Max didn't even need to turn around. Just hearing the voice was enough. He recognized it instantly—not just as someone from the White Tiger Gang, but as one of the Cubs.
The Cubs were a nickname given to the individuals closest to Maxamus, back when he was the leader of the gang.
As the White Tiger expanded, growing larger and spreading their underground influence far and wide, Max had needed strong leaders to manage operations in different territories. It wasn't enough for people to fear him—they had to fear those under him too. That's why he gave his inner circle the name "Cubs."
Some of them had been with him from the very beginning, helping build the gang from the ground up. Others had earned their way in by proving their strength and loyalty. Either way, every Cub was a skilled fighter with serious influence and control.
But what's one of the Cubs doing at an event like this? Max wondered. As far as I know, we never had any connection with the Stern family. I was hands-on with all our operations, and the Cubs always reported directly to me.
It's only been three days… what's even happened to the White Tigers since I've been gone? Has a new leader already taken over?
Still, Max turned around—and the moment he matched the voice to the face, he knew exactly who it was.
Two men stood talking in suits. One was dressed sharply in full business attire, tie perfectly straight. The other had a more casual look, wearing a grey suit with a plain white shirt underneath, the top buttons undone.
The second man was smaller in build, with a noticeable scar on his chin. His hair was spiked and styled forward, a trick Max immediately recognized. It was done to hide the fact that he was balding.
Skinny Kete… Max mouthed silently.
A flood of memories rushed in all at once.
Back then, Max had already been an adult when the gang started—though he didn't even realize it was going to be a gang at first. Skinny Kete was one of the first people to join him on that path. Together, they built the foundation of the White Tiger Gang. He was one of the few people Max had truly trusted.
If I told him who I am… if I proved it by telling him something only the two of us would know… he'd believe me, right?
He wouldn't think I'm crazy. And maybe—just maybe—we could rebuild the White Tigers together. With this new fortune… who knows how far we could go.
Max had already started taking a few steps forward—but then a particular sentence echoed in his mind.
"It's not gangs that rule this city. It's money."
What am I thinking? Max froze. I was betrayed by someone in the White Tigers. That's how this all started.
Back then, his mind had been too foggy to recognize the voice or the face. It could've been anyone. Sure, Skinny Kete had once been close to him—but so had every one of the Cubs.
Any one of them could've been behind it.
I can't tell anyone who I really am—not until I figure out who sold me out.
Just the fact that Kete was even here was suspicious enough.
Turning away, Max made the decision to walk off. He couldn't hang around, not right now.
If he had one major flaw, it was his temper. And he knew—if he overheard something, if he let himself stew in it too long—he might just end up slamming Kete's head into a table, demanding answers.
Right then, someone bumped into him hard.
The impact hit one of the bruises still hidden under his clothes, and Max winced sharply, clenching his jaw against the pain.
"Ow!" Max couldn't help but yell out.
His outburst immediately drew the attention of nearby guests, all turning to look at the commotion.
"Relax. Don't exaggerate," a smug voice said. "I only bumped into you a little by accident."
Of course.
It was Chad—again. This time, he'd managed to smear a jam scone down Max's shirt, making the already ruined clothes look even worse.
Seriously? Sticky jam?
Max touched the fabric and instantly regretted it—his fingers now clung to the mess on his shirt.
"Are you trying to make me look like the bad guy?" Chad said, his tone dripping with fake innocence. "It was just an accident. Don't turn this into something bigger than it is, okay?"
He leaned in slightly. "Especially not on Grandfather's birthday, in front of all these important guests. And, uh… you might wanna go get changed. You look like a disaster."
Max started breathing slowly—deeply—in through his nose, out through his mouth.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken this much disrespect without snapping.
His vision narrowed, everything else fading except Chad. He didn't even notice the stares anymore… or the quiet laughter from the other family members watching nearby.
It's obvious now—Chad's doing all of this on purpose. I'm the target.
Did the old Max never fight back? Is this really the personality I'm supposed to keep up? Because if it is… I don't know if I can survive another five minutes around this guy.
Thankfully, Aron stepped in. He gave Max a very specific look—one that clearly said: Let it go.
Max clenched his jaw and exhaled through his nose. Fine. He'd let it go. For now.
He turned, ready to head back inside. Honestly, if he could leave this place entirely, he would.
But just then, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed by.
At that exact moment, Chad casually stepped forward—and deliberately landed on the heel of the waiter's shoe.
The man stumbled, and the entire tray went flying.
Six full glasses of champagne launched into the air—crashing into Max from behind.
The cold liquid soaked him from head to toe. His hair dripped, the back of his suit clung to him, completely drenched.
Gasps echoed, followed by bursts of laughter from the nearby guests.
"Haha! When I told you to clean yourself up, I didn't mean like that," Chad joked, grinning like he'd just delivered the punchline of the year.
More laughter followed—louder this time.
Max turned around, a wide smile stretching across his face—so wide that his eyes were nearly hidden beneath it. His pace quickened as he walked forward, fists clenched tight.
People like you… you've never been punched a day in your life.
He swung. A fist, fast and furious, aimed straight for Chad's smug face.
Chad flinched—completely caught off guard—but the punch never landed.
His wrist was caught mid-air. The one holding it? Aron.
"Doing this won't help you," Aron whispered. "I'm stopping you for your own good. I'm trying to protect you."
"Did… did you just try to hit me?" Chad asked, stunned. "Have you lost your mind? What's gotten into you? You're acting like some kind of rabid dog."
"You're right," Max said calmly, letting the tension drain from his hand.
Aron felt the shift and, after a brief pause, released his grip. The moment Max's wrist was free, he brought up his other hand, and drove his fist hard into the side of Chad's face.
The blow sent him crashing to the ground.
Max stood over him. "But I don't need you to protect me."