Elian didn't participate in the advanced shooting that followed. He stood to the side, watching Vance take on the automated clay pigeon launcher while secretly rubbing his own palm, which was still tingling from the recoil.

  Vance, wearing protective glasses and earmuffs, fired almost the instant the clay disk launched into the air.

  Bang—!

  The round disk in the air instantly shattered into several small pieces.

  Elian watched, mesmerized. The man never missed; every shot hit its mark perfectly.

  During a break, they moved to the outdoor range, situated on a stretch of manicured lawn, open and with an excellent view.

  Remembering Vance's precise shooting earlier, Elian asked, "Have you ever thought about competing?"

  "In what?"

  "Trap shooting, pistol, air rifle... that sort of thing?"

  He thought to himself that it was a shame Vance, with so much talent even outside of riding, never tried.

  "No."

  Vance's tone held no inflection.

  "Why not? You're so good. You could probably win medals."

  "Besides equestrian, I don't want to compete in anything else."

  The young man controlled his gaze, keeping it from drifting toward the other's legs, a dull ache throbbing in his chest.

  "Well, since you love riding so much, if it were me, I wouldn't want to do other things either," Elian said, looking up at the sky.

  "I don't ride because I like it."

  "What?" The young man stared blankly. "But I remember how you looked when you rode... That's not something achieved by skill alone. You seemed to enjoy it."

  Vance didn't respond, merely looked down at the edge of the grass.

  Although the Heaton heir still remembered the exhilarating feeling of being on horseback, he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.

  As if admitting he "liked" something was a sin, he chose to swallow the words.

  "Have you ever truly, genuinely liked anything?"

  "No."

  Elian was somewhat taken aback. How could someone say they'd 'never liked anything' in this world? What a desert-like existence that must be.

  But he still felt that the expression on Vance's face while riding wasn't just competitiveness; there had to be passion and fondness.

  So why would Vance deny it?

  Or did he genuinely never like anything from the bottom of his heart?

  "Do you think it's possible for someone to refuse to admit what they like?"

  Vance glanced at him but didn't pick up the thread.

  Elian pressed on. "Do you like good food?"

  "Nothing in particular."

  "You don't eat fried food, sugar, or snacks. What's the point of life then?"

  "Prioritizing health isn't a bad thing," Vance raised an eyebrow, seemingly not finding an issue with strict dietary control.

  "Okay... What about target shooting?" Elian asked again.

  "It's for safety."

  "Video games?"

  Vance shook his head. "No interest."

  "You're so rich, maybe buy a PS5 and try it? It might change your life."

  "I doubt it," Young Master Heaton's mouth twitched slightly.

  Elian kept chattering. "When I was a kid, I'd hide under the covers playing games until midnight. Once, my dad caught me, and in my panic, I spilled a whole glass of milk on the console... I really thought my life was over then."

  "Sounds like something you'd do."

  "Hey, that's not the point," Elian retorted. "Anyway, there are so many wonderful things in the world. I refuse to believe you don't like any of them."

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vance didn't speak, just looked at him quietly.

  "Because living is about those things that make your heart race and your eyes light up," Elian said with a smile. "You taught me to shoot. In return, I'm going to show you what it truly means to 'like' something."

  The young man's speech slowed as he realized the other wasn't responding. He turned to look at him.

  "What? Am I talking too much?"

  "No."

  Vance's voice sounded unusually gentle in the evening light.

  The young man was bathed in the dusk, the vast grassland stretching behind him. A breeze chose that moment to blow through, tousling his hair.

  Vance watched for a moment, then suddenly said, "This is nice."

  "What's nice?"

  But no matter how much Elian pressed, the Heaton heir offered no further explanation.

  He just seemed to be in a very good mood, following the young man's lead and simply enjoying the sunset glow.

  As darkness fell and they returned home, Elian casually updated his messaging app and was surprised to see a message from Dylan.

  The timestamp showed it was sent several days ago.

  [Where the fuck did you go?]

  Wasn't that exactly what he'd said when they first met at the competition?

  And here Elian thought he'd missed something crucial.

  Elian stared at the screen, speechless.

  After a moment's thought, he picked up the phone and replied:

  [Who taught you to talk so rudely? Aren't you afraid your mom will confiscate your phone?]

  The reply came almost instantly. [You're the one who's like a mom!]

  [So can I officially call you 'son' now?]

  [In your dreams! But... you changed your phone?]

  [Yeah. Just got it today, and you're the first I replied to. Touched?]

  [Vance got it for you?]

  Elian stared at the line, stunned. How did this guy guess Vance was involved?

  [How did you know?]

  [Intuition.]

  Elian rested his hand against his lips, thinking, then typed: [How's your injury?]

  Dylan took a moment to reply. [Took you long enough to ask. If it were serious, I'd be long dead by now.]

