Vincent pulled his old coat tighter around himself. It offered little warmth against the biting wind cutting through the city streets.
The snow crunched beneath his worn shoes with every step as he moved away from the towering facade of the Imperial Hotel. The building, once a symbol of wealth and power, seemed to mock him with its distant, golden glow.
He passed a few late-night pedestrians, barely registering their presence. His only focus was putting as much distance as possible between himself and the place that had become the reminder of his downfall.
As he walked, his head bumped into something soft but firm—a woman's umbrella. She turned sharply, her face twisting into an irritated glare, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlights.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!" she snapped, her voice sharp and annoyed.
Vincent ignored her. He had no energy to respond.
He kept walking, eyes fixed forward, the cold seeping into his bones. The farther he moved from the city center, the quieter the streets became.
The distant hum of traffic faded, replaced by the whisper of the wind and the muted crunch of snow under his feet. He was so lost in his thoughts, in his misery, that he didn't notice the sleek black car rolling silently behind him.
The doors opened, and several men stepped out, their thick coats concealing their frames. Their movements were precise, methodical. They moved toward him without hesitation.
Before Vincent could react, strong hands grabbed him. Their grip was like iron, unyielding.
"Hey! Let me go!" he shouted, thrashing against their hold. For a brief second, he caught a glimpse of the interior—plush leather seats, polished wood, the unmistakable luxury of the car's design.
Before he could process anything else, rough tape was slapped over his mouth. His protests were cut off instantly.
A thick cloth was pulled over his head, plunging him into suffocating darkness. He struggled, kicking and twisting against their grip.
A sharp pain exploded in his skull as the man beside him struck him with the heavy handle of a pistol.
His world went black.
The car sped away, leaving deep tire tracks in the fresh snow, heading toward the city's harbor—a place of quiet deals and unseen movements.
***
Vincent awoke to searing pain, his body aching from the assault. His head throbbed, every pulse sending sharp waves through his skull.
His chest burned, his stomach aching from the brutal beating. His wrists stung where zip ties dug into his skin, cutting off circulation, leaving angry welts.
The scent of gasoline filled the air, thick and suffocating. It clung to his nostrils, making each breath sharp and painful.
Then, footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing across the cold floor.
One set was unmistakably a woman's heels.
Vincent pushed himself upright, forcing his body to respond despite the pain. The footsteps stopped in front of him.
A hand yanked the cloth off his head.
His vision blurred before adjusting to the dim light of a single bare bulb swinging above.
A warehouse. Empty, cold, no supplies, no equipment. Just exposed wooden walls and the vast open space.
In front of him stood two figures.
Slender heels. Shined leather shoes.
Vincent slowly lifted his gaze.
Selena stood in front of him, wrapped in an expensive fur coat, her lips curved into a smug, knowing smile.
Beside her, Pearson casually turned an unlit cigarette between his fingers, looking down at Vincent with quiet amusement, as if watching something insignificant.
Neither of them spoke. They only stared, looking at him like an inconvenience, something beneath them.
Pearson flicked open a gold lighter, igniting the flame. He took a slow drag, the cherry glowing in the dimness before he exhaled a stream of smoke.
Then, his voice, flat, uninterested.
"Pathetic."
Selena tightened her grip on Pearson's arm, her smile widening. "I told you, Vincent. You were never meant to win."
Vincent inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but the taste of blood filled his mouth. He turned his head and spat onto the floor, a dark stain spreading across the concrete.
Vincent forced out the words, his voice rough. "You talk too much."
Pearson let out a sudden, humorless chuckle, the sound grating against Vincent's nerves. One of his men stepped forward, handing him a pistol, the cold steel catching the dim light.
Pearson's smirk faded, replaced by a sharp, merciless glint in his eyes. "And you still don't know when to shut up."
Everything happened too fast.
Vincent barely had time to react before the gunshot rang out, echoing through the warehouse. The deafening blast shook the walls.
A searing, indescribable pain ripped through his chest as the bullet tore into him. His body crashed to the concrete floor with a sickening thud. Warm blood spilled instantly from the wound, spreading in thick pools around him.
His vision blurred, the edges of the warehouse fading into a haze of gray.
Selena sighed, turning her face away. A flicker of distaste crossed her features, as if the sight of his bleeding body was too crude for her to acknowledge. Pearson smirked at her reaction, then stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her waist.
His men followed, their footsteps sharp as they moved toward the exit.
As Pearson reached the door, he paused. He flicked his cigarette casually through the air, the glowing ember landing precisely where gasoline had been poured moments before.
Flames erupted instantly.
Fire rushed across the ground in an uncontrollable surge, swallowing the warehouse walls in seconds. Heat pressed against Vincent's skin, unbearable, consuming.
But even as the fire spread, the pain in his chest was all he could feel.
The crushing agony drowned out everything else.
Slowly, his eyes drifted shut. He welcomed the darkness, anything to end the suffering.
His business, his reputation, his future. It was all gone.
There was nothing left to fight for.
But then, a voice—mechanical, distinctly female—rang through his mind.
[Sovereign Syndicate Activated.]
[Status: Critical. Restoring the Heir…]
Vincent's eyes snapped open.
A jolt of energy surged through his veins, flooding him with something powerful, unfamiliar.
The pain vanished.
A strange warmth spread through his body, tingling beneath his skin.
The blood that had pooled beneath him dried almost instantly, disappearing as if it had never been there.
Even the fire, licking at his clothes, raging around him, no longer burned.
Then, the voice spoke again, clearer, unwavering.
[Status: The Heir has regained vital life functions.]
His breath hitched. Panic clashed with confusion. The flames still surrounded him, devouring his clothing.
Yet, his skin remained untouched. His hair, unburned.
The fire was all-consuming, yet it did not harm him.
Then came the final message, direct and absolute.
[Bloodline Restoration: Passive Effect.]
[Status: Abnormal Condition on The Heir's body has been nullified.]
Before he could make sense of it, a loud crack rang above.
The ceiling groaned under the pressure of the flames, wood splintering, metal warping.
Vincent moved.
His body responded effortlessly, fluid, precise.
He ran toward the burning exit, dodging falling beams, weaving between collapsing structures.
His movements were too fast, too controlled. It was unnatural.
But there was no time to question it.
Only once he was a safe distance away, beside a neighboring warehouse, did he stop.
His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, coughing against the cold night air.
Relief flooded him. He had made it out.
But then, a deeper panic overtook him.
His clothes were gone. Consumed entirely by the fire.
He stood in the biting wind, completely exposed.
His pulse hammered as he scanned his surroundings, grateful that the warehouse district was abandoned at this hour.
The voice in his head, the fact that he had survived a gunshot and a raging inferno—all of it seemed distant, almost irrelevant.
The only thing that mattered now was finding something to wear.