The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open.
Lady Calderon stepped out like a queen returning to her throne.
Her long brown hair waves caught the light, cascading over the shoulder of her jade silk blazer. She walked with the precision of someone who knew every eye was on her—even if they pretended otherwise.
The single bodyguard behind her wore black and silence like armor, not saying a word.
RHL staff hushed.
She didn't glance sideways. Every step was forward.
She didn't knock—of course not. She turned the handle and let herself into Jim's office.
Inside Jim's Office
Jim looked up, slightly startled, then immediately stood. "Lady Calderon."
She raised a brow, amused.
> "If I knew you'd stand that quickly, I'd have visited more often."
Jim smirked as he moved from behind his desk. "I would've worn a crown too."
She laughed, her voice velvet-smooth. "Let's not tempt the tabloids."
He gestured to the leather chair in front of his desk. "Please."
As she sat, he moved to the side table.
"Tea? Or has politics driven you to stronger potions?"
She settled in with a dramatic sigh. "If only liquor could win votes. Tea will do."
Jim poured two cups, slid hers gently across the table, and sat. "No poison, I promise. I need your drama alive for another few months."
She sipped. "Flattering, but let's face it—you miss me."
He chuckled. "I miss peace and quiet. You're the opposite."
"Oh Jim," she said with mock offense. "You're so good at compliments. It's no wonder your son's still single."
Jim nearly choked on his tea. "You've barely been here two minutes and already insulted me and my son."
Calderon grinned.
"That's because I haven't reached the part where I praise myself yet."
They both laughed.
Even the guard, for a moment, blinked as though tempted to smile.
Jim leaned back slightly. "Alright, Lady Calderon. You didn't come here to check if my kettle still works. Why are you here?"
She tilted her head. "Elections, of course. But don't groan yet, I come bearing proposals—one you might actually enjoy."
Jim eyed her warily. "I doubt it involves me taking a long vacation."
She ignored that.
"Look, I'm not here to twist your arm into endorsements. We both know RHL's stance is meant to be neutral—even if your office gets pulled into everything."
She leaned in slightly.
"But I was thinking... what if we merge ambition with legacy?"
Jim raised a brow. "And that means…?"
Calderon's smile widened. "Your son. My daughter. Valen and Evora."
Silence.
Then Jim blinked.
"Are you matchmaking right now?"
She shrugged. "I'm just saying—imagine the headlines: 'Hope and Honor – A New Political Future.' The son of justice. The daughter of progress."
Jim narrowed his eyes.
"That sounds like the title of a bad soap opera."
Calderon burst out laughing.
"And yet it would trend for weeks!"
She composed herself.
"Look, I'm not here to force anything. But if I win—and I plan to—I'd rather see my daughter with someone whose bloodline doesn't smell like bribery. Your boy's upright, passionate, idealistic… annoyingly perfect."
Jim took a sip of tea, thoughtful.
"And what does Valen think of this little political fairy tale?"
She rolled her eyes.
"He doesn't have to think yet. Let the idea marinate. Besides, it's not like I asked you to sacrifice him on a pyre. It's just marriage."
He laughed out loud now.
"Spoken like a true politician—'just marriage.'"
Calderon rose slowly, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, but she didn't move right away.
She looked around the office with a faint nostalgia, then turned to Jim.
"You know, I used to dream of having this office," she said, her tone softening. "Power looked so clean from the outside."
Jim gave a small nod. "And now?"
She met his eyes. "Now I know everyone inside is either tired, dangerous, or one signature away from a scandal."
Jim chuckled. "Welcome to the real room."
A brief silence passed between them—mutual respect, laced with wariness.
"Well," she said, straightening her shoulders, "I've done my part—planted a seed, stirred your tea, and mildly threatened your peace of mind. I'll take my leave before you call security."
Jim smirked. "I already did. They just like watching us talk."
She laughed, stepped toward the door—then paused.
