ANCHORAGE PRIVATE AIRPORT, ALASKA – 9:00 PM
The sleek, obsidian-toned private jet sliced through the frosty night sky, descending with a whisper onto the isolated runway of Anchorage Executive Airfield — a private airport nestled discreetly just outside the city. The glow from the tarmac lights shimmered against the snow-dusted concrete, illuminating the jet as it taxied to a halt near a line of waiting black SUVs.
A soft hydraulic hiss broke the silence as the jet's door opened. One by one, guards clad in immaculate black suits and earpieces descended first, scanning the area methodically before forming a protective semicircle.
Then came the man who commanded the silence itself—Sergio Sandras. Standing tall at 6'3", with steel-cut cheekbones, neatly slicked dark hair, and a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, he removed his aviator glasses to reveal sharp emerald green eyes that looked like they could pierce through bone. His face bore the markings of time, wisdom, and cruelty—all wrapped in power.
He smirked slightly, surveying the icy wilderness, before nodding once.
Behind him descended two striking young men, nearly identical in facial structure and posture, save for one key difference—Leo Sandras, with obsidian black hair, carried a subtle scar over his right eyebrow, making his otherwise angelic face more dangerous than beautiful. He was lean but powerful, a walking paradox of calculated restraint and lethal promise. His eyes—piercing emerald green, like his father's—looked at everything and everyone as if assessing their worth.
His twin brother, Liam Sandras, stepped down next. The only distinguishable difference from Leo was his icy silver hair, which he kept slightly tousled and longer at the back. He had a sharper, more expressive face. His demeanor was more volatile, his temper barely restrained. Liam had the kind of beauty that could melt or freeze a soul depending on his mood.
Fred and Elena, who had arrived earlier, greeted them at the bottom of the stairs with respectful bows.
"You're late," Elena teased with a knowing smirk.
"We don't answer to time," Leo replied smoothly, adjusting the dark gloves on his hands.
"We'll head to St. Seraphina's first," Sergio said flatly, stepping into the first SUV without waiting for agreement. "I want to see Lilian before we go home."
Fred glanced back. "The main house hasn't been cleaned or aired out. We didn't expect your arrival until tomorrow morning."
"We can stay at Lyric's villa," Elena offered, but Leo cut in sharply.
"No."
Liam leaned against the SUV, his silver hair glinting under the lights. "We might end up killing her with that cold attitude of hers."
Sergio's emerald eyes flicked to his sons, unblinking. He said nothing, but the air grew colder.
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ST. SERAPHINA'S HOSPITAL – PRIVATE WARD
Lilian lay alone in her ward, headphones in, pretending to study but truly thinking about what Lyric was up to. The girl scared her sometimes, yet fascinated her.
The door creaked open. Lyric walked in, dressed in her usual black turtleneck, black slacks, and combat boots, her long dark hair falling over one side of her masked face. Her presence alone seemed to drop the room's temperature.
"They're here," she said simply, her voice devoid of emotion. "Sergio and his annoying sons."
Lilian sat up, grinning like an idiot. "Seriously?!"
Lyric didn't answer. She just stared coldly before taking a seat by the window, her posture rigid. Moments later, her phone buzzed. She answered.
"Vice President Milo Vance," the caller ID read.
Lyric swiped to answer. "Yes?"
The ward door opened almost immediately after. Sergio, Leo, and Liam entered together, like a synchronized threat.
Lyric rose from her chair and walked out silently, ignoring their presence completely.
----
HALLWAY, OUTSIDE THE WARD
"What's the update on Senator Drayce Malcolm's murder?" Vance's deep voice asked.
Lyric leaned against the wall, staring at the cold tile floor. "No leads yet. I'm still investigating. I'll inform you if I uncover anything useful. Until then, don't call me again."
She ended the call before he could respond and walked back into the ward.
------
BACK IN THE WARD
Sergio looked at Lyric as she entered, arching a brow. "You won't even greet me?"
Lyric met his eyes, her voice like ice. "I don't have time to greet unimportant people."
Leo and Liam tensed beside Lilian, but she quickly placed a hand on each of their arms to stop them from reacting.
"They'll stay at my villa," Lilian offered, trying to diffuse the tension.
Lyric stood up. "No. The nurse will come soon to discharge you. I'll pay your bills."
She turned and walked out again.
"Lyric!" Liam followed, calling out as he trailed her down the hallway.
She stopped, her back still facing him. "What?"
Liam clenched his fists. "Aren't you going to welcome us back?"
Lyric laughed bitterly, the sound dry and hollow. "I don't welcome back traitors."
Liam blinked, confused.
"I know you think I'm heartless," Lyric said, finally turning to face him, her ocean-blue eyes cold and detached. "But I remember everything."
"You mean—?"
"Yes. I know Sergio had Senator Whiney killed. I also know he pinned it on me. I was eighteen, Liam. I spent six months in prison for a crime I didn't commit."
Liam looked stricken. "We didn't know."
"You didn't want to know," she hissed. "None of you lifted a finger. You let me rot while you lived in your golden palace."
Her voice cracked slightly, but her gaze remained steel. "Do you know how many creams I had to use to fade the scars? The ones I could? Because I'll never be able to scrub the filth out of my mind."
Liam reached out. "Lyric, I—"
"Save it," she spat. "Even if I forgave you, things will never go back to what they were. My life's ruined. I might as well ruin it properly."
And with that, she stormed down the hallway and out of the hospital.
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AN HOUR LATER – SOMEWHERE IN DOWNTOWN ANCHORAGE
The snow had started falling again as Lyric parked her black Ducati in front of a secluded bar called "The Bleeding Thorn." The moment she walked in, the bouncer nodded and led her to a private section at the back.
The waiter brought over a crystal decanter filled with "Spirytus Rektyfikowany"—a Polish vodka with a 100% alcohol proof. Legal in some corners of the black market, and dangerous to most.
She poured it herself into a sleek, crystal shot glass. The clear liquid gleamed in the dim red lighting. She threw the shot back.
There was no burn. No heat. No sting.
Only numbness.
She poured another. And another.
The alcohol could never truly get her drunk. Her body was trained, hardened, disciplined. At most, she'd get tipsy—but that was all she wanted.
Not to escape.
Just to feel nothing.
Because feeling nothing was better than remembering everything.
Let me know if you'd like the next scene or help building on any of these subplots—like Lyric's revenge, the murder investigation, or the deeper family history.