Long before the needle slid beneath his skin, before the world tilted sideways in that dim private hallway of the Elysian Club, before the darkness slithered up the edges of his vision like a rising tide—there had been a different kind of night, a different kind of suffocation.
A memory sealed inside him, one he never truly understood until it was too late.
It had been late afternoon in the Harrington mansion, though afternoons in that house always felt like muted evenings—heavy curtains, dim lamp-lit corners, polished floors that reflected more shadows than light. Adrian remembered stumbling into the study still smelling faintly of alcohol from the night before.
His mother had not said a word when he entered. She simply sat behind the carved mahogany desk, fingers laced together, her expression controlled with the deliberate calm of a woman who had spent her life guiding empires. His father stood near the window, arms crossed, jaw set in a way Adrian rarely saw—stern, disappointed, determined.
Adrian had laughed it off, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk."What's with the faces? Did the markets crash or something?"
His father turned, his voice low in a way that reached the bones."Sit down, Adrian."
He remembered rolling his eyes, collapsing into the leather chair with exaggerated exhaustion."Dad. Mom. Please don't tell me we're having another 'responsibility talk.' I already graduated Harvard. That's like—achievement unlocked. Gold star. Confetti. Party time."
Lysandra Harrington inhaled sharply—one of those rare breaths that indicated irritation she usually hid behind diplomacy."Adrian," she said quietly, "we're not doing this because we enjoy it."
"Well, I'm not enjoying it either," he shot back.
"Enough."Atlas's voice cut through the room like a blade. "You are not a child anymore."
Adrian opened his mouth to joke, to deflect, to turn the tension into something silly—because silliness had always been his shield. But when he met his father's eyes, the words died in his throat.
Atlas looked tired. Not business tired. Not negotiation tired.
Tired of him.
And that—far more than any yelling—unnerved Adrian.
His mother leaned forward."We love you. That has never been in question. But you cannot keep living like this, Adrian. Not a single day more."
He shifted in discomfort."You're overreacting—"
"You haven't attended a board briefing in eight months," Lysandra said.
"I don't need to," he muttered. "You two run everything. And the board hates me—"
"They don't hate you," she said calmly. "They fear your incompetence."
The words hit him like a slap.He felt his ears burn.He felt something ugly twist inside his chest.
Atlas spoke again, slower this time."You think your parties, your spending, your absence from every important meeting only reflect on you. They don't. They reflect on all of us. On this family. On the empire we built."
Adrian scoffed."Empire. Dramatic much?"
His father's voice sharpened."I built this company from nothing—nothing—and one day it will be yours. But if you continue down this path, you won't just destroy your future. You will destroy everything your mother and I have bled to build."
His heart thudded unpleasantly.
He hated this. Conversations like this. Moments like this.
So he defaulted to jokes."Well… you won't die for at least another fifty years," he said with forced lightness. "So chill. I've got tons of time to—"
Atlas slammed a hand on the desk.
The shock of it vibrated through the room.
"You don't have time!" his father barked.
Adrian stared at him.
His mother's voice followed, softer but sharper somehow."You are wasting your life. And worse—you are squandering the trust we placed in you."
He laughed—too loudly, too defensively."You're acting like I'm some embarrassment."
Lysandra's eyes glistened—not with tears, but with something far more painful: fear for him.
"Adrian," she whispered, "I don't want to lose you—to laziness, to recklessness, to meaninglessness. You are capable of more than this. We know it. We always have."
He hated how her voice made his chest tighten.
Atlas exhaled."We are considering taking certain measures…"
Adrian's eyes widened."What measures?"
His mother paused, speaking with caution."Temporarily removing certain privileges. Pulling you from executive access. Reassigning legal signatories. Just until you prove—"
"You're joking," he said, breath hitching. "You're actually joking."
"We need you to grow up, son," Atlas murmured. "And right now, you refuse to."