"Oh, and Jim," she added over her shoulder, "Evora has your son's old posters on her wall. But don't tell her I said that. She'd kill me."
He blinked. "I'll act surprised when the wedding invitation comes."
She winked.
"Do. And make sure there's tea."
And just like that, she walked out—graceful, sharp, and still in control of the room even in her absence.
The city's skyline shimmered under the warm floodlights circling the National Unity Summit.
A velvet red carpet stretched down the grand entrance, flanked by sleek black cars — limousines, armored sedans, and luxury SUVs, each one gliding forward like royalty had arrived.
Reporters lined the carpet, cameras clicking non-stop as each guest emerged. Microphones were raised, lips moved with carefully crafted questions, but most answers came in polite smiles or brief nods. This wasn't a place for scandal — not publicly.
The entrance to the Hall glowed beneath massive chandeliers, guarded on all sides by men in tailored suits and earpieces — private security and military personnel, silent and observant. Every corner had eyes.
Inside, the space glittered with gold accents and political pride. Flags of different regions hung from the walls. Live orchestral music floated from the balcony, mixing with soft laughter and the clinking of wine glasses. Waiters moved smoothly between the guests, silver trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres balanced perfectly in their hands.
Businessmen in navy suits laughed near the marble columns, their expensive watches flashing under the lights. Politicians greeted each other like old friends, with too-wide smiles and firm handshakes that lingered just a beat too long. Every gesture held meaning.
A broadcaster's voice echoed from one of the hovering drones capturing live footage:
"Welcome to the 7th Annual National Unity Summit — a night where leadership, progress, and public trust take center stage, the Unity for the Nation brings together the most powerful forces in government and commerce — a celebration of progress, peace, and partnership."
But everyone in the room knew better. This wasn't just a celebration — it was a chessboard, and the players were already in motion.
At the far end of the hall, one of the most anticipated arrivals stepped through the main doors — Senator Dalton, flanked by two aides. He raised a hand in greeting, offered a practiced smile, and let the cameras catch his best angle before he disappeared into the sea of influence.
Moments later, Lady Calderon entered, surrounded by a modest escort. She waved gracefully to the media, eyes scanning the room like a queen assessing her court.
The crowd shifted again when Jim, head of the RHL Chamber, arrived quietly through a side corridor, avoiding the cameras. He was a man who didn't need to make noise to be seen.
A trio of foreign investors arrived together, followed by the new House of Assembly nominee, who was immediately pulled into a circle of political backers near the center floor.
The room was now full.
Smiles widened. Conversations quickened. Glasses rose.
After the crowd settles, the events host steps onto a small, elevated stage beneath a grand light fixture. The room quiets. Applause follows a short, formal welcome speech.
"Tonight, we are joined by visionaries, defenders of democracy, and pioneers of progress. Among our honored guests, we welcome... Mr. Han Joon-seo — chairman of HanTech International."
A tall, calm Korean man nods from one of the elite tables near Senator Dalton and Jim. He doesn't smile. He doesn't wave. He's unreadable.
The applause had barely faded from Mr. Han Joon-seo's introduction when the chandeliers flickered.
A second passed—then darkness swallowed the hall.
Gasps fluttered through the room. Conversations stopped mid-word. Wine glasses were frozen midair. For a moment, the only sound was the subtle static of confused security radios.
Outside, even the spotlights lining the National Assembly Plaza dimmed.
Guards straightened. Earpieces lit up with murmured orders. The orchestra went still. Reporters instinctively held their breath, their cameras blinking red in standby.
Then—
just as suddenly as it vanished—the power returned.
Light spilled back into the hall. Music resumed. The MC laughed into the mic, brushing off the incident with a quick, scripted line about "a reminder that progress sometimes flickers."
Nervous laughter followed. Guests adjusted their clothes. The evening seemed to steady itself again.
Until the screens didn't return to the summit logo.
