Silent Moves, 129.

The rich aroma of fresh coffee blended with the comforting scent of wood from the fireplace as dinner came to an end. He smiled, satisfied, seeing his brother there, sharing the moment. There was a quiet joy in the air, like a soft breeze carrying memories of a time when life had been simpler—more complete. 

Andrews stepped into his old project room with slow, weary steps, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders. The room remained exactly as he had left it, filled with the woody fragrance of aged furniture and the faint, dry scent of ink from the markers he once used. He walked over to the discreet bar in the corner, pouring himself a measure of amber whiskey. The liquid slid into the glass with a warm gleam under the dim yellow light. He swirled it briefly before taking the first sip, savoring the heat as it traced a path down his throat. 

His glass halted midair, just before reaching his lips. 

Someone had solved it. 

With the drink still in hand, he moved toward the table near the large chalkboard that dominated the wall. His gaze drifted absently across the room—until something made him stop. 

An unexpected detail. 

He frowned. At first, he thought it was a mistake. A smudge of ink, perhaps a trick of the light. But no. The solution was there—clear and precise. His chest rose with a sharp breath. Someone had solved it. And in the most brilliant way. 

The numbers fit together like clockwork—precise, inevitable. The same equation that had haunted him for years, and yet… now it was obvious.

His eyes raced over the equations, absorbing every line, every number. It took him a second to grasp the precision of the solution. The next second was filled with stunned disbelief. 

Why hadn't I thought of this before?

He set the glass down firmly on the table and stepped toward the board. His fingers brushed over the final equation, as if touching it could make it more real. The reasoning was brilliant. Elegant. Simple, yet astonishingly insightful. 

In the dining room, the housekeeper, Mrs. Margareth, moved with quiet efficiency, putting the final touches in the evening's service with the precision of a conductor guiding a silent ballet. Her sharp eyes caught Andrews' approach before he even spoke. 

"Mrs. Margareth."

She turned smoothly, her hands still occupied as she adjusted a silver platter with the care of someone handling a priceless jewel. 

"Mr. Andrews, how may I assist you?"

He crossed his arms, his expression tense. 

His question was direct—"Who was in my old studio tonight?"

For the briefest moment, a flicker of hesitation clouded her expression. Her eyes widened slightly, and she pressed her hands against her uniform, revealing a subtle but unmistakable unease. 

"The studio?" She struggled to keep her voice even, but the tension seeped into every word. "Has something gone missing? Was something damaged?"

Margareth fell silent for a moment, carefully choosing her next words before responding. 

"I asked Ziggy to show young Mason around the house while his father and brother enjoyed each other's company." A pause. Then, softer: "I told him to give the boy a tour… but Mason is a good boy, isn't he?"

Andrews drew a deep breath, the weight of concern settling heavily on his shoulders. 

"Is Ziggy home?"

Guilt tinged Margareth's face, evident in every line of her expression. 

"Don't worry," he said with a nod. "Nothing was damaged. I'll speak with him." 

Ziggy's house, near one of the ranch's lodgings, radiated a yellow glow from the porch, standing out against the darkness of the night. Andrews knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing through the silence. 

On the other side, Ziggy was already bracing himself, his body tense and eyes wide. His mother had just hung up the phone, her voice still laced with irritation ringing in his ears. 

"What did you do, Ziggy?"

*"Nothing!"*

"Andrews wants to know who was in his studio."

"I didn't do anything! It was Mason! Damian's friend!"

His mother narrowed her eyes, arms crossed over her chest in a severe stance. 

"And why would he go into Andrews' studio?"

"How should I know? I just showed him the house, he was the one who wanted to see everything! I didn't touch anything—it was him!"

Before his mother could respond, a new knock at the door interrupted their argument. 

Ziggy swallowed hard, his throat dry. 

He opened the door, words tumbling out in a rush, tripping over themselves in his haste to defend himself. 

"I didn't touch anything! I went into your studio by accident—it was your brother's friend who insisted on seeing everything, and when we got there, I got distracted, and he went straight for your notes! He wanted to show off and started scribbling over your drafts. I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd care!"

Ziggy raised his hands as if pleading for mercy, shifting all blame onto Mason without hesitation. His eyes searched Andrews' face, trying to decipher his reaction, scanning for any sign of judgment directed at him. 

Mason lay on his back on the bed, the bluish glow of the portable screen illuminating his face as his eyes skimmed through the search results: 

"Andrews Prime: fortune, titles, revolutionary projects…"

His jaw clenched. Each result felt like a punch to the gut. 

"Shit… He already has everything."

How could an ordinary omega compete with an alpha like that? How could he even exist in the same space without being crushed? How could he get close to someone who didn't even need to look down to ignore him? 

