Entering the Lion's Den
I awoke with a tightness in my chest, a mix of boredom and restlessness.
"There's no escaping it," I whispered to myself, staring at the gray ceiling.
The dinner at the White estate was inevitable. I didn't want to go, but something instinctual pulled me there. For months, I'd hidden like a discarded shadow—some even thought I was dead. Maybe that would've been better.
In the mirror, I met the gaze of a stranger.
"Pathetic," the word slipped out in a harsh murmur.
My baggy clothes, oversized sweater, beanie hiding my hair, and those grotesque glasses had turned me into an invisible nerd. But I knew: it was all a disguise, a game to escape who I truly was.
I ran my fingers over the sweater's fabric, and as they brushed my skin, I felt the ridges of old scars. Each mark, a secret refusing to fade.
"How much longer can I keep up this charade?" I asked the silence of the room.
It wasn't just my reflection that irked me—it was the internal exhaustion, the constant battle to maintain appearances.
I took a deep breath and, in a decisive impulse, tore off the beanie. My hair cascaded over my shoulders in a tangle of white dreads streaked with black, wild and free. I ran my fingers through them, feeling their raw texture without the disguise's protection.
Next, I removed my glasses and, for the first time in weeks, faced my own eyes.
They burned with chaotic intensity, like a turbulent aurora borealis.
"Who is this guy?" I muttered, my tone a mix of defiance and resignation.
Behind that gaze, I knew exactly who I was—and how tired I'd grown of hiding the truth.
Rain drummed against the window, amplifying the dawn's heavy gloom.
With a final sigh, I stood. The city awoke, indifferent to my anguish. I knew tonight's dinner at the White estate would be another chapter in a story I was trying to rewrite, even if only through fleeting moments of brutal freedom.
"Let's fix this," I murmured, determination blending with pain, ready to face whatever came without masks or lies.
---
I stepped into the bathroom, and hot water enveloped me. Each droplet fell like a reminder, washing not just my skin but the ghosts of my scars. Steam fogged the mirror into a haze.
"Let it go, let it go," I whispered, syncing with the water's rhythmic pattern—a lonely beat echoing in the void.
I emerged reborn, if only briefly, and headed to the closet. Options lined the shelves, but my gaze settled on black.
I found a flawless tailored suit that sculpted every line of my frame. A long-sleeved shirt and polished shoes completed the ensemble, each piece a reminder of a mission only I understood.
Before getting dressed, I sprayed on some expensive perfume. The fragrance mixed with the cold air of the room, making its presence felt without fanfare. I ran my fingers through my hair, always perfect, a natural tangle of white dreads with black highlights that defied any label.
I faced my reflection. For the first time in ages, I let myself admire what I saw.
"Who knew such strength could rise from so much pain?" I rasped, my voice rough yet oddly proud.
My body, athletic and defined, spoke of silent years of training. Every muscle told stories of battles won and scars only I could read.
In a bittersweet moment, a thought struck: I was beautiful.
"Narcissism or truth?" I challenged myself, my voice low and cryptic.
The room, bathed in shadows and soft light, mirrored my spirit: dense, charged, yet ready to confront whatever came.
I closed my eyes briefly, the cologne lingering, and felt the resolve of a new decision. Today, every scar and choice would tell the story of a man lost in shadows but refusing to hide.
I opened the nightstand drawer with trembling hands. There it was: the black ring, symbol of the Order.
"Zero, etched in gold," I murmured, my voice gravelly as fate itself.
I slid it onto my finger with finality. Today, I would no longer be a shadow.
---
I descended the stairs slowly. At the corridor's end, my mother and Nayara waited.
My mother, draped in a black-and-white gown studded with jewels, exuded icy, imposing elegance.
Nayara wore a form fitting black dress, lethal and sleek as midnight.
"Good choice of dresses," I said flatly, my eyes scanning every detail, pride hidden beneath neutrality.
They smiled in unison, as if a mirror reflected our shared history.
"You look incredible too," they replied, their harmony trying to thaw the frost.
A smile threatened to surface, but I smothered it like a painful memory.
Adjusting my suit sleeve, each movement echoed certainty: the night would be long.
The White estate dinner wasn't just another family gathering. Under flickering lights and ancient alliances, I'd face not only the reunion but the legacy of a man I'd never known—yet whose blood pulsed in our veins.
---
The night before had offered no rest.
I tossed in bed as sleep eluded me like a cunning foe.
"Why this anxiety?" I whispered to the dark.
The answer was simple and bitter: the White estate dinner.
I should've been excited, right? A lavish party among powerful mobsters… even if it meant facing *him*.
I knew exactly who my father was.
A blood-soaked legacy who'd never been part of my life.
"Father?" The word dripped contempt, barely audible.
The Queen had trained us, molded Nael and me into lethal weapons.
Among the Order's top three assassins, I ranked third, trailing only the Queen and Nael.
Between us hung a charged silence, an eternal competition.
"Who's better: the Queen or Nael?" I murmured, the dark room my only listener.
Nael, ever distant, never showed emotion. His lethality, his unpredictability, were enigmas I struggled to decipher.
