"Third condition," Ren said, his eyes boring into Sid's. "Take care of this orphanage. Run this place with the same heart you put into the cafe. Make it a fortress for these kids—and a home for the two of you."
"W-wait a second!" Sid struggled to process the weight of the moment, his gaze darting between Ren and the leather folio on the table. "How is this possible? Handing over assets like this... it's going to raise questions. People will talk."
"That's why I gave you the first condition," Ren said, adjusting his jacket with clinical precision. "You don't need to worry about the logistics. Your identities have already been scrubbed and updated in the central system as the legal owners. It's done."
"Ha! I've seen this in dramas," Ciel chimed in, her eyes widening as if trying to peel back the layers of the dark-haired man before her. "Don't tell me you're some CEO in disguise?"
Sid nudged Ciel's arm—a silent warning to stop being reckless in front of a man who had just dismantled three thugs without breaking a sweat. Ren merely offered a ghost of a smile. He leaned back against the weathered sofa, letting the silence settle over them like a shroud.
"Who knows…" Ren replied softly, letting them lose themselves in an assumption far kinder than the truth.
There was a jagged irony behind that smile. He wasn't a CEO. He was a pure-blood of the Marble Kingdom. A Prince. The heir to a throne built on a foundation of hypocrisy. But to him, the title was worth less than a glass of water—easily spilled, quickly evaporated. He had no father; King Henry was nothing more than a monster wearing a crown. His only loyalty was to his late mother, the woman whose memory fueled the vendetta currently turning his heart to ash.
"I'm leaving. The rest is in your hands," Ren said, standing up.
He didn't wait for a response. His task here was finished. He had built a wall around the people who had fed him when he had nothing. Now, he could return to being the machine designed to destroy Zero, unburdened by ghosts that his enemies could use as collateral.
"Ren! Wait!" Ciel called out as he reached the threshold.
Ren stopped but only raised a hand in a dismissive wave, never turning back. Behind him, Clarissa gave a polite, silent bow before following in his wake.
"If anything urgent comes up, use the number in that file," Ren threw the final instruction over his shoulder. He kept walking toward the grey SUV idling in the yard, leaving Sid and Ciel trapped in a cocktail of gratitude and confusion.
Behind the wheel, as the engine hummed and the AC bit into the heat of his face, Ren muttered to himself, his voice devoid of color. "Debt settled."
The SUV glided away, leaving tire tracks in the gravel of a yard that suddenly felt much larger. Sid and Ciel stood frozen, as if Ren's departure had sucked the gravity right out of the air.
Sid exhaled a long, shaky breath, looking down at the map that held their and the 'Asa Orphanage' future. "He gave us all of this... like it was pocket change."
Ciel didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the gate where the car had vanished. She crossed her arms, her fingers digging into the fabric of her jacket. A strange, sharp pulse throbbed in her chest—a mix of overwhelming relief and a dangerous, nagging curiosity.
"Sid," Ciel whispered.
"Yeah?"
"This is bad."
Sid turned, frowning at the look on his sister's face. "What do you mean? He helped us. The threat is gone."
Ciel shook her head slowly, her gaze shifting to Sid, her eyes dark with a realization she couldn't quite name. "No. It's... I think I like him. And that? That's lethal."
Sid fell silent. He heard the sincerity—and the terror—in her voice. He sighed, looking at the girl who had just lost her heart to a ghost.
"Forget it, Ciel," Sid said, his voice firm but gentle. "He belongs to a world we'll never even touch."
Ciel offered a small, secret smile. Her heart wouldn't stop asking the same question: Who is the man behind those lonely, amber eyes?
CLOVER TOWER | ARENA DISTRICT
Thirty miles away, the atmosphere shifted from dusty sanctuary to sterile steel. In a monochrome office wrapped in two inches of bulletproof glass, the air was thick with the scent of power. Zero stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, the skyline of Rich City laid out before him like a feast. Behind him, Rena sat rigid in a black velvet chair.
"Congratulations, Rena," Zero said, his voice a smooth, echoing silk. He turned slowly, his fingers scrolling through a transparent tablet displaying a skyrocketing approval rating. "Rank 6 out of nine candidates. Without a single endorsement from the Loyalists. In the CLOVER Survival system, that's an anomaly. It's nearly impossible."
Rena clenched her fingers under the table, trying to kill the tremor in her hands. She knew she was lucky. A Loyalist had pulled their support from a rival last month, leaving a vacuum in the rankings—a hole she had filled with raw public support.
"I expected you to crawl to the elites, begging for a Faction endorsement to secure your spot," Zero said, his footsteps silent on the expensive carpet as he circled her like a predator examining a specimen. "But that stunt at the stadium... you didn't steal their money, Rena. You stole their hearts. That's a currency far more volatile. More expensive. Even I didn't think the 'Idol of Hope' narrative would be this effective."
Rena looked up, keeping her mask intact. "I just did what felt right. I don't have a strategy."
In the back of her mind, she thought of Ren. She had tried—and failed—to bring him into the fold. She pushed the thought away. That was a secret Zero didn't need to dig up.
Zero offered a thin smirk—a warning disguised as a smile. "Your fans are starting to wonder, Rena. Why is the people's darling stuck at number 6? This is a double-edged sword. If your performance keeps climbing but your rank stays stagnant, the masses will smell the rot in the system. They'll burn this tower down if they feel betrayed."
Zero leaned down, bracing his hands on the desk, forcing Rena to meet his gaze. "You need to start exerting real influence on the Loyalists. If you can make even one of them kneel and give you their vote, your rank will transcend logic. You need elite legitimacy to become an untouchable goddess."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order wrapped in a threat.
But how? Rena asked herself. I don't even know their faces, let alone how to make them bow.
"Next on the agenda: the remaining candidates will have a closed-door session with select Faction members," Zero said, straightening his flawless suit. "Prepare yourself. Ensure that when that day comes, you are a rose with thorns sharp enough to draw blood—not just a pretty petal for them to pluck."
Zero believed he held the leash on this growing flower. He forgot that every pawn on his stage had invisible hands pulling strings from the dark.
The room was heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and oak. Ren sat on a velvet sofa, his eyes locked onto a gold-waxed invitation bearing the lion crest—the mark of the Duke.
An official summons from Moses. A demand for accountability for the weapons blockade last month.
Santino sat across from him, cold sweat beading on his temples despite the blast of the AC. He glanced at the letter, then at Ren, his hands trembling.
"Young Master…" Santino cleared his dry throat. "About this invitation from Duke Moses... you're going, right? Like you did with Baron Frey? You'll handle the lion yourself?"
Ren raised his head slowly. He looked at Santino with a gaze so bitter it felt like a death sentence. He leaned back, letting the invitation sit like a ticking bomb between them.
"No," Ren said, his voice like cracking ice. "This time, you're going."
"W-what?!"