They glitched once. Twice. Then every monitor in the room glowed with a sharp white light—and a video began to play.
A young guy, barely twenty one , sat in a dim-lit room. His shoulders hunched, voice cracking as he spoke:
"Her name was Risa Ebone. She said I'd be famous. She said she believed in me. I didn't know she'd take it all."
Cut to a signature: Risa's name at the bottom of a forged patent document.
Then a handshake between her and a man in sunglasses — the supposed "investor" who never returned.
Finally, an image of her standing at a tech conference, smiling at a podium beneath a banner that read: "Empowering Youth for Tomorrow."
The screens cut out. Silence followed.
Then chaos stirred.
The Room Reacts
A thick silence hung in the air before the hum of voices returned—this time sharper, scattered with disbelief. Reporters whispered into phones. Investors leaned toward each other. Politicians exchanged sharp glances.
In the middle of it all, Risa Ebone sat frozen, her face pale, a wine glass trembling slightly in her grasp.
Her assistant leaned in close, whispering fast. But Risa didn't hear. Her eyes had found Lady Calderon across the room.
The older woman was calm. Elegant. She raised her champagne glass and smiled faintly—as if toasting fate.
Risa's face stiffened. She placed the wine glass down with care and stood.
"Madam?" her assistant called gently. "Should I have the car ready?"
Risa didn't reply. She turned and moved through the crowd without urgency—but not a single person tried to stop her.
The reporters were too stunned. The politicians too careful. The music had resumed, but now every note felt like a cover for whispers.
Outside, the cold night air met her like an old enemy. Her car slid into position the moment she stepped from the building.
Before entering, she glanced back at the glowing hall.
In the reflection on the glass, she didn't see herself.
She saw the boy. Crying. Forgotten.
She blinked once. Her eyes steeled.
"Get me everyone," she said as the car door opened. "Media. Legal. And the boys in finance. If Calderon wants a war... she'll have one."
The door closed behind her.
The television screen glowed gently in the quiet of the room, casting soft gold and white flashes across the polished floor. A muted news anchor spoke in clipped tones, her voice muffled beneath orchestral recaps of the evening's event.
The National Unity Summit played on nearly every screen in the country — but few watched it the way this man did.
The living room was elegant in its simplicity. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with leather-bound volumes and law journals too heavy for modern minds. A tall clock ticked somewhere in the corner. On the center table, a glass bowl held neat slices of fruit, untouched. An untouched bottle of red wine stood beside it.
In the armchair, a man sat in stillness.
Old, but not frail.
Wearing a dark silk robe and thin-rimmed glasses, he watched the television with the composure of someone who had seen far too many things to be surprised anymore.
The footage played back: Senator Dalton's entrance, the gleaming chandeliers, the polite applause for foreign investors. And then… the glitch. The blackout. The leak.
The boy's voice filled the room again.
> "She said I'd be famous. She said she believed in me…"
The old man didn't blink.
He leaned slightly forward, fingers pressed together, eyes narrowing as Risa Ebone's name echoed through the news anchor's summary.
He exhaled slowly.
"Risa," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head once. "It was only a matter of time."
He picked up the remote, lowered the volume, and reached for a piece of pineapple from the bowl. As he chewed, his gaze returned to the screen — now showing Lady Calderon smiling at the podium, speaking about transparency and national progress.
>"You're playing your cards too early," he said softly. "Let's hope you don't get burned."
The screen flickered again. He leaned back, unbothered, already knowing the game was in motion.
Somewhere behind him, a phone buzzed on the shelf.
He didn't answer it.
He didn't need to.
The air was cool. Calm. Intentional.
Then came the knock.
It wasn't loud — just firm.
still seated, didn't speak. A house steward opened the door.
"Good evening, Honourable Justice," said a voice, young but grounded.
"May I come in?"
Justice Nathaniel turned his head slowly, lifting his glasses just a touch. He recognized the man immediately.
