Caesar stepped out of the black car, adjusting his leather gloves as he stared up at the looming facade of the Karpov-Trosky second mansion — an equally massive but colder, more sterile version of the first estate, like a house with no soul.
The heavy double doors swung open with a low groan, letting a sharp gust of cold air snake into the grand hall of the Karpov-Trosky second mansion. Caesar strolled in without a single care, boots clicking against the marble floor, his long fur-lined coat trailing behind him like a royal mantle.
Inside, the scene was set: Dmitriyevich, his father, sat rigidly in one of the antique armchairs, hands gripping his cane a little too tightly. Vseslav lounged lazily on a velvet chaise, nibbling on cookies like he hadn't a worry in the world. Meanwhile, Yaroslav, the oldest of the stepbrothers, descended the staircase with slow, deliberate steps, a smirk already curling on his lips.
"Well, well, well — if it isn't the prodigal son," Yaroslav sneered, voice practically dripping with fake amusement.
Caesar's mouth quirked up into a grin, razor-sharp and dazzlingly charming all at once.
"Are you talking about yourself, Yaroslav?" he drawled, strolling toward the ornate chair across from his father without even sparing him a glance. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one who needs saving."
He threw himself casually into the chair, legs spreading wide, posture loose and careless — a king who knew no one in the room could touch him. He looked around theatrically, pretending to search. "Oh, and here I thought this family had four sons... Where's little Anatoly? Still too scared to face his younger brother?"
"He's on a trip to Germany with his boyfriend," Vseslav piped up, popping another cookie into his mouth.
"Ah, I see," Caesar mused aloud, sipping the coffee a maid had placed into his hand with military efficiency. "Finally found a man willing to give him what he's been desperately needing."
Vseslav shot him a sharp, questioning glance, but Caesar only smiled over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
"You still haven't changed," Dmitriyevich rumbled, his voice heavy with disapproval.
Caesar turned his head lazily toward him, flashing a dazzling, mocking smile. "Oh, hello, Dmitry. You were so quiet, I almost forgot you existed."
The insult was so clean, so casual, it hung in the air like fine perfume — everyone caught it, but nobody dared comment.
"So," Caesar continued smoothly, swirling his coffee, "to what do I owe this charming little family reunion? Surely you didn't drag me all the way here just for some second-rate theatrics?"
Dmitriyevich leaned forward, face thunderous. "You were supposed to finish off that Korean spy. Instead, he destroyed the first mansion. He destroyed Seraphim."
Caesar blinked once. Slowly. And then took another sip of his coffee.
"So?" he said simply.
Dmitriyevich's face darkened in rage, but it was Yaroslav who exploded first, slamming his hand onto the arm of a chair as he stood up.
"So? Are you even listening to yourself, you arrogant little shit?" Yaroslav barked. "Do you have any idea the power we've lost? The money, the influence? Seraphim was years of work and funding — gone. And it's your fault."
Caesar tilted his head back, laughing softly, genuinely amused.
"Excuse me," he said sweetly, flashing a grin sharp enough to cut glass, "who are you to tell me how to do my job?"
He set his coffee down with a soft clink, his movements slow, deliberate, like a panther preparing to pounce.
"And while we're playing pointing fingers — shouldn't you be at your cushy little desk job? Playing pretend CEO, flashing your fake smiles at politicians, and signing paperwork Daddy tells you to sign?" Caesar chuckled coldly. "Oh, wait — you're here because even that is too much for you to handle."
Yaroslav bristled visibly, fists clenching at his sides.
Dmitriyevich cut in coldly, voice low: "Is the Korean spy still alive?"
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Caesar's hand froze midair, coffee halfway to his lips. Slowly, he lowered the cup back onto the table. His light blue eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, turned ice cold.
"What if I say yes?" Caesar asked quietly, voice laced with dangerous amusement. He leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed lazily over the other. "What would you do, Father? Send your dogs after him? Hm?"
Vseslav shifted awkwardly, glancing away.
"Maybe Father won't do it," Yaroslav snarled, stepping forward, "but I will. I'll find him. I'll kill him myself if I have to. It's all your fault everything's gone to shit! Seraphim is gone, and you — you betrayed us, spilled classified intel to an ordinary Korean spy like it meant nothing!"
Caesar stood slowly.
The room immediately felt smaller, colder.
"You think," Caesar said, voice low and velvety, dangerous in its softness, "that I didn't choose exactly what I wanted him to know?"
He closed the distance between him and Yaroslav in a blink, standing so close now their breath mingled.
"You think anything I do is by accident?"
Yaroslav flinched, just slightly — barely noticeable to anyone else, but Caesar caught it. Oh, he caught it, and he smiled — a slow, predator's smile, as though savoring his prey's last moments of hope.
