The black envelope sat on the table like a silent bomb.
Elian couldn't tear his eyes away from it.
Sophie shifted uncomfortably beside him, chewing on her bruised lip, her fingers nervously picking at the edge of the blanket covering Elian's battered form.
"You... you're going to open it, right?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Elian didn't answer immediately.
He could still feel the ghost of Donovan Graves's cold presence lingering in the room, like a shadow clinging to his skin. Whoever that man was, he wasn't someone you ignored. Not without consequences.
With a shaking hand, Elian reached for the envelope.
The black paper was thick and strangely warm, almost like it was alive.
He slid a finger beneath the flap and pulled out a letter — handwritten, on creamy, heavy paper that smelled faintly of roses... and something metallic.
Blood?
The words were penned in perfect cursive, every letter deliberate and elegant:
> To Elian Frost,
If you are reading this, it means the world has begun to turn in your favor.
You do not know me. You never will. But know this: your blood is worth more than the air these parasites breathe. You are heir to a legacy forged in secrecy, bathed in power, protected by forces even death fears.
In time, you will understand. For now, survive.
Your first gift awaits you in the courtyard at dawn.
Trust no one.
Especially those who smile the widest.
Welcome to the beginning of your real life.
- The Silent Hand
Elian's throat closed up.
The Silent Hand?
Who the hell—
Before he could make sense of it, a small, black key fell out from the folds of the letter onto his lap.
Sophie gasped, reaching out instinctively before pulling her hand back, as if touching it would curse her.
"This... this feels wrong," she whispered.
Elian nodded numbly.
He had seen wrong all his life. Pain. Humiliation. Hunger. Loneliness. But this... this was different.
This was dangerous.
"This is insane," he muttered hoarsely.
But deep inside, another voice — colder, sharper — whispered back:
This is yours. Take it.
—
The hospital released him before dawn, claiming his injuries were "minor" — an obvious lie someone had paid them to tell. But Elian was too numb to fight it.
Sophie insisted on staying by his side, her tiny frame stubbornly bracing against the chilly morning air.
The courtyard behind the hospital was deserted except for a single black car parked near the fountain — a luxury model with the engine purring softly, almost expectantly.
It wasn't just any car.
It was a midnight-black Lykan Hypersport — one of only seven in the world.
The license plate read simply: GHOST 1
Elian gaped.
Someone had left this... for him?
He turned the key over and over in his hand, half-expecting it to vanish like a dream.
"You're not seriously thinking about—" Sophie started, but Elian was already moving.
The key slid into the door.
The car responded immediately, unlocking with a quiet, mechanical sigh like it had been waiting just for him.
Inside, the interior was black leather stitched with crimson thread. It smelled brand new.
On the driver's seat sat another envelope — this one smaller.
He opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single card, pure black, no numbers, no writing... nothing.
And yet, on the back in tiny silver letters:
> Unlimited.
Elian stared.
Was it a bank card? A passkey? Some kind of trick?
Before he could process it, the car's screen blinked to life.
A woman's voice — smooth, synthetic, yet disturbingly human — filled the cabin.
"Good morning, Mr. Frost," it said. "I am Ava. Your personal AI assistant."
Sophie, peering through the window, gasped audibly.
"You have been activated under Protocol 7: Ascension," Ava continued. "Please fasten your seatbelt. Your journey begins now."
Elian sank into the driver's seat.
Everything in him screamed that this was wrong, too big, too dangerous.
But something deeper — something broken and furious — screamed louder:
No more suffering. No more humiliation. No more crawling.
He fastened his seatbelt.
"Where to, Mr. Frost?" Ava asked sweetly.
Elian grinned, blood still crusted on his split lip.
"Anywhere but here."
The Hypersport roared to life, tires screeching as it peeled away from the crumbling hospital and into the bleeding sunrise.
Behind them, hidden in the shadows, a man watched through binoculars.
He clicked a button on his earpiece.
"The lamb has taken the bait," he said.
On the other end of the line, a low chuckle answered.
"Good. Now... the slaughter begins."
—