Bael pulled the handle and stepped out of the limousine. The cold hit him full in the face; his tailored black suit offered no protection—but he didn't need it.
Stretching his arms after three hours of sitting still in the car, his body stiffened, joints cracking under the twists. He drew a slow breath of the crisp, frosty air before leaning back against the vehicle.
"Finally," he muttered under his breath, a thin cloud of vapour escaping his lips.
As he waited for the plane to touch down, his thoughts recollecting why he was here.
Bael was the right-hand aide, a personal butler to an important figure—but more than that, he was an undercover assassin, a mercenary.
And his job was to be part of a group assassination of his aide.
He recalled the final steps of his eight-year-long undercover job. Once that was done, a final payment of thirty million units would be his, along with the fortune he'd already earned as the boy's butler.
"Eight years… dreadful eight years of working for that emotionless brat," he murmured, his voice edged with weary satisfaction, "and it's finally over."
Ding.
Bael glanced down at the phone in his hand. A faint light pulsed across the dark screen:
[PRIVATE TERMINAL – DENVER INTL.]
Incoming Transmission:
Flight 09A is about to land. Hangar 6, North Bay. Prepare for arrival.
E.T.A — 10 minutes.
Bael's eyes scanned the message once more before switching off the screen. The light faded, and he slipped the phone into the right pocket of his trousers. Turning around, he rapped twice on the limousine's window, catching the driver's attention.
The glass slid down slowly, a wave of trapped warmth rolling out and brushing against Bael's torso.
"Help carry the master's luggage," he said.
The driver gave a firm nod and stepped out, leaving the engine running to keep the interior warm.
Bael patted his left pocket, searching for something, before realising the cigarettes were in the inside pocket of his jacket. He reached in, withdrew the pack, and tapped the bottom lightly with his thumb until a single cigarette slid forward.
With his other hand, he reached into his coat and pulled out a metal lighter. The lid clicked open with a sharp flick of his thumb. He cupped the flame against the wind, lowering his head slightly as the fire touched the end of the cigarette. The paper glowed faint orange, the tip crackling softly as he drew in the first breath of smoke.
He exhaled slowly, a stream of black fog drifting into the cold air.
I hope Lea's ready with the body. I just need to confirm he's dead, and she'll handle the rest.
He released another short breath of smoke—quiet, unbothered.
"Always appreciate a simple job."
To bael Compared to the two-hour wait, the 10 minutes that followed felt like seconds. The jet landed, its turbines slowing to a steady, constant hum as it followed a white light glowing along the hard asphalt, serving as a guide towards the hangar.
As it slowly approached the hangar, he came to realise a predicament.
Hmmm ~ how is the door going to open?
The jet was controlled by a self-autonomous AI. Bael was under the assumption that there was no one on board—at least, no one still breathing. It made no difference whether he waited minutes or hours; only someone inside the aircraft, or someone with authorised access, could issue the command to open it. Bael was neither.
Pondering how he could get it to open from the outside, he eventually came to a single conclusion.
I'll just break it open. It's not like it would even scratch their family's fortune. Fucking rich bastards.
As the jet came to a complete stop, Bael stepped forward. To his surprise, the automatic descending stairs unlocked with a heavy metallic clunk and began to unfold, its motion similar to a mechanical drawbridge.
I didnt know that was an automatic function.
Bael's expression shifted from understanding to astonishment, then confusion—though it vanished just as quickly. He couldn't afford to let emotion show, not in front of the person who had just locked eyes with his.
A cold breeze swept through the hangar, brushing against the boy's jet-black hair and sending a few strands swaying. He lifted his left hand to shield his face from the wind. Dressed in a black fur coat, a black shirt, and black trousers, he stood out starkly against the warm yellow glow spilling from the cabin behind him.
Under his breath, a faint fog escaping his lips, he muttered, "This is quite cold."
After a brief pause, his mouth lingered open for a moment before closing into a smile. It carried the shape of warmth, the kind most people would receive when greeted, yet Maren's held nothing of the sort.
It was precise, perfect, and utterly hollow… as a porcelain doll's smile, with no real intention behind it.
"Don't you agree, Bael?"
...
The dim city lights bled through the tinted windows, slicing across the cabin in fleeting streaks of white and grey.
Bael sat perfectly composed, his posture immaculate, his expression calm—every inch the refined butler he had spent years pretending to be.
But looks can be deceiving.
Why is he not dead? How did it fail?
He pressed a gloved hand to his temple, forcing his breathing steady as the throbbing in his skull grew sharper. They said everything went according to plan…
My head is killing me.
The image of the jet's cabin flashed in his mind—the blood-soaked seat when he went to get Maren's luggage, the stench of metal and burnt residue. He remembered the confirmation call, the cold voice on the other end assuring him the injection of Venosyde had been administered. A poison so precise it left no trace—instant, irreversible.
So why… is he sitting across from me?
Bael's jaw tightened. Was the dosage not enough?
He opened his eyes, forcing them toward the window. Snow streaked past, caught in the glow of the streetlights. The quiet hum of the limousine engine filled the silence—steady and suffocating.
He weighed his options carefully. The boy—no, the young master—knew. He had to know someone was after his life. And yet, he sat here now, calm, breathing, alive.
Bael's pulse quickened. If Maren had already contacted the Cross family, things could spiral fast—but then he reconsidered.
No. That was unlikely.
He knew the relationship between Maren and the eldest brother was anything but affectionate. To the acting head, Maren was nothing more than a nuisance—a shadow that should never have existed.
Only two people in the entire Cross family truly knew the truth of his bloodline: the real head, his father, and the eldest brother, who now sat in power as acting head.
