playing the lead in Mary Poppins, the movie that shook the box office.
At Seventeen — he joined Intel Ltd. as a software engineer. Five years later, he wasn't just an employee. He was the CEO.
At twenty-five, he didn't just buy Intel Ltd. — he owned it. Intel became his playground, and from its ashes, he built something greater.
Apple.
It wasn't just a company. It was a brand. A symbol. The world didn't just buy what he made — it worshiped it.
By thirty, William Brandst wasn't chasing wealth anymore. He was wealth.
But wealth was never enough.
He stepped into weapons, politics, and power. Soon, leaders listened when he spoke — and feared when he didn't.
Markets shifted when he blinked. Nations adjusted when he spoke.
At forty-seven, he created Google, changing how the world thought, spoke, and searched.
Then came Facebook, Meta, X — every platform that defined an era had his fingerprints somewhere in the code.
Some even say Bitcoin was his final creation — a hidden legacy left for those clever enough to see it.
Now, in 2028, seventy-nine years old, William Brandst stands where no one else ever has — the richest, the strongest, the man who built the world from nothing and claimed it all.
Hearing the name of such a legendary person, like William Brandst is asking for him, made the young man palpitate in fear.
"I swear… I don't even know anything," he blurted out, breath catching as panic crept into his voice.
Neither guard reacted.
"Please, this way." One of the guards's placed a hand on his shoulder as they guided him into the elevator.
Another guard pressed163.
Everything inside him went numb.
The doors slid shut and the ascent began.
From the 8th floor to the 163rd — the numbers climbed faster than his thoughts could keep up.
His palms were wet, his throat full of dry fear. He knew one thing for certain:
Burj Khalifa blurred beneath him. Buildings became toy models. The world looked so small from here — and he, even smaller.
Soon, the doors opened with a soft chime and he stepped out cautiously.
The night view beyond the glass was breathtaking — a masterpiece of endless neon and shimmering sky — but beauty only sharpened the terror tightening in his chest.
'If I fell from here… no one would even find the pieces.'
The guards halted behind him, and the message in their gazes was simple:
Go. Alone.
The young man swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I've done bad things… but I never ruined anyone's life to climb up."
His words hung heavy in the air, but even as he said them, his mind began to race.
Images flashed — the tech he'd stolen from EXCON, the deals he'd made in secret, the people he'd outplayed.
Still, he tried to reason with himself.
'Others did it too… right?'
Then the truth hit him like a cold wave.
"Damn," he muttered, realization sinking in. "I was the only one who pulled it off."
His heart pounded as he faced the door ahead. Every breath felt heavier than the last.
With trembling fingers, he pushed it open.
Inside sat an old man — the one everyone in the world knew, the man feared and respected in equal measure.
William Brandst.
He sat with calm authority, one leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on a stack of documents.
Without a word, William lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable, and with a wave of his hand — he told the young man to come closer.
So, the young man obeyed, stopping about five meters away.
The silence stretched.
William noticed the distance, but said nothing. He simply turned another page, scanned the contents, then reached for a fresh document.
His eyes flicked between the paper and the young man, infront of him.
Finally, he began to read.
"Name: Henry Anderson.
Height: five foot five.
Age: twenty-nine.
Occupation: none.
Net worth… thirty thousand dollars."
He lowered the page and studied Henry with unsettling curiosity, as if examining a rare insect.
"I have to admit," he said, "you've caught my interest."
Then, a pause — deliberate, suffocating pause.
"You possess a remarkable talent."
"The only man alive capable of duplicating my EXCON technology."
Soon, his tone darkened, disappointment layered beneath the fascination.
"But all that brilliance… thrown into the gutter."
"A complete waste." He sighed as he rose from his seat.
Henry froze where he stood. His throat dried.
He knows.
Of course he knew.
The so-called "cloning tech" Henry had pieced together wasn't glamorous.
It was unstable, imperfect — a crude hack built by stitching EXCON's top-secret hardware and software into something that shouldn't exist.