> "Barrister Miles Bennett," he said, voice low and clear. "You may."
Miles stepped in, dressed in a dark navy suit, shoulders tight with quiet urgency. He clutched a slim leather folder in his left hand.
He bowed slightly, then extended the folder.
"This is everything we could confirm — the prosecutor who died two weeks ago. It wasn't an accident."
Justice Nathaniel accepted the folder without a word, flipping through pages — photos, signatures, timestamps.
> "They're getting bolder," Miles added, lowering his voice. "She was too close to something... and now she's gone."
He didn't look up. He studied the last page.
> "You've done well bringing this quietly," he murmured.
"Sir, if we move now—this is enough to name names. We can force a public inquiry."
Justice Nathaniel finally looked up. His eyes were calm but sharp.
"And if we push with only this, they'll deny it, discredit her, and burn you with her name."
"We don't throw rocks at glass houses without knowing who's inside."
Barrister Miles frowned, still standing.
"So… we wait?"
"No," the judge replied. "We gather. There's more to come. There always is."
Before Miles could respond, the door opened again.
A voice, soft and polished, floated in.
"Justice Nathaniel, forgive my intrusion. I didn't realize you had company."
Both men turned.
The Chief Minister stepped inside, flanked by a single personal aide. He was dressed not in formal wear, but a clean agbada of deep gray and gold thread. His expression was warm, respectful. In his hand, he held a box of fine tea.
"Chief Minister Raymond," Justice Nathaniel said, standing slowly, his tone perfectly even. "You honour my home."
"The honour is mine, sir," Minister Raymond said with a gracious nod. "I came only to bring greetings… and to sit under your wisdom, if you'll allow."
He turned to Miles and nodded politely.
"Barrister."
"Your Excellency," Miles said, bowing slightly.
The three men stood there, the air shifting — one filled with youth and fire, one filled with secrets, and one with polished power dressed in respect.
The judge gestured toward the tray.
"Join us then. But tonight… no politics. Only fruit, tea, and truth."
The Chief Minister smiled.
"Of course, Justice. Just fruit, tea, and truth."
The city buzzed below like a restless machine — cars shifting through fog, lights blinking in clusters, and buildings humming beneath layers of glass and ambition.
But up here, in the dead air of the 29th floor, there was only silence.
The building stood abandoned between three of the most powerful institutions in the city — the RHL Chamber, the City Bureau of Legal Investigations, and Senator Dalton's headquarters. Once a tech start-up tower, it now sat half-forgotten, its windows blacked out, its rooftop choked by dust and pigeons.
No one noticed it anymore.
That was the point.
Inside, the elevator shaft was dead, the lobby gutted — but the 29th floor pulsed quietly with power.
A room hidden behind soundproof walls and reinforced glass glowed with eerie blue light. Monitors lined the walls. Some showed live feeds. Others displayed paused footage — courtroom hallways, basement garages, conference rooms.
A sprawling board stretched across the far wall — covered in printed photos. Politicians. Lawyers. Executives.
Jim, head of RHL.
Lady Calderon, mid-laugh at a podium.
Risa Ebone, circled twice in red.
Senator Dalton, frozen mid-handshake.
Four members of the House of Assembly.
All connected by red thread, arrows, and scribbled notes.
In the corner, an analog timer ticked quietly above a locked black cabinet.
The man stood at the center of it all — cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath the shadows of a hood.
He watched the streets through a thin slit in the curtain — his eyes locked on the entrance to Senator Dalton's building.
A cigarette burned slowly in his fingers.
He took a drag. Then another. His other hand slipped a phone from his pocket. He tapped a code — the screen glowed white.
He lifted the phone to his ear.
The line clicked once. Then silence.
"They're all moving," he said, voice calm. "Exactly as expected."
A pause.
"Tell her… we're ready."
He hung up.
His gaze didn't shift from the window.
Behind him, the monitors flickered once — then resumed.