"You're so desperate to find someone to blame for your own failure," Caesar whispered, his voice dropping into something sharp and merciless. "You're blind. You always have been."
He leaned in even closer, just a breath away from Yaroslav's ear, voice dipping into a low purr of pure, terrifying promise.
"And if you ever touch a single hair on his head..." His light blue eyes darkened into something cold and lethal. "I'll burn this entire fucking empire to the ground. Starting with you."
He stepped back, fixing his jacket with two sharp tugs, smoothing invisible wrinkles like nothing had happened. His face returned to that serene, amused expression, as if the threat he just made was nothing more than polite conversation.
"Now," Caesar said lightly, voice lilting with false cheerfulness as he turned his back on all of them, utterly unafraid, "if we're done throwing tantrums like children, I have more important things to attend to."
He sauntered toward the grand doors, boots clicking rhythmically, the room buzzing with unresolved rage and fear he left in his wake like perfume.
No one dared follow.
"AARRGH!"
The roar ripped through the hall as Yaroslav hurled the glass against the marble floor. It shattered with a violent crack, shards skittering across the polished surface like sharp little screams.
His chest heaved, fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched white. His eyes, wild with fury, locked onto Vseslav, who was lounging there, entirely unbothered, sipping his coffee like it was just another lazy Tuesday.
"You!!" Yaroslav jabbed a trembling finger at him, voice trembling with rage.
Vseslav barely lifted his head, cocking a brow in lazy amusement.
"What?"
"You know where he is, don't you?" Yaroslav spat, practically vibrating with rage. "You know where that Korean spy is hiding. You're always glued to Caesar's side like some obedient lapdog. You tell me everything he tells you. Spill it."
Vseslav set his coffee down with deliberate slowness, standing up and smoothing out his jacket, movements calm and calculated — the very picture of someone who gave exactly zero fucks.
"Correction," Vseslav said coolly, "Caesar tells me work-related shit. Not... everything. And if you think I'm holding out on you about that Korean dude, you're delusional. I seriously don't know where he is."
Yaroslav opened his mouth to snarl something back, but Vseslav cut him off by glancing at his phone, sighing, and pocketing it.
"Just got a call. Gotta head to the agency," Vseslav said, already moving toward the door. But halfway there, he paused — turning back with a sly, almost warning look in his eyes. His voice was low, but it filled the room with quiet menace.
"Yaroslav," he said, tilting his head slightly, "if I were you, I wouldn't even think about crossing Caesar. Or screwing with anything — or anyone — he's taken a liking to."
He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his gaze drilling into Yaroslav's.
"You heard what he said. He'll burn this whole empire to the ground if he's pushed. And you, me, father — we'll all be nothing but ashes in his wake."
Vseslav's mouth twisted into a small, almost pitying smile.
"Or have you already forgotten what he did to the Karsinov Syndicate?" he whispered.
At that, the air seemed to freeze.
Yaroslav's jaw locked. His nails dug into his palms.
Everyone remembered what Caesar had done to the Karsinov Syndicate — a once untouchable empire reduced to rubble and smoke in the span of three days. Their leaders vanished without a trace. Their accounts drained. Their allies flipping sides like cowards. It had been a masterclass in cruelty, precision, and absolute devastation.
And it was all Caesar's handiwork.
Vseslav held Yaroslav's gaze for one long, heavy second, then turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, final click.
Yaroslav stood there, trembling with rage and something worse — fear.
He turned slowly, facing his father, Dmitry.
The older man sat there stiffly, jaw tight, hands resting like claws on the arms of the chair. His eyes — those cold, judging eyes — followed Yaroslav's every move.
Yaroslav took a few shaky steps closer. His voice, when it came, was low but raw, the edges fraying.
"Father," he said, his lip curling in disgust, "I know you never liked Caesar."
He paused, trying to gauge Dmitry's reaction — but his father remained stone-faced, a statue carved from hatred and disappointment.
"You tolerated him," Yaroslav pressed on, his voice gaining momentum, fueled by years of pent-up resentment. "Because he was useful. Because he was a tool. A weapon you could point at our enemies and forget about."
He stepped even closer, so close he could see the fine lines of disdain around Dmitry's mouth.
"But he's not a weapon anymore," Yaroslav said, voice low, shaking slightly. "He's a wildfire. Out of control. Reckless. Disloyal. Dangerous."
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he leaned in, almost whispering now, desperate for his father to listen.
"If we don't do something about him..."
He swallowed hard, the words thick in his throat.
"If we just sit back and let him keep playing this game — treating the family like it's his personal playground — he'll tear down everything you built. Everything we bled for."