Including me and those two, no one would even know he existed as a member of the Cross family.
Bael's fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles whitening as his mind churned through possibilities.
Composing himself, Bael leaned slightly forward, his posture refined, though his pulse hammered beneath the surface.
"Young master," he began, his tone careful and measured, "I saw the bloodstains."
Maren looked at Bael for a brief moment before lowering his gaze to the floor, his fingers interlocking loosely.
Since the start of the journey, Maren hadn't spoken a single word to him. His expression remained calm—unreadable—his eyes distant, lost somewhere deep within thoughts too heavy to share.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and cold, pressing down on Bael. Each second felt longer than the last, fueling the unease and tearing through his composure.
"What happened?" he asked finally, voice breaking the stillness. "I didn't ask before because you seemed to want to keep it private. Should we… go to a hospital?"
"Bael," Maren said softly.
That one word was enough to still him.
Maren raised his gaze—steady, unreadable, yet there was something off about it. A quiet, eerie sharpness that cut through Bael's composure, as if the boy could see past the mask he wore.
"You're the only one I can trust," Maren said, his voice quiet, steady. His face remained composed, but in his eyes—there was something else. Fear. Not wild or desperate, but subtle, restrained. A contradiction: serenity laced with terror.
For a moment, Bael was taken aback.
In the eight years he had served this boy, he had never seen such a thing. Every time he'd called Maren emotionless, it hadn't been exaggeration—the boy was emotionless.
He hadn't grown up like a normal child. No laughter. No friends. No warmth. His life was a cycle of repetition—an existence defined by emptiness, with no expectations placed upon him beyond his studies and training.
He learned life not by living it, but by observing it. Like reading from textbooks instead of feeling, like watching experiments rather than experiencing their results.
If people become reflections of their environment, then Maren Cross was the perfect image of the mansion that raised him—beautiful, vast, and cold enough to choke the light itself.
So even he can feel fear, Bael thought, watching those unreadable eyes that now trembled with something human. Hmmm... a near-death experience really must have shaken him.
Forcing a composed smile, Bael straightened his back and said softly, "Of course, young master. You can tell me anything."
His tone was smooth and loyal, practised to perfection. But beneath that well-crafted calm, his pulse pounded with unease.
"I think someone tried to assassinate me," Maren said, his voice steady but distant. "I don't know who. I was barely alive for a while—but I survived. I don't even know how. And now… I just don't know what to do." He hesitated, his words faltering for the first time.
Acting surprised, Bael leaned forward slightly. "Have you contacted anyone about this?"
Maren shook his head.
"Then, young master," Bael said carefully, his tone carrying the weight of concern, "for now, it's better not to contact anyone—not even your brother. Someone could trace your call."
He paused, choosing his next words with deliberate care.
"This is only a possibility," he continued, lowering his voice, "and as disrespectful as it may sound coming from me… it isn't too far-fetched to think that your Brother might have been the one who planned it."
Maren's eyes flickered faintly at the statement. He didn't speak.
Bael could feel the tension in the air—the kind that came from thoughts left unspoken. Maren simply stared ahead, his expression unreadable, but behind those calm eyes, something shifted.
What he says… does have some truth to it.
After a long pause, Bael spoke again, this time with a softer tone. "For now, let's head to a hospital, please. I'm truly worried about your health."
The silence stretched once more. Then Maren finally answered, his voice quiet and measured.
"Okay," he said. After a breath, he added calmly, "But it's safer if we go to the academy instead."
Bael studied him for a moment, then nodded. "As you wish, young master."
In the end, they settled on a compromise—a brief check-up at a private clinic they had connections with, before departing for the academy.
The car continued through the snowy streets, the low hum of the engine filling the quiet space between them.
...
The hospital's reception area was warm and sterile, a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, blending with the quiet shuffle of nurses and the distant beeping of machines.
Behind the counter, a nurse in pale blue scrubs looked up from her monitor, her expression polite but detached, the kind born from long shifts and too many patients.
"Good evening. My young master isn't feeling well. We'd like a general check-up." Bael asked, approaching the reception's desk.
The woman behind the counter gave a polite nod and began typing into the computer, the soft clatter of keys blending with the distant echo of hospital machinery.
As she worked, Bael scanned his surroundings. When no one appeared close enough to overhear, he leaned in slightly and placed his phone on the counter. The screen displayed a document-like interface—an encrypted authorisation code, the faint Cross family crest as a watermark, and a signature line stamped with a digital seal.
His voice dropped a fraction."Something discreet, if possible."
For a moment, the nurse's brows lifted—not in surprise, but in recognition. She'd handled VIPs before. Quiet admissions. Patients who didn't want their names recorded. People with money and influence are powerful enough to bypass standard procedures.
Her professional expression returned just as smoothly.
"Of course," she replied softly.
The receptionist hacked away at the keyboard, her fingers moving with practised precision as she slipped past the standard interface. A few discreet keystrokes later, the screen flickered—shifting into a restricted section of the system.
Then, without breaking the rhythm of her typing, she reached to the side and offered Bael a standard clipboard with a printed form—the kind any ordinary patient would receive.
"Please have him fill this out," she said aloud, her tone perfectly neutral, the line delivered for anyone in earshot.
But as Bael reached for the board, she leaned forward just enough for her voice to drop into a whisper.
"I'll handle the real file myself," she murmured, eyes never leaving the shifting lines of code on her screen. "Just write something tidy for the front desk."
Her gaze met his for a brief second—steady, deliberate.
An unspoken agreement was passed between them.
No official identity.
No traceable record.
No questions.
"We'll get a doctor to see him right away," she said aloud, returning to her usual tone as she straightened in her chair.