The chaos he had left in his room had become his new order. The books scattered on the floor, the shards of glass shimmering like dried tears, and the chair overturned against the wall were no longer symbols of rage, but a visible reminder of what he had found. Rage was a new force, an engine that had replaced the sadness that had consumed him for years. For the first time, his mind was not just a glass labyrinth, but a place of investigation and cold, ruthless logic. Cristian moved through the house with a new kind of strangeness, one born not of anxiety, but of constant calculation.
His posture had changed. He moved with a curved back, his hands always joined—almost an exaggeration of his inner self. When he sat, he did so in a way that took Martina's breath away: knees tucked against his chest, bare feet on the sofa, hands reaching out to clutch a cup of tea. It was a pose that made him seem even more distant, even more inaccessible. He had no need for speech. His actions were a language Martina did not understand.
Logic is the only thing that makes sense. People are an uncontrollable variable. Emotions are a distraction. Love is a weakness.
This was his new mantra. He observed his mother with a clinical gaze. He saw her fear, her love, her confusion. He saw in her an infinite tenderness that was her strength, but also her weakness. He no longer embraced her, but he made sure her teacup was always full. It was his way of showing affection—a logic that required no words.
That afternoon, while Martina was in the kitchen, Cristian was in the living room with a laptop on his knees. He was conducting research. "Who is Juglian? The football star." The search results were a disappointment. They were articles full of clichés, photos of a smiling, muscular man full of arrogance. The "King," the "God of Muscles." He wanted to know the man, not the character.
But then, his search led him to a hidden folder of photos on the computer labeled "J.G." They were old photos, dating back to a time before Juglian was a king. They were photos of a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes—the same face he saw every morning in the mirror. But one photo struck him more than all the rest. It was a picture of a young Juglian, sitting on a green lawn with his back bare. On his shoulder blade, a star-shaped birthmark. His birthmark.
His hand, which a moment before had been clicking the mouse, went still. His mind, which a moment before had been a place of cold logic, was flooded by a wave of emotion. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't fear. It was rage. A pure, cold rage that didn't scream, but nestled deep within his soul. It was the face of his enemy. The face of his ghost. The face of the "Daddy" who had abandoned him for his career.
He didn't abandon me because I'm a monster. He abandoned me because he was too weak. He chose his kingdom, his career, his arrogance. He chose to be a king, but he failed. And now... now I don't have a father. I have an enemy. And enemies... enemies are to be defeated.
Cristian closed the laptop, his face a mask of indifference. His heart, however, beat hard—not from sadness, but from a new, cold determination. He knew what he had to do. His life was no longer just a labyrinth to escape. It was a match. And he had an opponent. An opponent who bore the very same mark on his back. He had to become stronger, faster, and more ruthless than him. Not for victory, not for fame, but for revenge. For the sole reason that a son must defeat the father who never was. The match had begun. And Cristian, with his calculating mind and cold rage, was ready to play.