Knock. Knock. Knock. Firm knocks on the door. 

Mason smirked, not lifting his eyes from the screen. 

"Damián, stop being dramatic and just come in. Or do you want me to—" The door opened. 

It wasn't Damián. 

Andrews stood there. 

The man filled the doorway like an imposing shadow. Arms crossed, expression cold and razor-sharp. The air around him seemed charged with static electricity, an invisible pressure that made the room feel smaller. 

Mason blinked but didn't shrink back. He looked like a Norse god carved from stone, but Mason was the predator here, even if it didn't seem that way. 

Slowly, he locked the screen and set it aside, keeping his chin up. 

"Ah." His smile was lazy, almost insolent. "I thought you were Damián."

Andrews didn't respond. He simply stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet *click*—a sound that felt like a verdict. 

"You solved my equation."

His voice was low, controlled. But there was something beneath it—something that made Mason's instincts scream. Did he have… the upper hand? 

Mason leaned back, arms crossing behind his head in a show of nonchalance. 

"Equation? Oh, those scribbles?" He arched an eyebrow. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. I have a restless mind, you know…" 

Andrews didn't move. 

"Those weren't scribbles. They were calculations on gravitational propulsion within unstable energy matrices. A problem no one has solved without creating rupture paradoxes. How did you even understand that?"

Mason let out a dramatic sigh and sat up. 

"I looked at the pattern. You were trying to stabilize the structure by folding the vectors around the singularity field, right? But that's the mistake. You're trying to contain something that doesn't want to be contained."

Andrews' eyes narrowed. 

"Go on."

Mason lifted a hand, gesturing in the air as if tracing invisible equations in the space between them. 

"Instability isn't a problem. It's a feature. You don't need to contain it—you need to channel it. Think of spacetime as a fabric. If you try to forcefully align it, it resists, it fragments. But if you pull in the right direction, the tension itself generates momentum. Like a dimensional slingshot."

The muscles in Andrews' jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. 

"You're saying that instead of correcting the collapse, I should… amplify it?"

Mason grinned. 

"Exactly. If I had access to your full calculations, I could restructure the entire model in under an hour."

A heavy silence filled the room. The air between them seemed to hum with something undefinable. 

Then, for the first time, Andrews' gaze wasn't just evaluating. It was considered. 

Mason held his stare, savoring the taste of a small victory. 

"Well? Are you going to admit that I'm right?"

Andrews remained silent for a moment that stretched just a little too long. 

His eyes locked onto Mason as if seeing him for the first time. He ran his tongue over his lips, his gaze flickering with something dangerous—not anger, but pure exhilaration. 

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. 

At first, it was quiet, almost disbelieving. Then it grew into something more real—a breath of genuine euphoria. He looked away, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled like he was trying to contain an avalanche within himself. 

"Unbelievable."

Mason blinked, caught off guard. 

Andrews turned on his heel, pacing the room like a caged animal. His fingers dug into his arms before relaxing again. He shook his head, a smile threatening to break free. 

"Do you have any idea how many physicists, engineers, and arrogant geniuses have tried to solve that? Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

Mason spread his arms, now more intrigued than smug. 

"Well, if you stop pacing like a lunatic and sit down, maybe I can explain it better." 

Andrews halted abruptly, eyes narrowing. For a moment, it looked like he was going to reprimand Mason for his audacity, but then he let out a short breath and sank into the nearest chair. 

"Talk."

Mason straightened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

"I said I could redo your structure in an hour. But, to be honest…" He picked up his portable screen, fingers gliding over the interface, erasing his previous search on Andrews. And there, standing alone, was the equation—refined, simplified, perfect. He turned the screen toward Andrews. "I already did."

The silence that followed was almost tangible. 

Andrews snatched the device from Mason's hands in one swift motion, his eyes devouring the screen with the hunger of someone who had just uncovered buried treasure. His breathing slowed, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, analyzing every line. 

Mason knew he had him. He could see it—the same glint in Andrews' eyes that he himself felt whenever something *clicked. * 

"You streamlined the energy flow…" Andrews muttered, more to himself than to Mason. "That eliminates the overload issue at the inflection point. The system doesn't collapse because it never reaches the critical threshold…"

Mason smiled, satisfied. 

"Now you understand."

Andrews let out a short laugh and shook his head. He wanted to deny it, to find a flaw—but he couldn't. 

"How did you do this?" 

Mason shrugged. 

"You were overcomplicating something that was already perfect. You just needed to see the symmetry."

Andrews exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair. He closed his eyes for a moment, processing everything. When he opened them again, his expression had shifted. It was no longer just curiosity. It was respect. 

He lifted the screen once more, analyzing the equations. 

