Silence. Absolute.
Yevgeni's eyes narrowed. His fury turned to dread.
Caesar stepped in close again, their faces just inches apart.
"No—not just Eun-jae," Caesar added, his tone now flat, lethal. "Your wife too. That woman you left behind to raise your children thinking you were dead? Sweet of her, really. Pity."
"You lay a finger on them—"
"And I'll erase them," Caesar interrupted, his words sharp as blades. "From this world. From memory. You know how thorough I am. You know how quiet I can make people vanish. You keep coming after me, keep threatening me, and I'll make you watch as your family pays for your mistakes."
Vseslav, still standing in the corner, looked like he wanted to disappear too.
Caesar smiled again, but it was all teeth now.
Caesar's smirk softened into something more sinister, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "You're so predictable, Yevgeni. So easily broken. Now, unless you want to lose both your son and your precious wife, I suggest you rethink your next move."
"So sit," he whispered. "Stay polite. Stay calm. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you see your son alive again."
Caesar let the silence stretch — thick, heavy, choking.
And then, just as if none of the venom had passed his lips — like he hadn't just gutted Yevgeni emotionally and left the man's soul twitching on the floor — he turned casually toward Vseslav, voice brightening as if switching masks mid-performance.
"Where are the kids?" Caesar asked lightly, like he'd just arrived for a birthday party instead of detonating a family legacy. "I've brought gifts for them."
His tone was too warm. Too sweet. Like honey over rusted nails. And Vseslav — poor, stiff, anxious Vseslav — flinched at the sudden change.
But Caesar didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did. He always did.
He smoothed a hand over the collar of his coat, straightening it like a doting older brother making sure he looked presentable for the children.
"They've grown, haven't they?" he went on, eyes glittering with a warmth that wasn't real. "I remember when little Lev had that obsession with firetrucks. I brought him one. Real sirens. Loud enough to start a war. And Mariya — she's reading now, isn't she? I got her a book. Fairytales. The good kind. The kind with blood and witches and broken promises. Makes them strong."
And then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced over his shoulder.
Right at Yevgeni.
The smirk was back, cold and smug as ever, like he'd left the noose on Yevgeni's neck just loose enough to make him walk a little longer before tightening it again.
"Oh, and Yevgeni?" Caesar said smoothly. "Don't forget to shut the door on your way out."
He raised a brow, voice dipping with that mock civility, the kind that came from someone who knew damn well he was the devil in a dinner jacket.
"Be a dear and tell your little soldiers to back off," he added, gesturing with a lazy flick of his hand like he was swatting away dust. "This is Vseslav's house — my brother's. Not yours. Not a battlefield. There are children here. Innocent little minds."
His smile widened. Faux-concerned. A performance.
"They're far too young to be seeing men like you… all bark, no leash. It's unsettling. Might give them ideas."
And with that, he turned, his coat sweeping behind him like a curtain falling at the end of an act. Caesar moved through the room with the grace of a phantom prince, humming softly under his breath — something classical, something cruel. His silhouette vanished into the hallway like he'd never been dangerous, like he was just a man bringing gifts to nieces and nephews.
Like he hadn't just threatened to wipe out a bloodline two minutes earlier.
Vseslav lingered.
His face was a battlefield of guilt, tension, and quiet resignation. The kind of face that had aged ten years in one conversation. He didn't speak right away. Just exhaled — a long, weary breath like he'd been holding it for months.
Then he turned.
He didn't scream. Didn't scold. He didn't even look at Yevgeni with anger. Only pity.
He gestured toward the door with a nod that wasn't unkind. But it wasn't forgiving either.
"You came to a house full of children with guns," he said, walking toward the threshold. "You came looking for revenge. But Caesar? He came with toys and bedtime stories. That's the difference between you. He knows how to play the part."
Yevgeni didn't move.
Not at first.
His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. His chest rose and fell with shallow, deliberate breaths. He looked at Vseslav like he was still trying to understand — still trying to piece together when exactly the world flipped upside down.
But Vseslav? Vseslav simply walked to the door. Opened it. Held it, like a butler.
As if Yevgeni wasn't the man who used to run empires. As if he was just another guest who had overstayed his welcome.
And in the hallway, just beyond the arch, Caesar's voice echoed again — light and cheerful, like a father reading bedtime stories made of razor blades:
"Mariiiya! Levvv! Come say hello to Uncle Caesar!"
Outside the mansion, the bitter wind bit at Yevgeni's face, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging behind his eyes.
He walked out with long, stiff strides, each step echoing his fury. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, the veins in his arms taut with suppressed rage. His jaw was locked, teeth grinding behind closed lips. He didn't speak at first. His underlings watched him carefully, the tension in the air palpable, waiting for an order, a word—anything.
"Sir... what now?" one of the intel officers asked cautiously, his voice low, as if afraid that even the sound of it might trigger something dangerous.
