Sam woke that morning with a strange heaviness pressing down on him, though nothing in particular had happened yet. It was the atmosphere — the mess around him was overwhelming. His bedroom looked as if a storm had torn through it, scattering clothes, papers, and half-empty cups in every direction. Or perhaps, more accurately, as though a troop of restless ghosts had danced through in the night.
Today was supposed to be a milestone — the grand opening of his café. And yet here he was, lying in the wreckage of last night's exhaustion. He wasn't alone in this chaos either. Jacob was sprawled beside him, half-buried under a tangle of sheets, sleeping as if the world outside had stopped turning.
Sam leaned over, shaking his friend's arm gently at first.
"Jacob… Jacob… Jacob."
No reaction. Jacob merely shifted deeper into the blanket like a cat curling against the morning light.
Sam's patience wore thin. "I'm sorry, Jacob," he said, with a sly glint in his eyes — a tone that suggested no apology at all.
Before Jacob could sense the trap, Sam rolled up his sleeves, gripped his friend by the arm, and dragged him — with all the ceremony of moving a corpse — straight toward the bathroom.
The door swung open. The shower came on. And a sudden cascade of cold water came crashing down on Jacob's sleeping head.
The reaction was instant. Jacob shot upright with a long, shuddering breath, coughing and spluttering, his hair plastered to his forehead. In the span of three seconds, awareness dawned, and so did understanding. He turned toward Sam, who was leaning against the doorway, openly enjoying the spectacle.
"Sam, you bastard—come here!"
Jacob lunged forward, but Sam was already darting backward, laughing. The chase spilled into the hallway, then the living room, then the kitchen. They looped the apartment twice before Jacob finally caught him. Without ceremony, he grabbed Sam by the wrist and dragged him into the shower in retaliation.
The two of them emerged an hour later, dripping with the remnants of playful revenge but far more awake.
Sam stood at the mirror, trying to tame his hair into something vaguely presentable, while Jacob — already dressed — waited in the lounge. From his vantage point, Jacob could see Sam fighting a hopeless battle with his stubborn curls. He couldn't help but smile. Some things never changed; Sam had never been one to rush, whether it was bathing, eating, or getting ready.
"Sam!" Jacob's voice carried from the doorway. "I'm heading out. Meet me downstairs!"
"Okay!" Sam's voice floated back from the bedroom.
Five painstaking minutes later, Sam finally managed to coax his hair into something stylish. Grabbing his jacket, he strode toward the door — but then stopped. Something felt missing.
He turned his head toward the wall opposite the door, and there it was. A framed photograph.
Zero.
Zeyad, the boy who had once promised they'd open a café together.
The memory rose unbidden, pulling him back five years, to the day they had walked home from school.
"Do you know, Zero," Sam had said, walking backward in front of his friend, "I love coffee. I mean, really love it. Love it so much that—"
"How much?" Zero interrupted dryly. "Decide first before you say it three times."
Sam grinned. "Fine. I love it… more than anything. One day, I'm going to open my own coffee shop."
He hopped onto the edge of a low wall, balancing as he talked. Zero didn't look surprised — he'd always known coffee was Sam's first love. Perhaps even his second.
Zero's answer had been simple: "Alright, my brother. Then one day, we'll open one together."
Sam's eyes had lit up instantly. "Yes! We'll open it together. But what should we name it?"
"Name it?" Zero smacked the back of his head lightly. "First, have the baby. Then worry about naming it. Come on, it's getting late."
Sam, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit, followed behind, still mulling over his friend's strange metaphors. "Alright, but listen—"
"Sam! How much longer?" Jacob's voice yanked him back to the present.
"Coming!" Sam called, casting one last look at the smiling photo — taken in some park, long ago, where Zero had gotten tangled in a tree branch for reasons only he would understand. Sam sighed softly before stepping out.
Jacob was waiting downstairs, helmet in one hand, keys twirling in the other. The moment he saw Sam, he smirked. "Finally. The heavens are pleased."
Sam chuckled faintly.
