Discovering the Truth [3]

The words spread like a crack in glass. The entire room seemed to hold its breath. Nayara kept her gaze fixed on Rose, but something in her posture shifted—something subtle, almost imperceptible, like the shift in wind before a storm. 

Then Ethan, ever cloaked in sardonic humor but now somber, let out a dry laugh. A colorless, heatless sound. His eyes glinted briefly before his voice filled the void: 

"But do you think that *matters*? This isn't a game of tradition, Dylan. It's a game of power." 

The silence deepened. Ethan, who always skirted the edges of heated debates, now faced the raw truth alongside everyone else. His eyes, once alight with mocking brilliance, had turned dark, frigid. 

Dylan crossed his arms, his expression shuttering. He wasn't stupid. He understood the gravity of the situation perfectly, yet there was something in him—a hesitation, a discomfort he couldn't fully mask. 

The weight of the night seemed to seep into the walls, dripping from the ceiling like poison. The room was no longer just a physical space but a silent battlefield. Glances clashed like unsheathed blades. Among them all, Nael, ever detached, merely observed. His gaze swept over every expression, every subtle shift in breath, like a patient predator disinterested in the hunt. 

There, in that silence as thick as a freshly dug grave, an unspoken truth hovered: there were no exits. Only choices. And all of them led to the same end. 

"Yes, she isn't, but they want her. Ever since they learned she's Ivan's daughter—maybe she doesn't know it, but she's the most important person in this world. More important than anyone could imagine." 

Ethan's words fell like a stone into still water, rippling the surface of understanding into chaos. Nayara felt a wave of confusion and rage surge through her. *How?* She was at the center of it all, yet had no idea how deeply she was coveted—or what it meant for her. 

"What… Do you mean? I don't understand." Her voice wavered, but she fought to stay rational, seeking clarity in the storm. 

Rose sighed, a long, pained exhale. She was exhausted but knew she had to continue. 

"You don't understand, Nayara. You're the princess of the Order of Assassins, the future queen. You're the daughter of Celestia Black, founder of BLACK—the most powerful woman alive, the wealthiest, and the heir to everything she built. The woman who created nanobot technology now used worldwide, making people three times stronger than ordinary humans. She also developed other technologies the world shouldn't have access to—not even in 500 years. And to top it off, you're the daughter of a counselor to the American mafia, the younger brother of its boss. Don't you see? The truth is, you're not just the Order's princess. You're a commodity of incalculable value to *everyone*." 

Rose's words pierced Nayara's heart. She'd never imagined her blood, her body, could be so coveted. But what devastated her most was the revelation that her father had cast her life onto a chessboard, where her choice of partner would be dictated by others—by power, by greater interests. There was no control left, no choice. She was a piece to be moved. 

Rose, her voice fraying further, pressed on: 

"You can outrun a car. Leap three stories high. Lift two tons. Regenerate, cure diseases, outlive any normal human—all because of your mother's technology. And if you think no one wants control over that power, you're deluded. They know this is a once-in-an-era opportunity, and they won't let it slip. They'll exploit every loophole. And your father… He'll be the one responsible." 

The room was a tomb. The dense, stagnant air pressed against their lungs. Each word was a blow, heavy and irreversible. Nayara's fate crystallized before her like shackles closing around her body. But the fight wasn't over. 

Lion ventured to speak, his voice hesitant yet sparking with defiance: 

"We can resist… can't we? She shouldn't be forced into this marriage, right?" 

The hope in his voice was fragile, a flickering flame in the storm. But the room didn't answer immediately. Silence prowled like a predator. 

Dylan, leaning against the wall, watched with icy detachment. His smile wasn't joyful but certain. When he spoke, his voice sliced through the silence like a razor: 

"Only if the one he's to marry is a virgin." His words echoed off the walls, their weight suffocating. "It's an unwritten rule. The leader of a mafia must marry a virgin woman. That's why women must remain untouched until twenty." 

The declaration hung in the air, choking like oxygen had been sucked from the room. Nayara didn't move. Her face remained impassive, but inside, something burned—a silent, lethal flame. A weight settled in her stomach, not of fear, but disgust. This wasn't destiny; it was a sentence. 

Dylan scanned the room, savoring reactions like a hunter tasting prey. When his eyes landed on Eva, his smile darkened. 

"And that's the loophole they'll use to reach Nayara." He tilted his head slightly, like a judge who'd already decided the verdict. "Even if she isn't? It won't matter. They'll ignore it. Because this was never about rules… only control." 

Eva lowered her eyes. Shame crushed her shoulders, but worse was the helplessness. There was no fighting a world that had decided her worth before she could protest. 

The room stayed steeped in tension. Each of them tasted the bitter reality seeping into their bones. The war wasn't lost, but the battle ahead was merciless. And for many here, it was already too late. 