Yevgeni didn't answer right away. He stopped in front of the black armored vehicle parked near the estate's gates, shoulders still tense, eyes staring down at the frozen pavement like it had personally offended him. His breath came out in heavy white clouds in the cold air.
Then—finally—he exhaled sharply. Not just a breath, but a release of pressure, anger, desperation. A breath meant to anchor him before he said something he'd regret.
"For now…" Yevgeni muttered, his voice gravelly and low, "we go quiet."
He turned to his men, eyes sharp, brows furrowed with the weight of command. "Fall back. Pull out from this property. No more provocations. Caesar is not a man we take head-on… not yet."
The intel officer blinked, stunned. "But sir—"
"I said fall back!" Yevgeni barked, the force behind his voice enough to send a jolt down the man's spine. "I won't let anything happen to Eun-jae. That madman—" his voice faltered for just a second, "—he's not just a threat. He's a legion, a thousand minds of chaos rolled into one body. A one-man war."
He opened the car door and slid into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind him as if to block out his own anger. The silence inside was deafening. The engine purred to life, but the rage in Yevgeni's heart only grew louder.
Outside, the rest of his men followed orders, reluctantly dispersing, some visibly confused and frustrated. But none of them questioned him again.
Inside the car, Yevgeni leaned back into the leather seat, one hand pressed to his temple, the other drumming against his thigh. His eyes didn't blink as they stared out the tinted window. All he could see in his mind's eye was Caesar's smug grin. The way he taunted him. The way he claimed Eun-jae so shamelessly. That CCTV footage still burned in his thoughts like acid—his son, asleep in enemy hands.
Marked. Claimed. Humiliated.
And yet… safe. For now.
"I can't lose him too…" he whispered, voice barely audible, speaking to no one. "Not another child… not again."
He remembered the way Caesar's voice dripped with poison, the way he held power like a toy to be broken. A man like that didn't bluff—when he made a threat, it was a promise wrapped in velvet.
If I push too hard… Caesar will hurt him.
If I act too slow… I might lose him forever.
He had to be strategic. Surgical. A brute force attack wouldn't work against someone like Caesar. He needed something smarter.
No—someone smarter.
Yevgeni's gaze sharpened, the gears in his mind turning rapidly. "I need a leverage point… a pressure point… a crack in his armor."
And then, like a lightning strike, the thought came:
"All I need is one common enemy," he murmured to himself.
His voice was calm now, calculating. "A snake eats the scorpion when they share the same pit."
Caesar was too bold, too untouchable alone. But enemies like him made enemies easily. Somewhere out there, someone wanted Caesar gone just as badly—maybe even more. A betrayed partner. A rival. Someone who knew how to hurt him from within.
I'll find that someone… and I'll turn them into my blade.
The study was cold—not because of the temperature, but because of the sterile stillness of it all. Heavy bookshelves lined the walls, stacked with thick volumes, old leather-bound tomes with gold-embossed spines that smelled of dust and forgotten secrets. A massive oak desk sat near the floor-to-ceiling windows, papers stacked in neat, almost obsessive piles. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a pale grey light that made the whole room feel like a scene out of a gothic painting.
Eun-jae was pacing.
Frustrated.
His hands moved with frantic energy—pulling open drawers, flipping through atlases, tossing aside files and binders that had nothing but numbers and code names. He'd already checked the obvious places: under the desk, behind the globe stand, even behind the books to see if Caesar had hidden something between the shelves like some twisted treasure hunt.
But there was nothing.
Not even a whisper of a map. Not even a hint.
He kicked one of the desk drawers shut with a frustrated groan. "You've gotta be kidding me," he hissed. "He said this island was in the damn Norwegian Sea—so where's the map, huh? Where's the coordinates, the escape plan, the boat, the submarine, the helicopter—anything?!"
He shoved another book off the desk, letting it hit the floor with a dramatic thud, then stood there, breathing hard. His chest heaved with the effort of not screaming. But even that small act of defiance—throwing a book—felt so utterly pointless.
And slowly, like cold water leaking through a crack, the panic started to creep in.
His eyes scanned the room one last time, as if maybe—just maybe—something had magically appeared. But all that stared back at him were dead pages, silent shelves, and the quiet tick-tick-tick of the antique clock in the corner.
Eun-jae stood frozen.
Then came the dread.
"So… I'm really stuck here?" he whispered to no one. "I'm just supposed to… accept it? Accept that I'm trapped on some island in the middle of nowhere with him?"
He looked down at his feet—bare, because Caesar liked to strip him of everything, even the small comforts like shoes, control, dignity. His toes curled against the cold wooden floor as his hands slowly dropped to his sides.
Then—a tear.
He blinked, confused. His hand came up to his cheek instinctively. It was wet.
"What the—?" He sniffed. "Why… why are you crying, Eun-jae?" he muttered under his breath, voice thick, sarcasm cracking under exhaustion. "Be a man. Don't cry like some dumb, helpless kid."
But the tears didn't stop.
