Sylvain stepped into the modest house, the door clicking shut behind him. The interior was simple and lived-in—faded beige walls, a worn but comfortable sofa in the living room, and the faint scent of ho-cooked als lingering in the air.
A figure rose slowly from the sofa. His younger brother looked exactly as Sylvain rembered, his face pale with shadows under his eyes. The mont their gazes t, Leon’s expression crumpled.
"Sylvain?" Leon’s voice cracked, raw with disbelief and relief.
Without thinking, Sylvain crossed the room in three quick strides and pulled his brother into a tight embrace. Leon clung to him, shoulders shaking as sobs broke free.
Sylvain held on fiercely, one hand cradling the back of Leon’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. The familiar scent of his brother brought fresh tears to Sylvain’s eyes.
"It’s okay," Sylvain whispered, voice thick. "I’m here. You’re safe now."
They stood like that for several long minutes, neither willing to let go first. When Leon finally pulled back, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his worn shirt, he looked up at Sylvain with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear.
"Soone’s been restricting my movent," Leon said, glancing toward the windows as if expecting shadows to appear. "Ever since they let out of the station... there are people watching. I can’t even step outside for long without noticing the sa car parked down the street."
Sylvain guided Leon back to the sofa and sat beside him, keeping a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. "I know it’s been hell. But you’re out now. That’s what matters. We’ll figure out the rest together."
Leon searched his face, eyes still glistening. "How did you do it, Sylvain? How did you get the money to pay for my release? The amount they demanded at the station... it was insane. I thought I was done for."
Sylvain hesitated, the lie already forming on his tongue. He couldn’t tell the truth—not about Silas, not about the contract, not about the humiliating price he was paying with his body and freedom. Leon would never forgive himself if he knew.
"I t an old friend from way back," Sylvain said, forcing a small, tired smile. "Soone I used to work with years ago. He had the ans and... he stepped up when I explained the situation. Paid what was needed to get you out."
Leon’s eyes widened in shock. He leaned back slightly, studying Sylvain as if searching for cracks in the story. "An old friend? Just like that? Sylvain, that kind of money doesn’t co easy. People don’t hand over sums like that without expecting sothing huge in return. How is that even possible?"
Sylvain swallowed hard, keeping his expression as steady as he could. "He’s doing well now—really well. Investnts, business stuff. I told him everything, and he agreed to help. No questions asked at the ti." The half-truth tasted bitter, but he pushed on. "I’m working to pay him back. I’ll handle the repaynts over ti."
Leon shook his head slowly, still stunned. "A friend giving that much cash... it doesn’t add up. Most people would walk away or demand collateral you don’t have. Are you sure this is safe? What kind of work are you doing for him?"
Sylvain forced a reassuring tone, squeezing Leon’s shoulder gently. "It’s legitimate work. Administrative stuff, helping with his operations. Nothing dangerous. I’ll manage the paynts, and in a few months, it’ll be behind us."
Leon looked down at his hands, frustration etching lines on his young face. "I wish I could help you carry this. If it weren’t for those people monitoring everywhere I go, I’d be out there looking for a job right now. I could contribute, pay so of it back with you. But every ti I try to step out freely, it feels like eyes are on . Like I’m still not truly free."
Sylvain’s chest ached at the helplessness in his brother’s voice. He pulled Leon into another quick, fierce hug, comforting him the only way he knew how in that mont. "Hey, listen to . You don’t have to worry about any of that right now. Focus on resting and getting your strength back. I’ll look for a suitable job for you. We’ll sort it out together. You’ve been through enough. Let handle this part."
Leon nodded against his shoulder, though doubt still lingered in his eyes. "Just... promise you’re not in over your head. I can’t lose you too."
"I promise," Sylvain lied softly, the words heavy on his tongue. He held his brother a little tighter, savoring the brief illusion of normalcy.
anwhile, across the city, the sleek black sedan pulled up outside one of the most exclusive restaurants in the financial district.
Silas stepped out first, adjusting his suit jacket with practiced precision. Lena followed closely behind, clutching the folder of docunts like a lifeline. The manager of the restaurant was already waiting at the entrance, bowing slightly as he greeted them.
"Mr. Vane, welco. Your private room is prepared exactly as requested. Your guests have been waiting."
Silas offered a curt nod and followed the manager through the opulent dining area. Crystal chandeliers cast soft light over linen-covered tables, the air filled with the subtle clink of silverware and murmured conversations from the elite clientele.
Lena trailed a respectful distance behind, her heels clicking quietly on the polished floors.
They ascended a short flight of stairs to a secluded private dining room. The mont Silas entered, the atmosphere shifted noticeably. Five foreign representatives in tailored suits—sat around the long table.
Their faces were set in clear frowns, brows furrowed with irritation at the delay. The youngest among them, a sharp-featured man roughly Silas’s age, leaned back in his chair with elegant poise, while the others exchanged tense glances.
The manager bowed again and withdrew. A few seconds later, waiters entered smoothly, carrying trays of exquisite dishes and fine wines that had been pre-ordered according to Silas’s preferences. Plates of delicately plated seafood, aged steaks, and seasonal vegetables were set before each guest, along with crystal glasses of vintage red and crisp white wines.
One of the older foreigners imdiately spoke up, his voice tight with displeasure. "You don’t seem to understand basic manners, Mr. Vane. You knew important guests were waiting, yet you arrive late. And now you serve us a al we didn’t order? This is hardly the way to conduct serious business." The other n murmured in agreent, their frowns deepening.
Silas remained unfazed. He calmly picked up the glass of wine in front of him, swirling the deep red liquid once before taking a asured sip. His voice, when he spoke, was cool and dismissive. "If you’re so upset, feel free to leave and co back later—when you’ve cald down enough to discuss terms like professionals."
The room fell into a charged silence. One of the n began to retort, but the youngest foreigner raised a hand sharply. The gesture instantly silencing the speaker. The rest of the group looked at the young man with clear respect, deferring to his authority.
The young foreigner locked eyes with Silas across the table. For several tense seconds, they stared at each other—two predators sizing one another up, exchanging daggers through their gazes.
Then, abruptly, the young man threw his head back and laughed loudly, the sound rich and unexpected. He reached for his own glass of wine, downed it in one smooth motion, and laughed again, the tension breaking like shattered glass.
The others shifted uncomfortably, uncertain how to react.
The young foreigner wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, his expression shifting from amusent to focus. "Enough gas," he said, voice businesslike. "Let’s get to the real business then."
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