The Enemy Within
The morning sun spilled through the tall glass windows of Blackwood Mansion, but it did nothing to warm the tension in the air.
Ethan hadn't slept. The moment Marcus's voice crackled through the phone, something inside him snapped back to a place he'd spent years burying — the night their father had died, the night Marcus had sworn he'd destroy everything Ethan inherited.
Now he was keeping that promise.
Ethan poured himself a glass of water, though it tasted like ash. His reflection in the window stared back at him — tired eyes, jaw tight, and the weight of every decision pressing down on his shoulders.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Clara stepped in quietly, her hair still slightly damp from a shower. She looked fresh but exhausted, her movements careful, like she was afraid of saying the wrong thing.
"You haven't moved since I last saw you," she said softly, approaching him.
"I've been thinking."
"That's what you call it?" She tried to smile. "Because from here it looks more like brooding."
He glanced at her. "You shouldn't be joking right now."
She tilted her head. "Then you shouldn't look so dramatic when you're thinking. You're practically auditioning for a villain role."
For a brief second, his lips curved. Then it was gone. "Marcus called."
Clara froze. "What?"
"He knows. About Mia. About you. About the file."
"How—"
"He's working with Victor," Ethan said flatly. "He's inside Blackwood, feeding him information and covering the trail."
Clara sank onto the nearest chair. "Ethan… if that's true—"
"It is true," he cut in. "And it means he's been planning this for months—maybe years."
She looked up at him, eyes full of worry. "Then what are you going to do?"
He stared at the skyline, silent for a long moment. Then: "End it."
Clara sighed. "Of course you are."
He turned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," she said carefully, "you always think the solution to pain is to fight it. You don't stop to breathe, you just—go to war."
"This isn't about me."
"It is," she whispered. "Because Marcus isn't just another rival, Ethan. He's family. And whatever happens, you'll be the one bleeding afterward."
He looked away, jaw clenched. "Family doesn't betray you for money."
"No," she said softly, "but pain does."
Their eyes met — two storms crashing quietly in the same space. Neither spoke again.
---
Downstairs, Damien was sprawled across the couch, staring at the remnants of the explosion report on his tablet. His tie was gone, his coffee was cold, and his patience was thinner than the Wi-Fi signal.
Mia sat at the edge of the room, flipping through her notes. "I can't find the last page," she muttered. "The one that showed Victor's offshore movement."
Damien didn't look up. "Maybe it burned in the explosion."
Mia frowned. "That's not funny."
"I wasn't trying to be." He rubbed his temples. "I'm running out of caffeine and reasons not to panic."
She shot him a look. "You don't strike me as the panicking type."
"I'm not," he said dryly. "I just prefer when the billion-dollar corporation I work for isn't being infiltrated by a family soap opera."
Mia cracked a small smile. "You're sarcastic when you're scared."
He raised an eyebrow. "And you talk too much when you're guilty."
Her face fell, and for a moment, the humor died. "I am guilty. I helped Victor without realizing it. Every email I sent, every file I passed — it led him closer to Ethan."
Damien's voice softened. "Then make it count. Help us stop him."
Before she could answer, Ethan entered the room with Clara close behind. The tension in his face told Damien everything.
"Let me guess," Damien said, sitting up. "Marcus decided to finally RSVP to the chaos?"
Ethan ignored the jab. "We're going to the office. I need access to the encrypted archives. If Marcus is feeding Victor intel, I'll find proof."
Mia looked alarmed. "You can't go there. Victor has people watching. You'll walk straight into their hands."
"I don't walk into traps," Ethan said coldly. "I set them."
Damien stood. "All right, Batman, but if this goes sideways, I'm not dying in a suit."
Clara crossed her arms. "I'm going with you."
Ethan turned sharply. "Absolutely not."
"You think I'll sit here while you march into danger?"
"Yes."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "Then you don't know me at all."
Mia smirked faintly. "She's got a point."
Ethan exhaled, rubbing his forehead. "You're all impossible."
Damien grinned. "And yet you love us."
Ethan shot him a glare that could melt steel. "Let's move."
---
The drive to Blackwood Industries felt endless. The city seemed quieter — as though the air itself was waiting for something to break. Clara sat in the back seat, staring at the passing streets, her mind tangled between fear and determination.
When they arrived, the usually buzzing headquarters was subdued. Security was tight, employees whispered behind screens, and every camera lens felt like an eye.
Inside the elevator, Damien muttered, "This feels like walking into a crime documentary."
Ethan didn't respond.
When the doors opened, they stepped into his office — and froze.
The place was spotless. Too spotless.
The safe was open. Empty.
"Someone's been here," Ethan said under his breath.
Clara touched his arm. "Maybe we should—"
He stopped her, crouching by the desk. A faint scent lingered — roses. His stomach dropped.
"Victor," he whispered.
Damien frowned. "Or Marcus."
Ethan stood slowly, anger burning through his composure. "He wants me to find him."
"How do you know?" Clara asked.
Ethan opened the drawer — inside lay a single white envelope.
He ripped it open. A photo fell out — a surveillance image of Clara, sitting in the mansion's garden, completely unaware.
And beneath it, a note:
Family always comes home.
Ethan's hands tightened around the paper until it crumpled.
Damien stepped back. "Well, that's not ominous at all."
Clara's voice trembled. "Ethan, what does that mean?"
He looked up, eyes cold. "It means Marcus isn't hiding anymore."
---
That night, rain poured over the mansion's rooftop. Ethan stood by the window again, the photo still in his hand. Clara came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.
He didn't move at first, but when he did, his hand covered hers. "He's watching us," he said quietly.
"Then let him," she whispered. "You're not alone in this."
His throat tightened. "You don't understand what Marcus is capable of."
She looked up at him. "Then maybe it's time someone showed him what you're capable of — when you're not alone."
And outside, beneath the rain, a figure stood near the gates — Marcus, an umbrella in hand, smiling faintly as he stared up at the house.
The war was no longer coming.
It had arrived.