Jacob handed him the spare helmet, and moments later, the two were cutting through Tokyo's morning streets on Jacob's sports bike. The cold wind carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall, mingling with the crisp urban air as they entered Minato Ward — the diplomatic heart of the city. Sleek glass towers rose around them, their mirrored surfaces catching the pale winter sun. Men in tailored suits strode toward meetings, women in crisp business attire chatted over takeaway coffee cups, and a row of national flags fluttered gently outside an embassy.
They pulled up in front of the shop. Jacob parked, and they walked together to the entrance. Sam stopped in his tracks.
The façade was modest yet warm, with dark wood paneling and a deep green awning. Above the door, the name shone in elegant lettering: Silent Love Café.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Here it is, mister," Jacob said with a proud grin. "After all your hard work. Congratulations, brother."
"Come on, Sam, open it."
Sam's gaze dropped to the handle — but then, just beside him, he heard a familiar voice.
"Go on, Sam. Open it."
He turned. And there he was — not in the flesh, but in memory. Zero.
Sam's smile deepened. "You came?"
"I never left," the voice replied in his mind. "Now go."
He nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of joy and ache.
The door swung open. The soft chime above it rang out like a quiet blessing.
His dream — their dream — was real now. And yet, some dreams, even when fulfilled, carry an emptiness no ribbon-cutting can fill.
Sam hung the OPEN sign on the glass and stepped behind the counter, turning in a slow circle to take in the entire space. His smile lingered, but deep down, he knew — only one thing, one person, could fill that quiet hollow in his heart.
______________________________________>>>>
Two weeks had passed. Time moved at its own pace, the office running like a well-oiled machine. Everything was in its place—at least on the surface. The only unrest lingering was in the air of late December, heavy and cold.
Zero sat at his desk, absorbed in a stack of reports, his pen tapping absently against the wood. His focus didn't break until a polite knock came at the door.
"Sir, these are the files you asked for," his secretary, Mr. Joe, said as he stepped inside.
Zero's eyes flicked over the folders briefly before he gestured without looking up. "Leave them there."
Joe placed the files neatly on one side of the desk and turned to leave. He had just reached the door when Zero's voice—calm but cutting—stopped him mid-step.
"One moment."
Joe froze. He'd been long enough under Zeyad's leadership to know that when the CEO called you back in that tone, it was rarely good news. Turning slowly, he forced a professional smile. "Yes, sir?"
Zero closed the file in his hands, setting it down deliberately before meeting his gaze. "Who is the head of the Finance Department?"
"Mr… Liam," Joe answered, a slight hesitation in his voice.
Zero gave a slow, measured nod. "Mr. Joe," Zero said without looking up, "tell me — when was the last time the finance reports were reviewed?"
The question caught Joe off-guard. His silence—just a fraction too long—was answer enough.
A flicker of irritation crossed Zero's face, his tone turning colder. "Issue a fraud audit against Liam. Begin an immediate investigation. I want every report on my desk—complete and unedited."
Joe swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
He began to retreat, but Zero's voice pulled him back again.
"Mr. Joe, what's on my schedule for noon?"
Joe cleared his throat. "Sir, you have a meeting at twelve, then lunch with Mr. Henry, and after that—"
"What's the lunch for?" Zero interrupted.
Joe hesitated. "It's… an official discussion, sir."
"Keep all official discussions in the meeting room. No unnecessary lunches," Zero said flatly, rising from his chair. Without another word, he walked past Joe and out of the office, leaving the secretary standing stiff in the doorway.
_______
It had only just turned ten. Zero had two hours before his next meeting.
He stepped out of his office, unlocking his car with a press of the key fob. Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the engine—only for his phone to buzz with a notification.
An Instagram alert.
He unlocked the screen, and Sam's post filled his view:
"Finally opened my own coffee shop. My dream is fulfilled now. Wish me luck."
Zero's hand froze on the steering wheel, his grip tightening around the phone.For a moment, the hum of the engine and the muffled winter stillness outside seemed to dissolve into nothing.
After so long… Sam had finally posted something.
In the photo, he stood beside Jacob, the café sign glowing faintly behind them. A curve touched Sam's lips—not quite a smile, more like an echo of one.
Zero's chest tightened. He remembered that night—the promise he had made. And yet, he had left Sam behind. Was this feeling regret? Guilt? Or something nameless that gnawed at him?
He couldn't tell.
