He risked a quick, calculating peek around the doorframe. Vance was seated behind a vast glass screen. To his left sat a man in an expensive, olive-green suit, looking remarkably polished, a world away from the silent black suits outside.

  To Vance’s right, sat a man in a navy jacket with very distinct mannerism, and three others were positioned further back. A server, her face an impassive mask, opened the door to carry in a tray of drinks. As the heavy door slowly began to swing shut, the voices, momentarily clear, slipped out again.

  “You were right. Your return has rattled the nasty bastard.” The olive-green suit spoke with great satisfaction. “He carried out open raids in the West and took out two gangs...one even was a key player of the trio of the West, but not too appreciated, of course. East had a bone to pick with him, so a perfect target. But then he also left quite a part of his territories for Valez to acquire, so even the Western Lord is appeased for the moment. He’s doing his old routine: balancing East and West.”

  Vance’s clear, cold, utterly detached laugh followed, sending a shiver down Askai’s spine. “The threat of being overthrown finally brought some genuine action into the West, did it? I wonder if the Old Regale is genuinely happy... I told him to push him harder, but there’s always that soft, sentimental spot he keeps for that miserable scion of his. So, whatever.”

  The carelessness in his final shrug was palpable.

  “No,” the other man chuckled, the sound dry and hollow. “The Old Man is definitely not happy. In fact, it seems he’s finally done with his trickery. He is moving in to—”

  The door swung shut, beginning the tenor of the voices down to low indistinguishable hum.

  Askai’s blood iced. His mind, usually a coiled spring of strategy, reeled with sudden destructive thoughts. Vance was not expressing the general disgust of the East when he said it was his job to send the West End filth to their grave. He had meant it very literally.

  He was the executioner who brought the axe down on the likes of Askai. The idiot who believed his arms were some sort of sanctuary, just moments ago.

  But many ends still remained loose.

  Old Regale? Were they speaking of the father or the grandfather? Who was this 'old bastard' who treated the geopolitical landscape of the East and West as a mere balancing act?

  His past, fraught encounters with Vance had already convinced Askai that this man was deliberately concealing brutal, cold truths. But even in his most cynical imaginings, Askai could not have conceived of Vance being a key player in such high-stakes, ruthless strategies—strategies that used the entire West as a tactical distraction, an expendable piece on the board.

  The West, a place where humans—made of the same blood and flesh—lived, loved, and suffered just the same, if not more.

  Huddled in the corner, shrouded by the heavy curtains, Askai waited. He desperately needed another chance, another voice that might prove Vance to be merely an unwitting observer in this monstrous scheme, and not the calculated, terrifying architect he was rapidly becoming in Askai’s mind.

  Minutes seemed to stretch into agonizing hours. Finally, the fates sent him what he needed. The servers returned, the glass doors were pushed open once more, and the voices flowed out.

  This time, it was the man in the navy jacket. The way he spoke suggested an intimacy with Vance, an almost paternal annoyance.

  “—again? Vance, that man is your father! He is the only one who actually cares what happens to you. That grandfather of yours sees you as nothing but a goddamn weapon to keep the West in check. Stop pandering to him and go see your father. He will always look out for you if you’d just give him a single damn chance!”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vance fixed the man with a glare that could freeze a soul, yet his lips remained an unyielding, tight line. The man’s heated outburst had instantly plunged the entire room into a deafening hush. The seconds ticked away, until Vance finally, reluctantly, delivered his venomous verdict.

  “Patrice Regale and I share the same dream,” he said, every syllable heavy with hatred. “I want to see the West burn. Those rats deserve nothing—not air, not ground beneath their feet.” His lips twisted into a snarl of pure, unrestrained hatred.

  And God, it was terrifying. There were no clouds eclipsing Vance’s reputation now. He was another Moraine, just that he ruled the East with the same iron fist.

  Askai seethed, his head resting heavily in his hands, concealed by the heavy curtain, his brain a cauldron of churning emotion.

  He did not care about the grand, brutal politics of the East or the West. His focus, his life’s work, had all been for his people, his brothers—a desperate attempt to buy them an identity that was not embedded in the toxic soil of the West.

  An identity that was not a ticking bomb, ready to unleash devastation upon their doors.

  Like now.

  And still, here he was.

  Playing the charade of a rich spoilt brat from the East End - one that seemed like such an annoyance until moments ago was suddenly a lifeline Askai was clinging too.

  His hands gripped the curtains tightly as the memories crashed through him—the stolen glances, the passionate kisses that promised him a heaven, the warmth of Vance’s voice when it softened for him, the illusion of sanctuary in those darn silver eyes!

  All were lies. Illusions that could be shattered by a single ray of truth.

  He had been delusional enough to think Vance’s arms could shield him from danger—when they were danger itself. He had walked willingly into the embrace of the man planning to annihilate everything he ever stood for.

  West was Askai and Askai was West.

  In him reflected every generous trait of the West - tongue that rolled off lies, eyes that could deceive, hands that knew how to kill and a heart that did not how to regret.

  He could no longer stay. Every instinct screamed—run.

  Then, he heard footsteps. Heavy, furious and quite Familiar.

  Kyrion.

  He marched down the corridor like thunder on marble—jaw set, eyes promising retribution. He had realized his prisoner had slipped the leash.

  Askai’s pulse detonated.

  He could not be caught. A lightning-fast decision was made. He leaped back, executing a silent, practiced dive onto a massive, supple leather sofa. He snatched up a dry financial magazine, instantly adopting the posture of a man deeply, peacefully absorbed.

  The words he had heard were enough. His brain screamed the undeniable truth: Vance was a cold, calculating enemy of his kind, and him - staying meant certain doom.

  Yet, his foolish, traitorous heart had dared to stir with something akin to connection or, God help him, attraction. It whispered sweet lies—asking if there was any possible scenario where that coldness was merely a shield to protect something more vulnerable within him.

  As if that man has a shred of humanity in him, let alone the vulnerability!

  Askai wasn’t innocent. He had once been steeped in violence; remnants of it still lived beneath his skin. But even so, he couldn’t understand this need—this compulsion—to play god. To decide who was worth saving and who should be erased.

  The faint, captured image of Vance's genuine, fleeting laugh in that photo was fighting a losing battle with the cold image of a man who declared that he wished to see the West burn.

  Were they even the same man?

  The head knew, but it was the heart that was turning traitorous. Vance had turned the whole city upside down for him. He was clearly distressed and half drunk for his sake!

  Would all of that concern simply go away by merely replacing the ‘East’ with the ‘West’.

  Askai knew it would.

  He rose quietly, defeated, and retreated to his room.

  He had always known monsters ruled both sides of the glass wall. He just never thought he’d start falling for one.