Faces Behind the Mask
Morning light spilled through the glass walls of the Milton Company headquarters, a towering skyscraper that dominated the city skyline. The world knew him as Lee Alexander Milton, the youngest son of the Milton empire—a billion-dollar corporation with chains and branches across continents. To the public, he was a brilliant yet aloof heir, handsome enough to grace magazine covers, intelligent enough to run empires.
But to those who knew his secrets, he was something else entirely.
---
Across town, Emily sat at a café with her friend Clara, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. Clara looked guilty, her head bowed.
"I'm so sorry for ditching you at the club," Clara muttered. "It was stupid. I shouldn't have left you alone."
Emily huffed, tossing her hair back. "You think? I nearly got killed in there! And don't even get me started on that crazy guy I bumped into. Cold, rude, arrogant—ugh!"
Clara blinked. "Crazy guy?"
"Yes! He was wearing this cap, wouldn't even show his face. Fought like some action hero. He left me in the alley like I was garbage!" Emily ranted, her cheeks flushing with the memory.
Clara's lips twitched. "Wait… describe him."
"Tall. Broad shoulders. Voice like ice. And—" Emily hesitated, biting her lip. "Okay, fine. He was ridiculously handsome. But still crazy."
Clara's laughter rang out. "Oh my God, Emily. You're hopeless."
Before Emily could snap back, her eyes caught a massive billboard outside the café. Her coffee nearly spilled as she froze.
There he was. The crazy guy.
Except this time, he wasn't in a hoodie. On the billboard, Lee Alexander Milton stood in a tailored suit, a microphone in his hand, speaking at a corporate event. The words "Milton Company Expands to Europe" flashed beneath the image.
Emily shot to her feet, pointing furiously. "That's him! Clara—that's the guy from the club!"
Clara burst into laughter, nearly choking on her drink. "Emily, are you hearing yourself? That's Detective Lee? That's Lee Alexander Milton! The billionaire heir! Heir to the Milton fortune! The man every woman in this city has posters of in her room. You think he was in some shady club fighting gangsters?"
Emily's face burned. "I—I know what I saw! It was him! Same eyes, same voice, same—" She paused, remembering the shabby car with the luxurious interior.
Clara smirked. "Sweetheart, you've officially gone crazy. No way the perfect Mr. Milton would waste his time in a place like that. Maybe you met a look-alike?"
Emily sank back into her chair, flustered but unconvinced. Deep down, she knew.
---
Meanwhile, at the Milton mansion, the atmosphere was tense once more. Mat Lee's voice echoed through the dining hall.
"Lee, you are twenty-eight years old. Do you expect me to die without seeing you married? Without grandchildren?"
Lee sat silently at the long table, sipping his coffee without meeting her gaze.
His father, Mark Lee, finally set down his newspaper. "Mat, you can't force him. Lee doesn't bend to pressure. He never has."
Before the argument could continue, the doors swung open.
"Lee!"
His so-called fiancée swept in like she owned the place. Samantha Vale, daughter of another powerful business family, was all dolled up in designer pink, perfume trailing behind her like a weapon. Her voice was sweet, cloying, and very hard to ignore.
"Darling, you're up! Have you eaten? You've gotten thinner—you must let me take you out for brunch!" she chirped, sliding into the seat beside him.
Lee pushed his chair back immediately, standing as if her presence was toxic. "I have work."
Samantha pouted dramatically. "Work, work, work! That's all you ever say. At least let me—"
His phone buzzed.
Lee's eyes sharpened as he read the message. His secretary, Ray.
Another body. Same club. Connection confirmed.
Without another word, Lee grabbed his coat and strode toward the door. Samantha's protests echoed after him, but he didn't turn back.
This time, he wasn't just chasing shadows. The game had drawn blood again.
And Detective Lee was ready.
The flashing police lights painted the night in blue and red as Detective Lee stepped out of his car. The alley beside the club was sealed off, officers murmuring in hushed voices. Civilians had been pushed back, but the metallic scent of blood still clung heavily to the air.
Ray was already inside the tape, crouched near the body. "Victim's male, mid-thirties," he said as Lee approached. "Gang tattoo on the left wrist. Cause of death looks like a stab wound—straight through the chest. But…" Ray hesitated, lifting the victim's shirt to reveal a strange symbol burned onto the man's skin.
A serpent coiled around a fang.
Lee's eyes narrowed. It matched the insignia he'd collected in his basement only hours before.
"Same group," Lee muttered.
Ray nodded grimly. "And guess what? According to the witness statements, this man was last seen arguing with someone about 'Project Silver Fang.'"
The words hit like a hammer. Lee crouched, studying the wound with cold precision. The cut was clean, deliberate. Whoever had done this wasn't sloppy—they were trained.
"Another message," Lee said. His tone was low, deadly. "They're taunting us."
Ray glanced at him. "Us?"
Lee stood, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "Me."
---
Back at headquarters, Lee and Ray set up in a surveillance van parked discreetly near the club. Multiple monitors flickered to life, displaying camera footage hacked from nearby traffic lights, building entrances, and private security feeds.
Ray typed rapidly, chewing on a stick of gum. "Okay, we've got movement. Two suspects leaving the alley fifteen minutes before the body was discovered. One tall, broad build, hoodie. The other—smaller, limping on the right leg."