Nayara couldn't ignore the impact of Dylan's words. He hadn't just shattered her illusions of freedom—he'd exposed a painful, irreversible truth: in this cruel, controlled world, she, her sister, and everyone here were mere bargaining chips. 

Nael, his gaze impassive, absorbed every fragment of the conversation with his usual calm. His eyes, sharp as blades, caught nuances others missed. He knew the situation would unravel into something far more complex than any here anticipated. He needed information—no gaps. 

"Tell me more about the Russian mafia." His voice cut the air, cold and precise. The ensuing silence felt tangible, as if everyone held their breath beneath his invisible authority. 

Valet, the capo's right-hand man, inhaled deeply. His gaze hardened, his words heavy with the brutality of their world: 

"They have tendrils everywhere. Entrenched in the Italian and Chinese mafias. They're the best-armed, and their ties to the Russian government make them untouchable. To us, that's an absolute disadvantage. While we're treated as criminals, they're seen as useful tools—an invisible arm of the state. We're isolated. And the Chinese mafia…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "…has advanced further than we imagined in weapons tech." 

The room seemed constricted. Dim light cast long shadows, the humid air pressing down like a warning—they were surrounded by forces beyond their control. 

"The situation is unsustainable," Valet continued, tension thrumming in his voice. "If conflict erupts now, it won't just be a war between families. It'll be a world war. The losses would be irreparable. And for us…" He locked eyes with Nael. "…there's no way out without consequences." 

Silence returned, thicker than before. Nayara felt the words crushing her chest like invisible chains. Nael, expression unchanging, simply watched, calculating, dismantling this invisible chessboard in his mind. 

Each of Valet's words was a nail in hope's coffin. He didn't just inform—he painted inevitability, a future so bleak it felt preordained. The heavy air was a cruel reminder of their insignificance against forces far beyond them. 

Nael, motionless, absorbed every detail. His expression was that of a man observing pieces on an invisible board—no hurry, no hesitation. His stare was blades sheathed in indifference. He didn't speak, didn't react. Only analyzed. Yet something in the atmosphere around him shifted subtly, like a storm brewing beyond the horizon. 

Valet continued, his voice darker, as if digging a bottomless pit: 

"So far, they have around a hundred soldiers enhanced with nanobots. 'Superior humans,' they call them. Fighting them wouldn't be war—it'd be slaughter. And from what I know, you, Nael, have none of that in your system. You're just… human." His pause was calculated, a loaded silence that let the words sink like lead. 

Reality crashed over them like a soundless thunderclap. A glimpse into the abyss they were free-falling toward. 

Nayara felt something twist inside her—part fear, part fury. Her chest rose and fell in controlled rhythm, her expression steeled. Everything in her screamed resistance, but her mind fought to ignore the bitter taste of helplessness. Something here was wrong. Something slipping through the cracks of their imposed certainties. 

Time stretched, each second shredded by the room's tension. The silence was almost alive, slithering over them, throttling throats, smothering unspoken words. 

--- 

Nael moved. A slight shift, yet it sliced through the room like a honed blade. He rose with his usual calm, but his presence carried something different—imperceptible yet chilling. His eyes, hollow and fathomless, locked onto the man seated before him. 

*Ivan.* 

The father. The architect of shadows sprawling across this macabre chessboard. 

Ivan showed no surprise. His expression was stone-carved, but subtle rigidity betrayed his anticipation—as if he'd always known what would come. 

Nael simply stared. Not with rage, nor coldness, but an absolute void—a vacuum so complete Ivan seemed reduced to an insignificant speck in his analysis. 

Unhurried, Nael regarded him with unnerving calm. His eyes revealed neither anger nor fear, only glacial detachment, as though delivering a casual ultimatum. 

"Well? Have you chosen?" The question hung like an irrevocable decree. The room froze around them, shadows dancing on walls as onlookers watched, suspended between dread and morbid curiosity. 

Ivan frowned, confusion warring with the tension in his posture. He clung to fraying authority, the illusion of control crumbling. 

"Chosen *what*?" His voice wavered, a brittle attempt to maintain paternal dominance. 

Nael didn't answer immediately. His expression was merciless. He stepped forward, closing the distance with a subtlety that thickened the air with unspoken threats. 

"I gave you a choice: blow your brains out or rip your balls off." Nael's voice was icy, emotionless, yet tinged with cruel amusement. "Time's running out. I don't like wasting it." 

The words, delivered with lethal calm, cleaved the silence. Ivan flinched as if struck. His face twisted with rage and frustration, eyes betraying mounting fear. The authority he'd fought to uphold was disintegrating. 

"I'm your *father*, you brat!" Ivan's gravelly voice erupted, anger boiling over—but before he could finish, Nael moved. 

A blur. Ivan was hoisted effortlessly, Nael's hand crushing his throat. In a blink, Ivan was slammed into the wall with brutal force. The crack of concrete echoed as he hurtled over 10 meters back, pinned like a specimen. 