No matter how much he bit his lip.
No matter how hard he clenched his jaw.
No matter how many times he told himself to man up—the tears kept falling.
Quiet. Relentless. Burning.
His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor without grace, dropping onto the plush rug like a puppet with its strings cut. He folded into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his legs, chin digging into his knees. He tried to hide his face, as if even he couldn't bear to see himself like this.
"I'm tired…" he whispered.
His voice was so soft it barely made it past his lips.
"I'm so tired."
His shoulders shook.
"I'm scared… I'm confused… I don't even know who I am anymore…"
He tried to laugh through it, tried to make it light—because that's what he did, right? That's what made him sassy, made him fire and spark even in the face of danger. But the laugh came out broken, wet, laced with pure fatigue.
"I used to have a life," he muttered into his arms. "I had control. I had purpose. I had… me."
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.
"…And now I'm just his."
He didn't say Caesar's name—but he didn't need to.
The shadows in the room seemed to flinch at the word.
He stared at the desk again, blurry through tear-filled eyes. All those books, all those secrets—and not one could give him what he needed: freedom.
And yet, deep down, some twisted part of him whispered—
Would you even leave if you had the chance?
That thought scared him more than the silence. More than Caesar. More than being trapped.
Because he wasn't sure anymore.
The sound of helicopter blades cutting through the cold, salty air above the mansion was sharp and thunderous. Wind whipped across the cliffside estate as Caesar stepped down onto the helipad, his long black fur coat trailing behind him like the wings of a fallen monarch. His eyes, sharp and pale as a winter storm, scanned the sprawling estate as he made his way toward the main doors.
The front doors creaked open with a groan, and the moment he stepped inside, an unsettling hush welcomed him. The usual warmth of the chandelier-lit foyer felt… off. Lifeless. Hollow. Even the air held an eerie chill.
"I'm back," Caesar called out, holding a designer paper bag filled with ramen bowls and spicy rice cakes, Eun-jae's favorites. His voice echoed through the mansion like it had no one to land on.
Nothing.
No smart-ass remark. No sarcastic, "Took you long enough, drama king."
Just silence.
He paused, his gloved fingers tightening around the bag. His heartbeat picked up. "Eun-jae?" he called again, louder this time, walking farther into the lounge area. Still nothing.
He set the bag carefully on the couch and began peeling off his black fur coat, his movements slower now, hesitant. The silence in the mansion wasn't just stillness—it was wrong.
"Eun-jae," he said again, voice lower, more urgent, as he tossed the coat aside. That same silence echoed back at him like a taunt.
His pulse quickened. His smirk faltered.
What if he ran?
The thought hit him like a bullet.
He bolted. Up the grand staircase, two steps at a time, like a man possessed. He threw open the bedroom door—nothing. The bed was untouched, the air still. He checked the bathroom, then the guest room, then the balcony—each one emptier than the last.
His jaw clenched, and his pale eyes darkened with a brewing storm. Panic was clawing its way up his spine, sharp and bitter.
He reached the study and flung the door open like a threat—
Only to stop dead in his tracks.
There he was.
Eun-jae.
Sitting with his legs casually crossed on the massive oak desk, like a smug little prince. One hand flipping through a book he clearly wasn't reading, the other holding a crystal wine glass filled with deep red wine. His back was straight, shoulders relaxed, hair a bit tousled, and those pouty lips curled into a smirk that could slice through ego.
Eun-jae looked up slowly, took a lazy sip from the glass, then quirked a brow.
"Well damn," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
He slid off the desk like he was stepping off a runway, strutting past Caesar with the wine bottle casually gripped in his hand. His perfume—a heady mix of cinnamon and citrus—hit Caesar's senses as he passed.
"I was bored," Eun-jae tossed over his shoulder. "Had to entertain myself while the mighty Caesar was out gallivanting or whatever."
Caesar exhaled sharply—half in disbelief, half in relief. His laughter bubbled up in a low, stunned chuckle as he closed the door behind him and followed.
"You brat…" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Downstairs, Eun-jae spotted the bag on the couch and his eyes lit up. "Ooh, you actually brought the ramen?" he said, lifting it with one hand. "Nice. I've been craving carbs and MSG."
He strutted into the kitchen like he owned the mansion—like he had Caesar wrapped around his pinky finger, not the other way around. Caesar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes never leaving him.
Eun-jae reached into the cabinets, pulling out a pot and filling it with water. He moved with practiced grace, hips swaying just enough to tease but not enough to be obvious.
Caesar's gaze was intense. Calculating. He didn't move, didn't speak.
Until he noticed it.
The puffiness around Eun-jae's eyes.
Subtle. But he noticed everything.
"Have you been crying?" Caesar asked, lips tugging into a half-smirk.
Eun-jae froze for a millisecond—barely a hitch in his movement—but it was enough.
He turned slowly, face unreadable. "Oh, please," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I'm just allergic to your bullshit. Makes my eyes water."