Lee leaned closer, his sharp eyes dissecting every frame. "Enhance."
Ray smirked. "You always say that like we're in some Hollywood movie. You do know it doesn't make the pixels magically sharper, right?"
Lee shot him a glare so cold it could freeze steel.
Ray coughed, straightened, and tapped a few keys. "Okay, fine. Enhanced."
The image sharpened just enough to show the serpent tattoo on the taller man's wrist. Lee's jaw tightened. Another piece of the puzzle, sliding into place.
"Trace them," Lee ordered.
Ray grinned. "Already on it."
---
Meanwhile, Emily and Clara sat on Clara's bed, laptops open, scrolling endlessly through job listings.
Clara groaned. "Why does every single job require five years of experience? We just graduated! What do they expect? For us to be born with résumés in our diapers?"
Emily laughed, tossing a pillow at her. "At least you're applying. I can't stop thinking about that night."
Clara rolled her eyes. "Not again."
"I'm serious!" Emily protested. "That guy—whatever his name is. I know it was him. And the way he fought—ugh! Who even fights like that in real life?"
"Clearly not a billionaire heir," Clara teased. "Now hush and apply to this one. 'Assistant at Milton Company.'"
Emily froze, staring at the listing on Clara's screen. "You've got to be kidding me."
Clara grinned mischievously. "What? Afraid you'll bump into your crazy mystery man again?"
Emily grabbed a pillow and smacked her. "Shut up!"
The two collapsed into laughter, their worries forgotten for the moment.
---
Back in the van, Lee leaned back in his chair as the screen filled with names and connections.
The trail was growing clearer. The murder wasn't random. It was part of something bigger, something tied directly to his brother's death.
Ray glanced at him. "Boss, you ever think maybe you're too obsessed? Thirteen years is a long time to chase shadows."
Lee didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the screen, sharp and relentless.
Because deep down, he knew this wasn't just about justice.
It was about vengeance.
The interrogation room was dim, a single bulb swaying gently overhead. On the other side of the table sat a man in his late twenties, hands cuffed, sweat trickling down his temple. His name: Marcus Drell, a low-level enforcer in the underworld, and the prime suspect in the club murder.
Detective Lee folded his arms, leaning against the wall with cold precision.
"You were there," Lee said flatly. "Witnesses place you outside the club, minutes before the victim bled out. Care to explain?"
Marcus smirked, his teeth chipped and yellow. "I ain't no killer, detective. I was just delivering a message."
Lee's eyes sharpened. "Message from who?"
Marcus hesitated, then shrugged. "Silver Fang don't like loose ends. That guy knew too much."
The room chilled. Ray scribbled notes furiously, eyes darting between Marcus and Lee.
"And what did he know?" Lee pressed, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous.
Marcus grinned. "Ask your family's company. They're in deeper than you think."
Lee froze. For a split second, the mask slipped. Then he straightened, unreadable once more.
---
Meanwhile, in a small, stuffy café across town, Emily clicked the "submit application" button on her laptop, then immediately shut it with a groan.
"That's it," she muttered. "Milton Company application sent. Now I can go crawl into a hole and never come out."
Clara sipped her iced coffee, raising an eyebrow. "You're seriously freaking out over one application?"
Emily buried her face in her hands. "It's Milton Company, Clara. They don't just hire people. They chew them up and spit them out. What if I embarrass myself? What if they laugh at me?"
Clara grinned. "Then at least you'll be remembered."
Emily smacked her arm, but couldn't help laughing.
---
At Milton Company headquarters, tension was thick. In the boardroom, Patrick Pierce, one of the most ambitious executives, stood at the head of the table. His words were smooth, his tone laced with hidden venom.
"Our future is expansion. Aggressive expansion," Patrick declared. "I intend to take this company beyond the safe walls of tradition. We'll dominate, not just compete."
From the corner, Lee entered, his presence cutting through the room like a blade. His gaze locked on Patrick, cool and sharp.
"This company was built on integrity," Lee said calmly. "Not shortcuts and reckless greed. If you want to gamble, Mr. Pierce, do it with your own fortune—not ours."
A ripple of whispers spread across the table.
At the far end sat Mr. Grant, the Chairman's long-time secretary. Polished, gray-haired, steady as a rock. He tapped his pen against the table, then spoke in a calm voice that silenced everyone.
"Gentlemen, let's not forget. The Chairman is still alive. And he entrusted me with the company's affairs until he recovers. Decisions of this magnitude will not be rushed."
Patrick clenched his jaw but kept a sly smile. "Of course, Mr. Grant. But sooner or later, the board will need someone strong enough to lead. Someone willing to do what must be done."
Lee didn't rise to the bait, but his eyes promised resistance.
---
That night, Lee reviewed the case files again, Marcus's words echoing in his mind: Ask your family's company.
There was more to Milton Company than even he knew.
As he sifted through the documents, Ray burst in.
"Boss—you're gonna want to see this."
He tossed a file onto the desk. Lee flipped it open and froze.
Inside were surveillance stills—Emily, walking out of the café, smiling with Clara. And beside her… Marcus Drell, the very suspect Lee had interrogated hours ago, caught on camera talking to Emily just days before the murder.
Lee's blood ran cold.
Emily wasn't just a stranger.
She was already tangled in the web.