The Cain Estate looked like something from another world marble towers, automated gates, and private guards that moved like soldiers.
Luther's mind screamed trap, but he played along. If they wanted the heir, he'd pretend to be one.
At dinner that night, Victor raised his glass.
"To bloodlines, and to destiny."
Across the table, a woman with ice-blue eyes studied him.
Celeste Cain. The legitimate heir.
"You don't belong here," she said softly. "You're an impostor."
Luther met her gaze and smiled for the first time.
"Then prove it."
Later that night, Luther stood on the balcony, staring down at the city lights.
The silver threads appeared again, faintly glowing lines stretching between people, objects, possibilities.
When he reached out, one thread pulsed and snapped — and the wind shifted.
A falling glass from inside the hall froze midair, then shattered the moment he blinked.
He stared at his hands, trembling.
"What… am I?"
Then his phone buzzed, it was an unknown message.
UNKNOWN SENDER:
If you want the truth about your family's death… meet me in the sub-basement at midnight.
Attachment: A photo.
The plane. Burning.
And beside it was Victor Cain, alive and watching.
Luther's jaw clenched.
"So the bastard's been lying from the start."
He looked out at the city again. The threads glowed brighter.
One for revenge, truth, and power.
He took a deep breath and whispered:
"If fate made me their pawn… I'll become the one who moves the pieces."
The rain had stopped by the time Luther arrived at the Cain estate, but the sky still looked bruised, purple clouds draped over the city skyline like a warning.
The estate itself stretched across an entire hill: marble terraces, glass towers, fountains whispering in the dark. It was less a home and more a declaration of dominance.
Luther stood at the gates, the black sedan idling behind him. He still wore hospital clothes beneath a borrowed coat. The cold bit through the fabric, but his mind burned hotter than ever.
"Welcome home, Mr. Cain," the guard said, opening the gate.
The words hit him like a slap.
Home.
He didn't know what that meant anymore.
Inside, the air smelled of wax, roses, and old money. Portraits of the Cain bloodline lined the walls, men and women staring down with identical arrogance. One face, the last on the right, made Luther stop.
His father.
Younger than he remembered, smiling faintly in the painted light. The plaque beneath read:
Dr. Elias Cain – Visionary. Pioneer. Lost, but not forgotten.
Not forgotten, Luther thought bitterly. Just erased.
He followed a servant through endless corridors until they reached a set of doors carved with the Cain family crest.
The servant bowed.
"The Master and his daughter are waiting."
Luther entered.
The room was a cathedral of glass and steel floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of the city. At the center stood Victor Cain, impeccable as ever, and beside him, a woman who seemed carved from frost.
Celeste Cain.
She was nothing like her father in build, but the eyes...those eyes were pure Cain: cold, calculating, impossible to read. Her hair shimmered like silver under the light, her suit perfectly tailored, her posture unflinching.
When she turned toward him, the temperature seemed to drop.
"So this is the ghost everyone's talking about," she said. "The janitor who saved our father."
Luther's jaw flexed. "If I had known who I was saving, I might have reconsidered."
A flicker of amusement touched her lips. "Sharp tongue for a charity case."
"Maybe it runs in the family."
That earned him a raised brow from Victor, but Celeste only smiled faintly thin and dangerous. "We will see about that."
Victor gestured between them.
"You'll be seeing a great deal of each other. Celeste oversees family operations. You'll assist her in understanding the business you'll one day help control."
"Control?" Luther echoed. "You said last night you didn't need an heir."
Victor's tone sharpened.
"I said I didn't need another one. But circumstances change. You are Cain's blood, what you do with that privilege will determine whether you stand beside me… or beneath my feet."
Luther's voice stayed calm, but his mind raced. "And what if I refuse?"
"Then I'll have the body exhumed," Victor said lightly, "and the world will learn how easily DNA can be faked."
Silence fell. Celeste's expression barely flickered, but her eyes lingered on Luther's bandaged chest. Something like curiosity or recognition passed across her face.
"He's telling the truth," she said quietly. "You really do feel like one of us."
Luther looked up, meeting her gaze. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"No," she replied. "It's a warning."
Later that night, Luther wandered the garden terrace alone. The city stretched below him, millions of lives glowing like stars.
He leaned against the balcony, breathing the cold air. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful.
Then the air shifted. The faint hum he'd felt in the hospital returned, vibrating beneath his skin.
He looked at his hand.
In the moonlight, thin silver threads that were as fine as spider silk shimmered between his fingers and gave off a faint glow. They all extended outward and disappeared into the darkness.
When he focused, he saw them clearly, lines connecting every living thing in sight: servants in the house, cars on the distant highway, even the flicker of streetlights. Every thread thrummed with possibility.
He reached toward one.
It pulsed...then snapped.
A heartbeat later, lightning cracked across the horizon, hitting a tree at the edge of the estate and splitting it in half.
Luther staggered back, breath ragged.
"What the hell..."
He stared at his trembling hand. The threads faded again, dissolving into darkness.
"That wasn't real," he whispered.
"It can't be."
But the scent of scorched wood and ozone said otherwise.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
"You saw them too, didn't you?"
He spun. Celeste stood in the doorway, barefoot now, wearing a silk robe instead of her sharp suit. The ice in her voice had softened but only slightly.
Luther's eyes narrowed. "Saw what?"
"The threads," she said simply. "The Cains have always seen them. Our bloodline makes us different."
He hesitated. "…You can see them?"
She nodded. "When we want to. When we're ready." Her gaze dropped to his hand. "But I have never seen anyone make them move before."
Luther said nothing. He didn't want to admit that it hadn't been intentional.
Celeste stepped closer, studying him like a specimen.
"You really are him," she murmured. "The lost Cain. Maybe even the next step."
He met her gaze, the city lights reflecting in her eyes like stars. "And what if I don't want to be?"
"Then I suggest you stop glowing," she said dryly, nodding toward his hand.
He looked down, and his fingertips still flickered faintly with silver light.
When he looked up again, Celeste was gone. Only her perfume lingered in the night air sharp, cold, and haunting.
Luther leaned on the railing, staring out at the storm's remains.
Power, fate, bloodlines, and lies.
The threads around him hummed again, faint and distant, whispering possibilities only he could feel. He clenched his fists until the glow died.
"If these threads tie me to them…"
"…I'll learn how to cut every single one."
The wind rose, carrying his words into the dark.
Somewhere in the distance, the lights of the city flickered once, twice like the world itself had heard his promise.