"The Billionaire’s Nightmare"

The night was thick with fog, swallowing everything in its cold, suffocating embrace. The damp air clung to his skin, chilling him to the bone. Lucian ran. His breath came in sharp gasps, his feet pounding against the steel rails of an endless, desolate railway track.

The world around him was eerily silent, except for the distant hum of something approaching—something monstrous. The tracks stretched into the darkness, fading into an abyss he couldn't escape. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and desperation.

Then he heard it.

A low, metallic roar growing louder, splitting through the thick mist like a beast hunting its prey. A train. Its headlights pierced the fog, casting ghostly beams across the empty landscape. The ground trembled beneath him.

Lucian's legs burned, his muscles screaming for relief. But he couldn't stop. He didn't know why he was running. He didn't know what had led him here. He only knew one thing—if he stopped, he would die.

The whistle shrieked. The train was close. Too close.

He tried to turn, but his feet slipped on the damp steel. His body lurched forward. The blinding light engulfed him, and the sound of metal crushing flesh shattered the night.

Boom.

Lucian jerked awake, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his temples. His body was rigid, his fingers curled into fists so tight they ached.

The nightmare lingered like a phantom, its claws still buried deep in his subconscious. His pulse was a war drum, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths as he forced himself back to the present.

Then his gaze shifted—across the dimly lit room, to the framed photograph on the far wall.

Ana Monroe.

A face frozen in time, unaware of the storm waiting to consume her.

His jaw clenched. Without hesitation, Lucian reached for the knife on his bedside table—a custom-made, razor-sharp blade within arm's reach at all times. With one smooth motion, he threw it.

The blade sliced through the air before striking the glass with a sharp crack. It lodged itself right between her eyes, splintering the picture like fractured ice.

His voice was a whisper in the silence, deadly and absolute.

"One day, Ana… you'll pay for your sins."

The rage simmered beneath his skin, a quiet, disciplined thing. Controlled. Patient. Like a predator stalking its prey.

His bedroom was silent, too perfect, too controlled. No fog. No train. No fear.

Just wealth.

Silk sheets. A chandelier dripping with crystals. A penthouse view that stretched over the city skyline. Perfection, handcrafted to his liking.

Yet, beneath it all, the past still festered.

He exhaled slowly, reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand. He drank, swallowing down the phantom taste of metal and blood. Then—he let it go. Buried it. Just like everything else.

Time to start the day.

One by one, he reclaimed control.

Glasses—sleek, black-rimmed, custom-made. He slid them on.

Phone—a limited-edition model. 5:00 AM.

A Rolex, cufflinks, a black silk robe. Every piece of his life, handpicked and flawless.

A sound—the doorbell.

"Come in."

The door opened. A beautiful woman stepped inside. Tall, elegant, dressed in a tailored black uniform.

She bowed slightly. Her voice was soft, professional.

"Good morning, sir. Your private gym is ready."

He didn't respond immediately. Just watched as she moved across the room, carrying a velvet-lined case.

His body was flawless. Broad shoulders, sculpted abs, a physique built from control and discipline. A billionaire's body—untouched, powerful.

Except for the one thing that was not real.

She knelt before him, opening the case with quiet efficiency. Her fingers worked precisely, aligning the prosthetic leg with practiced care before securing it in place.

Lucian remained still, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing his face.

"Your schedule is in place, sir. And…" she hesitated slightly. "Would you like to choose your breakfast now?"

"High-protein," he said coolly. "I'll train an extra hour today."

She nodded. "Very well, sir."

With a bow, she exited, leaving him alone once more.

He rose to his feet, moving toward the window, the city stretching out beneath him. His steps were precise, unhesitating. No one would ever guess. No one would ever know.

But beneath the silk robe, beneath the perfection—the truth remained.

The boy on the tracks. The laughter. The betrayal.

And the revenge waiting to be served.

The leg he lost. The part of himself that was stolen in one reckless moment.

His gaze lowered, the illusion cracking for just a second. Beneath the rich fabric, beneath the polished image—a machine, not flesh.

It had taken him years to master walking again. Years of agony, of relentless training. The phantom pain had clawed at him. The weight had felt unnatural. And the humiliation of falling—again and again—had nearly broken him.

But he never stopped.

While others lived their privileged, carefree lives, he spent hours in the dead of night, pushing his body beyond its limits. He forced himself to walk, to run, to fight—until the fake leg became an extension of his will.

Now, no one could tell.

No hesitation. No imbalance. Not even a whisper of weakness.

He turned away from the window, shoulders squared. His revenge wouldn't be rushed.

Because if he had learned one thing from his suffering—it was patience.