His gaze lingered on the photo far longer than it should have.Then, without a word, he tapped the like button.
Earbuds in, he dialed a number from memory.
"Hello, Zeyad my bro! Long time no see," a laid-back voice greeted after two rings.
"Parker, where are you? We need to meet. Now," Zero said, his tone clipped, his focus still on the road ahead as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Hah, straight to business as always. Fine—old place, thirty minutes," Parker replied before hanging up.
—
Half an hour later, Zero's car rolled to a stop beside a decaying building in an isolated part of the city. Locking the vehicle behind him, he adjusted the buttons of his coat, slid on his gloves, and carried a khaki file in one hand as he climbed the worn staircase to the second floor.
Parker was there—lounging in a chair, wine glass in hand.
"Parker," Zero said evenly.
"Zeyad, my brother!" Parker set the glass aside and stood, meeting him halfway with a firm, brotherly handshake.
Zero unbuttoned his coat, took the seat across from him, and slid the file onto the table.
Parker smirked at the gesture. "Finally, you've got someone you want dead."
"Don't be ridiculous," Zero muttered, voice cold. "There are three people in here. I want full investigations on each of them."
Parker flipped the file open, scanning the first photograph. His brows lifted. "Isn't this your father? And this—"
"Yes." Zero's tone cut him off. "My father's accident wasn't just an accident. I believe Liam's involved. I want every piece of truth you can dig out."
Parker turned to the third photo. "And this one?"
Zero's gaze hardened, but his voice softened—just slightly. "I want every moment of his life tracked. He is not to be harmed. Keep him safe. Make sure he's protected… always."
A slow grin spread across Parker's face. "Special, huh?" he teased.
"Very," Zero said without hesitation. "His wound is my wound."
Parker laughed, though the warmth in his eyes showed he understood more than he let on. They had history—his grandfather had once been a trusted ally of Zero's family.
"The rest of the details are in the envelope. If you need anything, you know how to reach me," Zero added, pulling a cheque from his coat—ten million dollars. "Advance payment."
Parker glanced at it, then pushed it back toward him. "I don't take money from friends for standing by their side."
Zero's lips twitched into the faintest smile. He gave Parker a half-embrace, then stepped back.
As Parker turned away, Zero picked up the cheque, flicked open his lighter, and burned it to ash before walking out into the cold. Moments later, the roar of his engine echoed down the empty street as he sped back toward the main road.
__________________________________________________>>>>>
Sara had been in a haze for days, as if reality itself had turned slippery and unreliable. She wasn't just worried — she was confused to her core, unable to make sense of what was happening to her. Her training had begun, or at least that's what they told her, but the truth was… she couldn't remember it.
There was no clear start, no end. One moment she would step out of her room; the next, she'd find herself back inside it with no memory of the hours in between. What happened in that span of time was a complete blank. Sometimes she'd return exhausted, her muscles aching as though she'd run miles. Other times, her clothes carried the faint, unmistakable scent of cologne — the kind that clung to you after being far too close to someone you shouldn't have been near.
Once, she had come back to find a strange box in her hand. Another time, a neatly arranged lunch was waiting for her on the table. And she would simply… stare at it. She knew exactly who was playing this game, but knowing didn't mean she could stop it. She was powerless — a spectator inside her own life.
The mansion was no longer a place she could leave on her own terms. Not anymore. And if it meant going out with Li Cheng, she refused — because she knew what would happen. If she met him out there, she would switch.
And lately… Li Cheng was what unsettled her most.
She was curled on the sofa now, knees bent, head tilted, lost in the whirlpool of her thoughts when a hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, instinctively pulling away.
"Easy, Sara."
Of course. Him.
Li Cheng stood before her, polite as always — but with a strange softness that hadn't been there before. He no longer called her Miss Sara. Just Sara. That alone was enough to make her uncomfortable.
He set a small box on the coffee table between them."Here," he said, his voice low. "As I promised."
She blinked, surprised. She was about to ask what promise? but instead forced a polite, "Thank you, Mr. Li."
And just like that, it was back to Mr. Li.
He smiled faintly and took the seat opposite her. "Inside is every piece of information we have on Cobra's people. You'll need to work harder now — because after this month, we begin the operation officially."