It wasn't some sci-fi miracle. It merely copied data that should have been uncopyable. Instantly, yes — but only in small amounts.
A ten-thousand-dollar asset took an entire day to duplicate. Useless to empires.
But priceless to a criminal trying to survive.
That was why Henry feared William more than death itself.
Because William Brandst didn't tolerate theft — especially theft of his future.
Henry tried to steady his voice. "Sir… I don't understand…"
He wanted to deny everything — pretend ignorance — but the old man's gaze made the lie choke in his throat.
William stepped closer, casting a long shadow over him. Six feet towering over five-foot-five, a reminder of just how small Henry was in every way that mattered.
"I can see it," William murmured, voice low.
"Regret… rotting you from the inside."
Henry's breath hitched. "Sir—"
But William didn't give him room to speak.
"You spend every day staring at the lives of others," he continued, "certain that if fate had picked you instead… you'd have surpassed them all."
His words cut deeper with each sentence.
"You hate the ones above you… despise those below you. And somewhere in that self-constructed misery, you even dare to envy me."
A faint, cruel smile touched his lips.
"You dream of a world where you could force me to kneel at your feet."
Henry stumbled back, fear turning his bones to water. Because everything William said was true.He had fantasized about that life — power, wealth, respect — the chance to erase every failure and fulfill the one regret that haunted him endlessly.
But, that life is impossible.
"It is possible." William said, like reading his thoughts.
Henry snapped his head up, panic twisting through his thoughts.
How does he know?
Mind-reading wasn't real — he doesn't want to believe that William Brandst could read his mind.
"I… I don't know what you mean, sir," Henry managed, though every syllable trembled.
William's smile widened, but there was something unnervingly calm about it.
"Relax," he said softly. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to offer you a deal."
He leaned forward, voice dripping with certainty. "Your cloning research."
"I'll purchase it from you… let's say, one hundred million dollars."
The number didn't just land in Henry's mind—it detonated.
For a second, his conscience screamed, but then... the number drowned it
His pulse quickened, a ringing echoing through his skull as the possibility swallowed him whole.
One hundred million.
A fortune big enough to erase every regret. To rewrite his name into history instead of a dusty footnote.
He fought to hold back his excitement, but his eyes betrayed him with a spark he couldn't suppress. "Sir… you're truly serious?"
William nodded once, almost indulgently. "Completely. So—shall we agree?"
He extended his hand, inviting, almost gentle.
Henry grabbed it with both desperation and eagerness, gripping tighter than necessary.
"Yes, sir! I'll sell!" The words burst out of him like a dam finally breaking.
William's smile sharpened, stretching into something a little too wide.
A low chuckle escaped him, building into a triumphant, booming laugh that filled the room.
"Hahahaha!"
Henry joined in, his own laugh weak and confused—more a reflex than joy—while a cold unease crawled down his spine as their hands remained locked together.
After a few seconds, William took his hand back and his voice turned brisk, cutting through the remnants of laughter. "You should head back to your room."
"Someone will come by shortly."
Henry nodded eagerly, almost bowing as he backed away.
The moment he was gone, William's expression collapsed into cold emptiness.
He stared down at his own palm, where a thin line of blood trailed from the skin Henry had grasped.
"Finally… it's gone," he whispered, exhaling a breath that sounded like relief tainted with dread.
"Maybe now, I'll be allowed to sleep."
His gaze lingered on the closing elevator doors, where Henry had vanished moments earlier.
"It's not personal," William murmured, though his tone lacked guilt. "I'm sorry."
He dismissed the other thoughts with a tired shake of his head.
Because... Henry no longer mattered.
—
Meanwhile, inside the elevator, Henry lifted his hand and noticed a thin smear of blood on his palm. He frowned, confused.
"Strange… Did I grab something sharp?"
But the question drifted away as quickly as it came.
His future—his perfect future—was only hours away. That was all he cared about.
He reached his room with buzzing excitement still swirling in his chest, convinced that tomorrow would be his big day.
Henry lay down and drifted into sleep with a hopeful smile…
…utterly oblivious to the nightmare he had already embraced.