Why must the king’s son always inherit the crown? Why is power forever served to them on a silver platter? Is it not enough that they are born with silver spoons in their mouths? Luxury bends easily to their will, while we are left to scrape together the barest necessities of life. For us, existence is a relentless storm—every stone hurled in our direction—while they stand above, gazing down with hollow pity. Yet it is they who wrote the rule: the king’s son will always be king, and we will always remain his servants—people unworthy even of the dirt beneath their shoes.

Our respect, earned through suffering, will never equal their borrowed prestige.

We have been oppressed for generations. But not anymore. No longer will we bow, nor will we stand idle and watch oppression thrive in our world. We will witness their kingdoms crumble—reduced to ashes and haunted by the ghosts of what they once were.

And now, I watch it begin.

Ivanov Co. trembles under the weight of what I set in motion. Their towering empire is besieged by the media—international and national alike—each outlet clamoring for answers. They dig into scandals long buried, secrets sealed away in confidential files. But Adrian Ivanov made one fatal mistake.

He crossed paths with me.

I remain concealed in the darkness of a narrow alley across from their headquarters, cloaked in a black hood drawn low, a cap shadowing my face. I am not here to act. Not yet. I am here to watch them unravel.

A press conference is about to begin.

Moments later, he arrives.

The “king,” flanked by his guards, moves with practiced authority. Security pushes back the restless crowd as he steps forward. With a single nod, the murmurs dissolve into silence. His voice, low and commanding, cuts through the air.

“I will give you five minutes. Ask your questions one at a time. I will answer each of them. There will be no doubts, no false information. Begin.”

A blonde journalist steps forward. “Is it true your company acquired land for Ivanov Hotels illegally?”

Adrian’s expression remains composed. Ivanov Hotels were not built on illegally obtained land. All transactions are documented, and we are prepared to provide proof.”

Another voice rises. “We have evidence that government officials were involved in human trafficking operations within your hotels.”

Not a flicker of discomfort crosses his face. “If such activities were taking place, I would personally request a full government investigation and ensure that those responsible are punished. However, nothing of that sort has occurred. We do not allow such people into our establishments.”

A third journalist interjects, sharper this time. “There are reports of malpractice within Ivanov Laboratories, including the deaths of children.”

Ivanov Co. is not merely hotels—it is laboratories, restaurants, tech firms, private schools, and they have a big hand in the fashion industries, automobile, and whatnot?—entire institutions built on influence and blood.

Adrian answers smoothly, as expected. Ivanov Laboratories has served the public for over eighty years. Such errors are not possible. We employ the finest doctors from around the world and place your health above all else. These allegations are nothing more than baseless rumors.”

Question after question, he responds without hesitation, as though he anticipated every accusation. The journalists, disarmed by his confidence, begin to accept his words. One by one, they fall silent. The crowd disperses.

Above them, the sun dips toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson—as if foreshadowing the first breath of war.

Then it happens.

His eyes find mine.

Across the distance, through shadow and fading light, he looks directly at me—as though he can see through the darkness itself. A slow smirk curls across his lips, predatory, amused, as if savoring the suffering of his prey.

I laugh.

A full, unrestrained laugh echoes silently in my chest. How pitifully he handled it. How little he understands what is coming.

I step forward, emerging from the shadows.

With deliberate grace, I remove my cap. The wind catches my hair, sending it into motion. Our gazes lock again, unbroken.

I smile—sharp, dangerous.

Then I mouth the words: f**k you.

I raise my hand and begin to count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Boom.

The explosion rips through the air. Every car prepared for him and his guards erupts in flames, the fire surging high, devouring metal and glass. Chaos explodes in its wake. His guards close ranks around him, shielding him from the inferno—but the fire in his eyes burns brighter, directed at me.

Good.

Let it burn.

From a distance, my car speeds toward me, braking sharply at the curb. I slip into the passenger seat without hesitation.

Myra floors the accelerator.

And we disappear into the night.

The war begins.