She returned the smile, professional and measured. "Of course, Mr. Li."
Pouring himself a glass of water, he asked casually, "And how's your condition? Can you control your personality switches now?"
"Yes," she said softly. "After all, I'm the host body. I can decide when and how I switch."
He nodded approvingly. "That's good. Well…" He rose to his feet.
Her eyes fluttered — and for an instant, she wasn't herself.
Li Cheng's hand brushed her shoulder as he said, "I should go. Good luck." And then he was gone.
Sara stared at the spot where his hand had rested, as if the ghost of his touch still lingered. A shiver ran through her. She exhaled slowly, leaned back on the sofa, one hand tucked under her head.
What the hell do you want now? she thought bitterly.
The reply came inside her own mind, dark and sharp: I want to vanish you. Completely.
She rubbed her eyes, genuinely worn out. "Honestly, Sara," she muttered to herself, "never again make the mistake of befriending — or partnering with — a psycho killer." It was half a joke, half a warning. And somehow, it made her more uneasy.
Her gaze fell on the box. She pulled it closer and opened it — only a single USB drive inside. Sliding it into her laptop, she found exactly what Li Cheng had promised: complete records of Cobra's network. Names. Faces. Timelines.
One photo made her freeze. She clicked it open and stared. Asterus. She had met him once before. Now his face glared back at her from the screen, bound to a list of things she didn't want to understand.
Beyond the images, there was software — one that, when launched, revealed even more. Detailed accounts from her mother, Selene, right up to the present day. Interior footage from inside Cobra's hidden bases. File after file of evidence.
She clicked on one of the videos.
It was a dimly lit room. A man was screaming. His fingers were being cut off, one by one. The sound was raw — the wet crunch of bone, the high-pitched gasp of agony — and over it all, laughter. A cruel, inhuman kind of laughter.
Sara's stomach lurched. She slammed the laptop shut.
The echo of that laugh stayed with her long after the screen went dark.
Sara's breaths turned shallow, uneven. She sat hunched forward on the sofa, one hand pressed against her chest as though trying to steady herself — to hold back the wave rising inside her. But the restraint didn't last.
In an instant, the image from the video surged back into her mind: the pool of blood, the severed fingers, the echo of that sadistic laughter. Her stomach twisted violently.
She clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted from the sofa, moving so fast it was as if lightning had struck her nerves. The bathroom door slammed open, and she dropped to her knees before the toilet, barely making it in time.
The heaving came in brutal waves. Her body fought, resisted, and finally relented, leaving her drained and trembling. She stayed there for a moment, panting, one palm braced on the cold tile floor.
When the worst of it passed, she used the wall for support and slowly pulled herself upright. Her knees ached, her breathing ragged. She turned toward the sink and twisted the faucet open.
Two, three, four splashes of cold water to her face. The shock steadied her slightly. She gripped the edge of the basin with both hands and looked up.
The mirror stared back. But it wasn't just her reflection.
Lyall was there — smirking, amused."See?" the voice coiled around her like smoke. "You can't even handle a single video. What would you do if I wasn't here?"
Sara's gaze sharpened, her lips curling into a thin, cold line. "If you really think you're capable of something… then stop hiding behind me. Stop trying to seduce Li Cheng from the shadows. Play fair. Then I'll see what your so-called 'psycho killer' can actually do."
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. She simply stared into those other eyes in the glass — her own, yet not hers.
Lyall stared back.
Then, with a sharp motion, Sara wrenched her hands away from the sink, the clatter of her touch leaving the porcelain ringing in the small space. Without another glance, she swung the bathroom door open and stepped out, her steps hard, clipped, as though every movement was a refusal.
Sara stepped out of the bathroom, wiping the fine beads of sweat that clung to her forehead. Her skin still felt clammy, her pulse still not entirely steady. She reached for the glass of water on the table, poured it full, and sat down heavily on the bed — her body sinking into the mattress, her mind far from rest.
Something was boiling in her head, a restless churn of thoughts. This won't work. Not like this. Something has to change. I have to do something.
She murmured to herself, half aloud, half in thought. Then, like a sudden spark in the dark, an idea lit up in her mind.