The room plunged into silence—dense, vibrating, as if the world itself held its breath. Only Ivan's ragged breathing and the drip of blood on concrete pierced the stillness. Pale light flickered over stained walls, casting grotesque shadows. 

Nael didn't move. No satisfaction colored his expression, no fury—only the meticulous patience of someone observing an experiment nearing its inevitable conclusion. His gaze met Ivan's. The man trembled, cold sweat trailing his temple, eyes wide with primal terror—not hatred, but pure dread. 

"How…?" Ivan croaked, voice shredded. "You're… just a normal human…?" 

Nael blinked slowly, as if the question were trivial. He tilted his head, studying the crimson rivulets snaking across the floor. When he finally spoke, his tone was bored, conversational: 

"Too many questions." 

The sentence fell like a guillotine. Ivan's mouth opened—but there was no time. In a motion too clean, too precise, Nael dipped slightly. A silver blade flashed, then vanished beneath skin. 

The sound came first: a wet *thud*, followed by a choked gasp. Ivan arched, eyes bulging in silent shock. Then the scream—not human, but visceral, raw, a distorted howl that made the room recoil. 

No one moved. Nayara inhaled deeply, her expression shuttered but fingers tightening imperceptibly on her clothes. Ethan averted his gaze. They knew: no room for pity here. 

Ivan collapsed. Blood sprayed as his body hit the floor, once-dominant form reduced to twitching supplication. Pale skin contrasted with spreading crimson, dignity shattered. 

Nael stepped back, pulling a cloth from his pocket to wipe the blade. He moved with the indifference of someone finishing routine work. Ivan's whimpers faded beneath the room's glacial aura. Blood seeped into cracked concrete. 

"You should've chosen better." Nael's voice was a dispassionate farewell, the final note of a concluded melody. 

Without glancing back, he strode from the room, leaving behind a silence heavy with inevitability. 

Ivan's screams lingered like echoes from an endless nightmare. Guttural moans mingled with the viscous drip of blood, painting a grotesque tableau. Metallic scent clung to skin and lungs as onlookers stood paralyzed, unable to look away. 

Nael drifted from the inert body, steps light amid the carnage. He turned, indifferent, as though nothing had happened, and tossed a final remark over his shoulder: 

"Get him to a hospital." 

The room teetered on collapse—then Merlin's fury erupted. 

He lunged with inhuman speed, fist rocketing toward Nael's face. But Nael shifted—a barely perceptible sidestep. Merlin's strike met empty air. Before he could react, Nael pivoted, landing a sharp kick to his knee. 

A *crack* reverberated. 

Merlin collapsed sideways, body betraying his rage. He tried to rise, but Nael was already atop him. A crushing foot pinned his chest, agony lancing through him as he gasped for air. 

"You should thank me," Nael murmured, each word clawing into flesh. "He and his dick caused more trouble than the entire mafia. But maybe not." 

Merlin writhed, pushing futilely against Nael's foot. His glare wavered between hatred and despair, teeth grinding as pride and body broke. 

"Bastard…!" he spat, voice trembling. 

Nael leaned in, pressure intensifying. Merlin choked, air fleeing his lungs. 

"What you *should* thank me for," Nael mused with false contemplation, "is not having your mother raped by animals or sending his daughters to a brothel—to be broken until they forget who they are." 

Merlin's eyes widened. Rage dissolved into shock, breath erratic. Something deeper than flesh shattered inside him. 

"Enough!" Kendrick, the American mafia capo, bellowed like thunder. 

Nael glanced up, unflinching. He could've ended Merlin then—but Kendrick understood the weight of actions. One of the few who knew true fire. 

With deliberate slowness, Nael lifted his foot. Merlin gulped air, a stifled groan escaping. Nael turned and walked away, leaving Merlin defeated—physically, spiritually. 

The silence that followed wasn't the same. It was oppressive, final. All knew: something irreversible had occurred. 

The room was dead. Gazes hollow, haunted stupor clinging to each witness. Blood hung thick, suffocating. Flickering light danced on crimson-streaked walls, shadows twisting as if the very space recoiled. 

Nael stepped forward. Then again. Footsteps echoed, solitary, marking an irreversible end. No haste—only absolute silence. He walked as one crossing a name off a list, no hesitation, no remorse. 

At his feet, Ivan spasmed pathetically. Nael didn't glance down. Nothing there deserved his attention. The past had been excised, reduced to shattered flesh and dignity. 

He paused at the door. Without turning, his voice cut the air, blade-sharp: 

"Let's go home." 

Celestia and Nayara didn't reply. No need. A silent understanding bound them—beyond words. Mother and sister watched him, searching his gaze for something—but Nael had already turned. Already moved on. 

Time slowed as he crossed the threshold, vanishing into corridor shadows, never looking back. 

---