**CHAPTER I
A House Without Sound**
Not every house is built to be a home.
Some are built to be displayed.
Arden's house stood at the edge of an elite district like a cold crown pressed into expensive earth. Tall. Wide. Framed by black iron gates that reached upward like sharpened fingers.
The lawn was always perfect. Too perfect. As if even the grass wasn't allowed to grow freely.
From the outside, it looked like a modern palace.
From the inside, it felt like a grave dressed in chandeliers.
There was no television noise.
No laughter.
No hurried footsteps toward the kitchen.
Only the steady rhythm of guards patrolling the perimeter. The mechanical click of security cameras shifting angles. The endless hum of air conditioning that never turned off.
Security was religion in that house.
Every guest was checked twice.
Every door had a different code.
Every window fed into a surveillance room in the basement.
Adults spoke in lowered voices, as though the walls had ears.
And maybe they did.
Arden's father was a ruler of the underworld.
His name rarely appeared in media, but every powerful man knew it. He controlled money routes, weapons, and people with a single nod. When he smiled, people felt safe. When he fell silent, men rewrote their wills.
He never raised his voice.
He never needed to.
Arden's mother was no less dangerous.
Always elegant. Hair immaculate. Dresses expensive. Movements graceful. She could pour tea with the same hand that ordered someone's life to be dismantled.
She smiled often.
But the smile never reached her eyes.
They were not an ordinary couple.
They were a king and queen in a small kingdom built on dirty money, threats, and other people's blood.
And in the center of it all lived a boy named Arden.
Arden was six when he first realized that a big house did not mean a warm home.
He discovered it one morning while sitting alone at a dining table nearly ten meters long.
Perfectly boiled eggs. Toast cut neatly. Fresh fruit. A glass of warm milk.
He touched none of it.
His father had left before sunrise.
His mother was eating in another room with "important guests."
Arden swung his legs from the high chair and watched his reflection in the polished surface of the table.
"Bu Ratna," he called softly.
Quick footsteps came from the kitchen.
"Yes, dear?"
She appeared wearing a simple apron, her hair tied back in a loose bun.
"Why is it so quiet?"
She smiled gently and pulled a chair beside him.
"It's a big house."
Arden frowned.
"If it's big, it should be loud."
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she cut his toast into smaller pieces.
"Open your mouth."
He obeyed.
Bu Ratna had been with him since he was a baby.
Her hands were rough from washing and scrubbing marble floors. But her voice was always soft. And her eyes were always full when she looked at him.
She woke him every morning.
"Wake up, the sun is already up."
She fed him when he refused to eat.
"Just one more bite. Then we can go see the fish."
She cleaned his scraped knees.
"It's okay to feel pain. It's okay to cry."
She told him bedtime stories about good children and fair worlds.
Arden never truly believed those stories.
But he believed her voice.
He believed the way she knelt to meet his eyes, as if a small boy's feelings mattered as much as adult business.
That night, Arden woke to raised voices.
He stepped out of his room and onto the balcony.
Below, in the main hall, stood his parents.
And in front of them—
Bu Ratna.
Her face was pale. Her hands trembling.
"I was only teaching him not to hit," she said quietly.
"He's just a child."
His mother smiled thinly.
"We don't need a weak child."
His father stood with one hand in his pocket.
"You are teaching him the wrong values."
Bu Ratna lowered her head.
"I just want him to grow up normal."
His mother laughed softly.
"What is normal?"
His father lifted his hand slightly.
Two large men stepped forward.
"Take her."
For a fraction of a second, Bu Ratna looked up.
Her eyes met Arden's on the balcony.
Arden wanted to scream.
He wanted to run down the stairs.
But his body would not move.
Bu Ratna gave him a small smile.
That was the last one.
He did not see what happened next.
He only heard a short cry.
Something heavy falling.
Then silence.
The next morning, her room was empty.
No clothes.
No shoes.
No trace.
Arden stood in front of the door for a long time.
His mother approached him.
"Remember this, Arden," she said softly.
"The world does not reward kindness."
He stared at the floor.
"Where did Bu Ratna go?"
"She left."
"Where?"
She smiled.
"Somewhere unimportant."
That day, Arden stopped waiting for hugs.
He stopped asking questions.
He stopped believing.
He began copying his father.
The way he stood.
The way he looked at people.
The way he swallowed tears.
At an age far too young, Arden learned one rule:
To survive, you must be crueler than the world around you.
And he began practicing.
He did not yet know that years later, a little girl named Caldora would shatter that belief with nothing more than a smile.