Adrian felt heat creep up his neck."You'd really do that to me?"
"If it would save you—yes."
He pushed himself out of the chair, chest heaving."You two are unbelievable."
"Adrian—"
"No. Don't 'Adrian' me."He grabbed his jacket. "You think I'm such a disappointment? Fine. I'll go be disappointing somewhere else."
Atlas stepped toward him."Son—"
But Adrian avoided him, muttering, "Whatever. I'm going out."
And he left—slamming the door, refusing to turn back.
Later that night, he partied harder than usual, drinking until he couldn't hear his mother's trembling voice or see his father's disappointed stare.
He never knew those would be their last words to him alive.
FLASH FORWARD.
A cold surface pressed against his cheek.
He wasn't in the hallway of the Elysian Club anymore.
He stirred, groggy, eyelids heavy as sandbags. Shapes drifted around him—blurs of dark gray, the hum of something electrical, a low echo bouncing off metal walls. He tried to lift his head but it felt like someone had filled his skull with wet cement.
His mouth was dry.His arms felt strangely weighted.His vision flickered like a dying bulb.
He swallowed.
Where… am I?
His first thought was hangover.His second: maybe the driver found him passed out and dragged him into the limo.
But no—this wasn't the leather interior of his limousine.The air smelled wrong. Damp. Cold. Like wet concrete mixed with rust.
He blinked sluggishly.
The ceiling above him wasn't a ceiling. It was a corrugated metal panel, streaked with moisture.
He shifted.
His wrists rattled.
Rattled.
That sound wasn't normal.
It was metallic.
It was chains.
A sluggish confusion spread through him like fog.
Had his friends… pranked him?Tied him up somewhere as a joke?Locked him in some bizarre afterparty warehouse?
He tried to laugh, but the sound came out broken.
"No way… guys… seriously?"
His voice echoed in an unfamiliar space.
A figure moved across the room—blurry, tall, wearing black tactical gear.
Adrian blinked again, but the drugs still thickened his bloodstream, slowing the world into syrup.
Another man approached him, adjusting something on a table—gleaming metal tools, coiled ropes, a set of zip ties.
None of this looked funny.
None of this looked like a prank.
But his mind—drugged, disoriented—couldn't form the conclusion that should have been obvious.
He tried to force his voice louder."Hey… hey. What… what is this? My father will—he'll rip you apart, man. Seriously. Funny joke but—just take me home."
Silence.
The first man turned toward him, face obscured by a mask.
In a flat, sterile voice:"You're awake."
Adrian exhaled shakily."Dude. Seriously. Just… point me to the exit—"
A gloved hand grabbed his jaw, turning his head sharply.
Adrian winced."Hey—HEY!"
The man released him with mechanical indifference.
"You will answer questions when told," the masked figure said.
Questions?
Answer what?
Why?
His brain, sluggish and drugged, still refused to accept the truth. Because accepting it would mean stepping into a world he was never prepared to face—a world where the Harrington heir was not untouchable.
He tried again, voice cracking."You don't know who my family is. You don't know—my father is Atlas Harrington—he owns—he owns everything—"
"We know exactly who you are."
The answer landed like ice poured down his spine.
His throat tightened.His breath trembled.A coldness bloomed underneath his ribcage.
Still—still—he clung to denial, desperate, childish, terrified.
"This is… just a mistake," he whispered. "A misunderstanding… I didn't do anything…"
The men said nothing.
A door clanged shut somewhere behind him.
He flinched.
Something inside him—a tiny, fragile piece of awareness—finally whispered the truth:
This is real.
Something was wrong.Something was horribly, absolutely wrong.
But the drugs smothered the thought before it could fully form.
He sagged against his restraints, breathing unevenly.
The last image before darkness reclaimed him was not the masked men, nor the chains, nor the cold metal walls.
It was the memory of his mother's trembling voice in the study:
"I don't want to lose you."
And then—
He slipped under again.