"This… needs to be tested."

Mason raised an eyebrow. 

"You mean you're actually going to put my theory into practice?" 

Andrews smirked. 

"No. I mean, you're going to work with me."

Mason blinked, then let out a low chuckle. 

And so, long hours of conversation followed… 

The scent of fresh bread and strong coffee filled the dining room, but in the kitchen, Ziggy could barely taste his food. His mother's gaze weighed on him, even as she smiled and busied herself serving the guests with practiced elegance. 

At the table, Mason sat like a prince in court—oozing charm, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He even lifted his cup in a lazy toast to the housekeeper when she entered the room. 

"Good morning, ma'am," he said, voice dripping with sweetness too thick to be real. "Is Ziggy here yet?"

Margareth tightened her grip on the plate, forcing a curt nod. 

"Yes, he's in the kitchen."

Her answer was clipped. She hid her irritation with expertise, but it was there. How could that boy act so casually after everything? As if he could simply waltz in and manipulate someone like Ziggy—someone unaccustomed to the schemes of the big city? 

At the head of the table, Benjamin observed the scene with sharp, pleased eyes. He took in every movement, every word. To him, this was family. 

Damián, distracted by a message on his portable screen, didn't notice the tension. 

But Mason did. 

Something was off. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen with unhurried steps. 

Ziggy didn't waste time when he saw him. 

"Mason," he muttered, voice low but laced with accusation. "You shouldn't have touched Andrews' things."

Silence settled between them. 

Mason blinked, as if the question were innocent. Then, a slow, easy smile stretched across his lips. 

"Oh, that?" He let out a light laugh, as if it were the most insignificant thing in the world. "I already sorted it out with Andrews. No need to worry." 

Ziggy froze. 

"Already sorted it out?"

It didn't make sense. Unless… 

He had been used. 

Mason wasn't a kind new friend who had complimented his music. He was just another one. Another smooth talker. Another person willing to step on whoever was beneath him to get ahead. 

And that hurt more than any punishment. 

Ziggy tasted the bitterness of injustice on his tongue. He had always followed the rules, and always tried to please, and yet here he was—outplayed by some arrogant stranger. 

But he couldn't lash out. Not here. 

So he smiled, too. A strange, hollow smile that didn't reach his eyes—just the barest showing of teeth, like an animal proving it still had fangs. 

And just like that, beneath a veil of civility, a silent war began. 

Mason watched Ziggy for a moment longer than necessary. 

He recognized that look. And it unsettled him. 

A small sigh escaped Mason. 

"Well… maybe I can do something for him."

The idea came easily. A viral hit. Something big. Explosive. 

Ziggy had a page full of good content—but invisible. Mason knew exactly what that was like. Performing for an audience that wasn't there. 

But he would change that. 

He would launch a super-viral campaign, and force the algorithms to push Ziggy to the top. His posts wouldn't be just more forgotten numbers in the endless scroll. 

Ziggy had unknowingly led him to Andrews, a stroke of fate neither of them had expected. Now, Mason would return the favor. 

And he would do it the way he did best. 

"Come on, Ziggy," Mason called. "Étienne and Camille are arriving."

Ziggy's smile faltered for a split second, but he already knew what he had to do. 

He blinked, feeling an idea take shape. 

"I forgot something at home. I'll go back to get it." He said, slipping away quickly before anyone could ask questions. 

Mason watched Ziggy leave, his eyes sharp. The moment Ziggy was out of sight, Mason pulled out his portable screen and accessed Ziggy's page settings. 

He was fast. Silent. A predator operating in the shadows. 

Within minutes, he embedded a super-viral trigger into the algorithms, ensuring Ziggy's posts would be seen by everyone. 

"There you go, kid. Let's see if this helps you."

Meanwhile, Ziggy rushed home, changing his clothes in a hurry. 

Today, he would do something different. 

He would turn on the camera. Film everything. Expose Mason. Expose Camille. And most importantly—expose Étienne, the one who had nicknamed him "Ziggy Dog." 

His videos never got traction during the day. Which meant he could record without being noticed. He would livestream the entire event, keep the footage saved, and later use it however he saw fit. Afterward, he'd edit the best—or worst—parts and spread them across the ranch's and town's group chats. 

Even if he had to pay someone to help. 

But first, he needed to record without being detected. 

He opened his closet and pulled out a discreet box from a drawer. Carefully, he took out a special accessory: a soft, stylish wool beanie with a fluffy pom-pom on top. But that pom-pom hid something far more valuable—a high-precision camera and a powerful built-in microphone. 

Ziggy grinned at the mirror. 

"This time, I'm turning the game around."

He pulled the beanie over his head, adjusted the camera's position, and headed out.