Aron Tuner had learnt one truth very early in his life: no one comes to save you.
He was seven when that truth broke into his heart. The rain poured hard that night, flooding the broken windows of the orphanage. Other children hid under thin blankets, but Aron didn't move. He sat in the corner, his knees pressed against his chest, watching how the cold drops crept inside. His parents were long gone—faces blurred in memory, names he could no longer speak without pain.
The caretakers of the orphanage never cared about orphans like him. They gave food when they felt like it and punishment when they were angry. But Aron was different. He didn't cry, didn't beg, and didn't fight back without reason. He watched. He learnt. He endured.
By the age of twelve, Aron realised something others didn't—that the world respected only strength. Kindness without power was weakness; mercy without influence was mockery. So, in that small orphanage, between hunger and beatings, a monster slowly grew. A boy with quiet eyes, sharp as blades, and dreams too heavy for the world to carry.
Years passed. The rain never stopped following him—it just changed cities.
At thirty-six, Aron Tuner stood at the top of a skyscraper that bore his name: Tuner Global Corporation. The skyline of his city glowed as it bowed to him. He was rich beyond imagination, the kind of man who could turn bankrupt nations into thriving markets overnight. To his competitors, he was a god of finance; to his enemies, a ghost in the shadows; and to the world's underground, he was the Underworld King.
Aron commanded two worlds at once. In the eyes of the public, he was a business legend, fixing international crises, buying failing empires, and turning them into gold. In the darkness, he controlled the flow of weapons, information, and power through silent hands and secret deals. There wasn't a field he hadn't conquered.
He was a master fighter—trained by assassins he once spared.
A musical genius—his piano could make even the coldest heart ache.
A gambler—who never lost a bet, because he never played fair.
An engineer who could fix a rocket engine and design city skyscrapers with equal ease.
And yet, under all the money and strength, there was still that orphan boy, standing under the rain, waiting for someone who never came.
But someone had come—her.
Her name was Liana Grey. She was light where he was shadow and warmth where he was stone. Liana was an art restorer, famous for bringing colour back to paintings centuries old. Her golden hair always carried the scent of lavender, her soft brown eyes often glowing with curiosity. When Aron first met her at a charity exhibition, she smiled at him without fear. No one ever smiled at him like that.
She didn't see the monster he built to survive. She saw the man still trying to heal.
They married quietly, away from the world's judgement. With her, Aron wasn't the king of anything. He was simply a husband who liked to make coffee for two, a man who'd finally learnt what peace felt like. She painted in the morning light, and he worked in silence, just to watch her hum softly beside him.
In Liana's eyes, Aron was a king—not because he ruled, but because he cared. She never asked about the blood behind his wealth or the darkness in his eyes. She only said, "A storm can destroy, but it can also clean the earth, Aron. You're like that storm."
He believed her.
It was a quiet morning when everything changed.
For the first time in thirty-six years, Aron had found a trail—his family's trail. Records of an old lineage buried deep within forgotten data banks hinted that he might have siblings, long lost after his parents' death. He told Liana about it during breakfast, his voice shaking slightly—something rare for him.
"I think… I found them," he said.
Her eyes shimmered with joy. "Then let's go meet them," she replied without hesitation.
He hesitated. He had faced wars, betrayal, and assassins—but the idea of facing his own blood frightened him. Yet Liana's gentle hand found his. "You've lived long enough alone, Aron. Let's change that."
And so, they drove.
The sky was grey that afternoon. Rain again. It always followed him.
They were crossing the old mountain road when the storm hit hard. The wind howled, bending trees, and the world blurred behind sheets of rain. Aron's hands clenched the steering wheel; Liana kept rubbing her arms, saying she'd be fine.
Then, too suddenly, the truck appeared. Out of nowhere.
It swerved across the lane, headlights blinding. Aron's reflexes were fast—enhanced by years of training—but fate was faster. The car spun, tyres screaming, glass shattering. He tried to pull her close and shield her. The sound of metal crushing echoed through the valley.
When the world stopped moving, silence followed.
Blood. Rain. Frosted breath. Liana's hand in his, growing cold.
"Liana… Stay with me," he whispered. "Liana, please."
But her lips didn't move. Her golden hair, now painted with red, rested gently against the broken glass. The storm took the rest of his words away.
Aron Tuner, the man who ruled the world, the man stronger than anyone he ever knew, could do nothing. Not when it truly mattered. His hands, once powerful enough to change nations, could not hold onto the only person who saw him as human.
When her pulse faded, something inside him shattered silently.
They said when a man loses everything, the soul either breaks or wakes.
For Aron, it was both. He felt the pain crawl into his lungs, burning every breath. Then darkness welcomed him, slow and merciful. The last thing he remembered was Liana's smile in the sunlight, the day they talked about painting the future together.
Then, nothing.
Only rain falling on two empty bodies in the wreck.