Yaroslav's voice cracked, raw and ugly with fear and anger.
"He'll be the death of us all," he hissed.
"You know it. You've always known it."
Dmitry's eyes narrowed — a dangerous glint flickering there. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, slow breath.
And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to think the unthinkable:
Caesar wasn't just a wayward son anymore.
He was a loaded gun pointed at all their heads.
And sooner or later, he was going to have to pull the trigger.
Eun-jae leaned lazily against the balcony rail, the cool evening breeze tousling his dark hair. In one hand, he held a half-finished glass of red wine he'd totally stolen from the kitchen earlier — not that anyone was gonna stop him. In the other hand, a thick, battered book he'd found tucked away in one of the massive oak shelves that lined the hallways of Caesar's ridiculous mansion.
He was deep into it — eyes wide, practically inhaling the words. His mouth dropped open a little as he gasped.
"Oh my my," Eun-jae muttered under his breath, eyebrows shooting up, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.
"This is interesting..." he whispered, swirling the wine in his glass like he was some Victorian heiress instead of a Korean spy being... well, half-kidnapped.
He took another sip, the wine rich and velvety on his tongue. God, even the wine here was pretentious. Leave it to Caesar to kidnap someone in style.
But then, just as he turned the page — stomach rumbled. Loudly.
Eun-jae frowned, pressing a hand to his middle.
"Ugh, I'm hungry," he groaned, dragging himself away from the cozy little balcony set-up.
He padded barefoot down the spiral staircase, still wearing the oversized sweater and pajama pants he'd scavenged from the guest closet. He looked more like a bored college student during finals week than a literal spy who had been snatched off the streets.
In the kitchen, the faint glow of the fridge light illuminated the dark space like some holy relic. Eun-jae opened the fridge, surveying the contents like a king surveying his kingdom.
Caesar — the overachiever — had meal-prepped everything. Perfectly portioned dishes, neatly labeled in expensive-looking containers.
Of course he did, Eun-jae thought, rolling his eyes affectionately-annoyed.
He picked one — something hearty and spicy-looking — popped it into the microwave, and then raided the pantry for snacks while he waited. He loaded up a silver tray with chips, some chocolate bars he wasn't about to feel guilty about, a can of soda, and the steaming meal from the microwave.
Balancing the tray with surprising grace, Eun-jae made his way to the grand dining hall — a cavernous room that looked like it belonged in some vampire lord's mansion. The long, heavy oak table stretched down the center, lined with chairs nobody had sat in for probably years.
He plopped himself right in the middle, setting down the tray with a heavy sigh, and dug in.
For a while, it was just the clinking of cutlery, the occasional rustle of snack wrappers, and the sound of him chewing.
But as he ate, his mind started to drift.
The emptiness of the place pressed down on him, thick and heavy.
He looked around at the high ceilings, the dusty chandeliers, the massive windows staring out into endless woods.
"In the middle of nowhere," he thought bitterly, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork.
"No one to call for help... not a soul for miles."
He shoved a bite into his mouth, chewing mechanically.
"Christmas is even approaching..."
He glanced toward one of the windows. Somewhere out there, the world was putting up twinkling lights, carolers were annoying their neighbors, couples were getting cozy under mistletoe. Families were bickering over turkey recipes.
And here he was. In some creepy, too-perfect mansion with a man who treated kidnapping like an act of love.
Eun-jae slumped forward a little, pushing his tray aside with a frustrated grunt.
"I bet my mom thinks I'm dead," he thought, chest tightening.
"I bet the agency's already replaced me... or covered up my disappearance like it's no big deal. Just another asset lost in the field."
He laughed under his breath, a bitter, hollow sound.
He swirled the soda can in his hand, staring down at the condensation dripping onto the polished table.
"I'm not even a person to them. Just another report. Another name on a file."
His throat ached suddenly, and he took a gulp of soda to drown it down.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye..." he thought, the loneliness gnawing at him now, louder than before.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.
The silence was thick, almost too much.
It made his ears ring, made him feel like he was the last person alive on the planet.
He thought about the way Caesar looked at him sometimes — with those unreadable, too-intense eyes. Like Eun-jae was something important. Like he wasn't just another disposable piece in the game.
And for a second — just a second — Eun-jae wondered if being forgotten by the world was really so terrible...
if it meant being remembered by him.
He shook his head quickly, shoving that dangerous thought away.
"Nope. Nope. Nope," he muttered aloud, pushing the chair back and gathering up his tray.
But even as he cleaned up after himself, a part of him couldn't stop thinking...
Maybe getting stuck here wasn't the worst thing that could've happened.
Maybe — just maybe — the real danger wasn't the isolation.
Maybe it was starting to like it.