  Elian typed back: [Well, you're not dead, are you? Didn't you say I'm like a mom?]

  [Even if I'm not dead, the doctor said the wound might scar.]

  Elian replied: [Drink less. Stop messing with that stuff. It's not good for healing.]

  He even attached some 'excessive drinking is harmful to health' posts and news article links about the dangers of heavy drug use.

  Dylan looked at the messages, frowning and muttering to himself in his room, before finally changing the contact name to "Mom".

  Elian sent one last message: [Don't die too soon.]

  As Dylan was about to swipe away the notification to finalize the contact edit, another message popped up:

  [I'm still waiting to race you a few more times.]

  He scoffed, but an indescribable feeling welled up in his heart.

  After replying to Dylan, Elian scrolled through a few old group chats, noticing messages from some high school classmates. Then, his phone screen lit up again with a text from Vance:

  [Good night.]

  Looking at the words, Elian's lips curved upward without him even realizing.

  He felt "good night" was usually something you said to someone closer, but he wondered if the Heaton heir thought the same.

  In the luxury apartment, Vance had been staring at the text screen for ten minutes. He was unconsciously rubbing the screen with his fingertip, seeming somewhat agitated. An outsider might think the big boss was troubled by some business deal, but he was merely gazing at the unresponsive chat box.

  Suddenly, the phone vibrated. The statue-like Vance seemed to come to life with that vibration, eagerly looking at the screen.

  [Don't forget our deal! I will find something you like!]

  Vance looked at the screen, an expression of helpless indulgence crossing his face.

  Little guy, you don't understand. I might not have things I 'like,' but that doesn't mean I don't know what 'liking' feels like.

  [Good night!] The phone vibrated again.

  Vance lowered his head, pressing the phone against his forehead, closing his eyes as if in devout prayer, or perhaps imagining something.

  Some "likes" cannot be spoken aloud.

  And the only thing he was good at was hiding those unspeakable feelings away—until they seemed not to exist at all.

  The phone vibrated once more, but this time it wasn't Elian.

  Vance opened his eyes, watching the screen light up. It was a message from his assistant.

  [Boss, apologies for disturbing you so late. But I thought you'd want to know immediately.]

  [We have a result on that matter. He's in Mexico.]

  Vance's pupils involuntarily dilated.

  The cool air from the vent brushed the back of his neck, sending a chill down his spine. It was as if someone was whispering in his ear, their tone cloying and revolting.

  He remembered that night, the entire Heaton mansion quiet as an empty shell.

  Was he eight? Or nine?

  Perhaps younger.

  The sound of footsteps on the carpet approached step by step. He thought he'd locked the door, but clearly, the lock was useless.

  A hand reeking of alcohol reached in, pressing against his waist.

  "Don't struggle, Vance," the man said in a hoarse, commanding tone. "I'm your father. You should learn to obey me."

  His struggling was too weak. He could only bite the invading hand, which earned him a searing pain across his face.

  How long that night lasted was a blur in his memory. He only knew the man left before dawn.

  Leaving him alone, facing the disheveled bed, having vomited nothing but bile.

  Vance pulled himself from the memory, remaining silent for a few seconds before replying: [Arrange the flight for tomorrow.]

  The next morning, inside a private airport.

  Simon quickly caught up with Vance's stride, handing him a tablet while adding, "We've been tracking this for a while. This lead seems intentionally left. We suspect it's your father himself who wants you to find him."

  "After disappearing for so many years, now he decides to show himself?"

  "Yes. The clues appear to be related to the original funding chain and initial beneficiaries of the 'Jungle Club,' along with some structural information we never had before," Simon lowered his voice. "Only your father would likely know these details."

  Vance stopped walking, his gaze darkening.

  Simon continued, "We initially tried to send someone to verify, but he won't accept intermediaries. Anyone else who approaches is treated as a threat."

  "What other forces are in that territory?" Vance asked.

  "Mafia, private militias, and a few... difficult-to-name trade alliances. They all seem to have received his covert support."

  "At his age, he really can't stay idle," Vance said coldly.

  "If you prefer not to go, we could attempt a raid on that stronghold... but we can't guarantee retrieving all the intact information."

  Vance looked down, his eyes skimming over the documents on the tablet.

  "I'll go," he interrupted.

  "Understood. We'll arrange a security team and backup evacuation routes."

  "Keep it discreet. Don't make it look like a crowd. He doesn't like commotion," Vance stated flatly, as if recalling a familiar shadow.

  The assistant hesitated for a moment before speaking up. "There's one more thing. We've found out about that as well."

  This time, Vance's gaze wasn't as icy. He took the file Simon offered, opening it with some hesitation.

  "I knew it..."

  After reading it, he closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

  "Don't tell anyone about this yet." he instructed.