Even in silent rivalry, our presences clashed like shadows on a moonless night.
I recalled his measured gestures and icy stare, revealing nothing but precise analysis.
As restlessness tightened my chest, one thought persisted:
"Maybe one day I'll learn if I'm catching up or forever lagging behind."
The truth hid between our actions, in wordless battles we fought.
The White estate loomed distantly, but danger and inevitability already pulsed in the air.
"Today, I'll be more than a shadow," I vowed, anxiety blending with rage and ambition.
Preparing to face not just the party, but ghosts of a bloodstained past, was unavoidable.
Night approached, heavy with unspoken challenges.
As the clock ticked toward that gathering, each heartbeat whispered:
"Get ready. The game begins anew."
---
I shook off the thoughts with a sigh and rose. The day dragged, weighed, and I needed to prepare.
I entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot water soothed like a balm, washing away doubts I couldn't afford tonight. Stepping out, I felt ready to face the mirror.
I walked to the closet. Options sprawled—vibrant colors, luxurious fabrics—but instinct drew me to black. I chose a form fitting dress that clung like a second skin.
Adjusting the fabric with meticulous care, I needed no extravagance; my presence spoke volumes.
Briefly, I pressed a hand to the mirror. Applied subtle makeup, just enough to highlight crystalline blue eyes. My sun-gold hair fell loose in a cascade.
Grabbing a small, refined clutch, I cast a final glance at my reflection.
Downstairs, my mother waited.
"Good morning, dear," she said softly, her voice firm, each word weighted with authority.
Her gown—impeccable black and white, jeweled—commanded respect effortlessly.
She was Celestia Black. Meeting her gaze, I felt the silent strength that ruled any room she entered.
"Ready for the day?" she asked, eyes scrutinizing every detail.
The answer hung unspoken.
I knew tonight's dinner wouldn't be just a reunion—it'd be a minefield where every move mattered.
In the black dress and its demanded poise, I left the room, ready to bear a legacy's weight and secrets only night would reveal.
---
I waited beside her, the staircase clock ticking in my ears. When I glanced up, Nael emerged from the shadows, his aura momentarily breathtaking. If he weren't my younger brother, perhaps I'd wish for him to be different. But fate had a cruel sense of humor.
He wore a flawless black suit sculpted to his athletic frame. Long white dreads streaked with black fell carelessly past his shoulders, capturing the room's soft light. But his eyes captivated most—intense as a blazing aurora, hues shifting between secrets and contained turmoil he'd never reveal.
"Good choice of dresses," Nael said flatly, as if commenting on the weather, never allowing vulnerability.
I understood. His words were precise yet cold; we radiated, but his pride stood unshaken, a wall never to crumble. In unison, Mother and I replied:
"You look incredible too."
For a moment, silence settled. Not uncomfortable, but unwelcoming. We were a family of cracks and secrets, every glance heavy with unspoken histories.
Nael adjusted his sleeve subtly, his gaze almost challenging. Something in his eyes made me wonder what he truly expected tonight—a hidden agenda behind analytical frost.
As he stood motionless, every second meticulously measured, the room became a silent arena where gestures and words were pieces of an unsolvable game. Tension hung thick, inevitable, and I knew tonight our family's secrets and designs would unravel irreversibly.
---
Night had deepened when I saw them descend the stairs. Dim light turned every detail cinematic.
"We're late," I announced, my voice steady but tinged with dread.
Nael appeared first, as always. Dressed in black, his suit's every seam exalted his impeccable posture. Broad shoulders and a straight spine hinted at silent burdens, while his eyes—chaotic, aurora-bright—held secrets he'd never release.
Behind him, Nayara moved with feline grace. Her form fitting dress hugged her curves, golden hair framing an ethereal face. Crystal-blue eyes reflected cold, hypnotic light, clashing with the gloom.
I watched from afar, pride and worry warring. They weren't just my children—they were masterpieces forged in blood and secrets, impossible to ignore.
"Let's go. Now," I said, slicing the silence between us.
They nodded wordlessly.
In the car, the air thickened. Silence drowned us, each lost in dark thoughts. The road crawled by, tension a silent prelude to what lay ahead.
Within forty minutes, we reached the White mansion.
As we stepped out, anticipation hummed—of encounters, confrontations.
Nael shot a cold, calculating glare, as if weighing every risk.
Nayara, with a faint melancholic smile, refused to disrupt the fragile balance of pride and fear.
And I, deep down, knew tonight wasn't just another dinner.
We'd be pawns in an ancient game where every gesture and silence told our family's story—a tale of secrets and trials.
"Prepare yourselves," I murmured, my voice steeled against inevitability, as the outer darkness conspired with our fates.
---
The mansion loomed ahead in opulent grandeur. Wrought-iron gates creaked open, revealing an enchanted garden: surgically pruned trees, fountains glittering under artificial lights, a stone path leading to the entrance.
Inside, deafening silence greeted our late arrival. Every eye fixed on us. I stood to the right, Nayara to the left, Nael ever at the center. My 5'10" frame paled beside his 6'2", while Nayara's 5'9" completed the trio with innate elegance.
---