Without hesitation, she raised the glass and drained it in one go. The water was cool, sharp in her throat. She set the glass aside, stood abruptly, and reached for the USB.
She slipped it into a hidden compartment of her wardrobe bag — a place no one would casually check — and swung the bag shut.
Then she left the room, moving quickly, almost at a run, her footsteps light but urgent on the stairs.
The mansion's entrance came into view, and so did the guards. Their posture stiffened as she approached.
"Ma'am," one of them said firmly, stepping into her path, "you can't go out like this. Sir and the Matriarch's orders are strict."
Sara's eyes narrowed, her voice cool but edged. "Tell me where Mr. Li is."
There was a pause. A glance exchanged between the two guards. Finally, one of them answered quietly, "He's away on a mission at the moment."
Sara exhaled through her nose, a slow nod. "Fine. When he returns… tell him I need to see him."
Without another word, she turned and walked back upstairs, her steps measured now, each one heavy with thought.
______________________________________________>>>
Maera had come home that evening in high spirits, her coat draped casually over one arm, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Sim…? Where are you?" she called out as she stepped inside.
But the words died in her throat. The bouquet of flowers in her hand slipped, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
The house was a mess.
A vase lay shattered on the floor, shards of glass glinting under the light. Chairs stood at odd angles, as if shoved in haste. The stove was still on, the low blue flame licking at the edges of a pan that had already spilled its contents across the kitchen tiles.
Her heart gave a hard, uneven thump. Something was very wrong.
Stepping over the crushed petals of the bouquet, she moved through the rooms, calling Sim's name again and again. No answer. The air felt heavy, the silence too deep.
Back in the dining area, Maera's eyes caught on an envelope lying on the table — a medical envelope. She snatched it up, her hands trembling slightly as she tore it open. Inside were printed reports… and an ultrasound image.
Her breath caught.
That morning, Sim had called her, her voice bubbling with excitement, saying she had a surprise to share. This was the surprise.
The weight of the realization sank into Maera like a stone. Her knees weakened, and she collapsed onto a chair, clutching her head. Tears pricked her eyes and began to spill. Sim was pregnant. Finally, she had found happiness… and now she was gone.
A memory flashed — Sim telling her, days ago, that she felt someone was following her. She'd mentioned suspicious figures, the feeling of being watched. Maera had dismissed it, calling it anxiety. Now regret clawed at her chest. She slammed her fist onto the table, her own voice breaking in frustration.
The shrill ring of her phone cut through the air. An unknown number.
She answered.
"How did you like the surprise?"
The voice was familiar, but her mind couldn't place it. Maera shot up from her chair, her tone sharp. "Who are you? Where is my Sim? What have you done to her?"
Laughter answered her — cold, mocking.
"Aww… worried about your little Sim, are you?"
"Cut the nonsense," Maera snapped, her voice raw with warning. "If she has even a single scratch— I swear I will end you."
The voice chuckled again, darker this time. "Oh? A challenge… to me? Six hours. That should be enough for you, shouldn't it? Come to the location I send you. One minute late… and you'll never see her again. Oh, and—" the voice lowered, almost playful, "your little… what was it… ah, blue bird? She's pregnant, isn't she? Hahaha…"
The line went dead.
Maera stared at the phone, fury and panic twisting in her gut. She dialed the number again — out of reach.
She began pacing, every second burning away the time she had left. Then she snatched up her phone again, dialing a different number.
The call was answered on the second ring.
"I'm sending you a number," she said quickly, no time for greetings. "I want its last location and all details. Five minutes."
She hung up before the voice could respond.
A gulp of water from a nearby glass barely steadied her shaking hands. There was only one name in her mind now — one person who could handle this. She dialed again.
"Hello, who—?"
"Maera."
The tone on the other end shifted instantly. "Oh, Ms. Maera. How can I help you?"
"No games. You once said you'd settle a debt if the time came."
"And I meant it," the voice replied, now steady, unwavering.
"Sim's been kidnapped. She's pregnant. I need your help."
A short silence. Then the voice came back, clipped and serious. "Got it. I'm on my way."
The call ended.
Out on the road, a black SUV roared to life, its driver cutting sharply onto a familiar route — one that led straight into the heart of danger.
TO BE CONTINUED.....