A soft knock at the door broke the silence. A plush white bathrobe wrapped around his body, he walked toward it. When he opened the door, Aarav stood there, masked and impassive as ever. In his hands, he carried a room service tray.
On the tray, three silver-domed dishes gleamed under the warm light, and a chilled bottle of wine rested beside a polished glass. The sight was almost humorous—a luxurious, domestic gesture delivered by a stoic, armored knight.
He took the tray, the simple weight of it grounding him after the heavy burden of the past. Pausing before stepping back inside, a flicker of curiosity crossed his eyes.
"Would you care to join me?" he asked quietly, a gentle invitation.
Aarav shook his head. "I must decline, sir. My duty is to remain at my post."
The man nodded, acknowledging the professional boundary. He stepped back into the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Aarav remained in the quiet hallway, vigilant.
He set the tray on a small table, the silver domes catching the light. With practiced ease, he opened the bottle of wine, pouring a modest amount into a glass. He sipped, letting the rich, complex flavor wash over him—a forgotten pleasure, a taste of life reclaimed.
But a single glass would not suffice. Not tonight. He set the glass down, lifting the bottle to drink directly, each gulp a fiery reminder of both indulgence and escape.
He moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath him, veins of neon pulsing through the night. The sight was breathtaking, overwhelming, a metropolis alive and ordered, yet distant.
As he stared, his mind flickered elsewhere. Within the dark liquid of the wine, he glimpsed a different city—a brutal, broken place of alleys, flickering neon signs, and desperate survival. A city he had built in his youth, from the ground up, a mirror of his own ruthlessness and cunning.
He recalled the boy he once was: a middle-class engineering student with a family, a little brother, and a future that felt impossibly wide. That life ended abruptly. Survival demanded another path. He found it on the streets, joining a gang to make it through each night. His talent was natural, preternatural even—a sixth sense for his opponents' movements, the ability to mimic them flawlessly after a single observation.
He rose through the ranks not with fists alone, but with a mind honed for strategy. He gathered a loyal group, visionaries and pragmatists alike, and together they forged an organization. Funded by a brutal but elegant business model, they dismantled rival criminal empires and absorbed their assets and influence.
The Black Dragon Society emerged from shadows and chaos, seen by the world as a righteous force—a light against the darkness of organized crime. But the truth was far murkier. Saints were absent; their foundation rested on the backs of former mafia bosses, gangsters, and criminals. They were willing to do what others could not, willing to walk paths others dared not tread.
The bottle of wine, once a vessel for pleasure, became a tool for escape. He drained the remaining liquid, the rich warmth burning down his throat, then set it aside with a soft clink.
He turned to the food on the tray, the silver domes still warm, but only nibbled a few bites. Flavor was lost amidst the haze of memories and wine. Exhaustion, held at bay by adrenaline and emotion, finally claimed him. He swayed slightly, then collapsed onto the plush bed, surrendering to a long, dreamless sleep.
______________________
The morning of March 28th, 2207, was crisp and quiet at 6:00 AM. In the sprawling, manicured gardens of the estate, the only sound was the soft crunch of gravel under Veer's shoes.
He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, mind already consumed by the tasks ahead. Ahead, a figure approached, moving with quick, purposeful strides. Familiar, yet subtly altered—the hair trimmed shorter, jawline sharper, and the face carrying the faint impression of a new life.
"Greetings, Family Head," the man said, stopping and bowing with formal precision.
A slow smile spread across Veer's face. "Aryan. It truly is you," he said, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I almost didn't recognize you. Are preparations for your departure complete?"
"Yes, sir," Aryan replied, his tone firm, unwavering.
"Good," Veer said, his voice shifting into businesslike precision. He led Aryan toward a small table beneath the shade of a sprawling banyan tree. On it lay a plain manila envelope. Veer opened it, revealing four items: a sleek, unmarked leather wallet, a metallic bank card without a name, a small wooden box, and a black obsidian badge with golden lettering.
Veer picked up the wallet first. "This contains his new identity—everything from identification documents to VIP memberships. He tends to forget such things, so this is your responsibility."
"Understood," Aryan said, single-minded focus evident in his voice.
Veer's hand moved to the metallic card. "This has a no limit. Allow him full discretion. Do not question a single transaction."
Aryan's eyes widened.
Veer then held the wooden box. "This is a gift for him."
"And finally," he said, lifting the black badge with the golden emblem, "this is proof of my trust in you. Use it only when you cannot control the situation. The Golden Guardian will intervene."
"Golden Guardian?" Aryan's mind raced. Within whispers of the inner circle, the Golden Guardian was a myth—a silent legend. To wield such a force, even indirectly, was a responsibility heavier than any he had known.
Within minutes, Aryan was on the move. A sleek, driverless car awaited in a hidden garage. He entered, giving it the address to the Saffron Spire. The journey became a blur of high-tech highways and towering cityscapes, a glimpse of the world he would now navigate.