Adrian's Pov

The candle trembles before I even touch it.

Pathetic.

My hand hovers over the matchbox on the nightstand, fingers steady in theory—but the moment the cardboard scrapes and sulfur hisses through the silence, something inside me fractures.

The room is dim.

Too dim.

Darkness clings to the concrete walls like it’s waiting to swallow me whole, shifting and stretching until the shadows feel alive.

I strike the match anyway.

A tiny flame blooms—soft, fragile, deceptively harmless.

My hand shakes so violently I nearly drop it.

Not tonight.

Not again.

Jaw locked, I force the candle upright.

The glass is cool against my palm, grounding for half a second.

I lower the match until the wick catches and fire curls upward in a slow, lazy flicker.

It shouldn’t terrify me.

Not after twenty three years.

Not after everything I’ve done.

But it does.

Heat ghosts across my skin—barely a whisper—but my pulse spikes hard.

My heart punches against my ribs like it wants to rip out of my chest and run for its life.

My throat tightens.

My vision tunnels.

I stare at the flame.

One second.

Two.

Three.

My lungs lock up.

I blow it out so fast the room fills with the sharp, smoky sting of burnt wick, and I suck in air like someone just pulled me from underwater.

“Fuck,” I mutter, voice shredded.

Before my brain catches up, my arm swings. The chair beside the bed sails across the room and slams into the concrete wall, exploding into splintered wood.

The impact echoes across the whole floor.

My hands claw into my hair.

Hard.

Sharp pain sparks across my scalp, but it’s not enough to drag me back.

The night comes back.

It always does.

That night—

that fire—

that scream that wasn’t even human anymore—

It hits me with the same brutal clarity it has for twenty three damn years.

My mother’s voice swallowed by flames.

My father’s silhouette collapsing in the doorway.

My little brother’s tiny fingers slipping out of mine as smoke devoured the air.

Bodies burned so badly they were unrecognizable.

Everything I had—gone.

One fire.

One betrayal.

One man.

William Hayes.

My father’s so-called friend.

A snake dressed like royalty.

The bastard who smiled across our dinner table, toasted to loyalty, and whispered about protection—

Then struck the match that destroyed my family.

His face still haunts me—smooth, polished, a lie carved into every feature.

A man who didn’t flinch when he burned my world to ash.

My fist curls so tight my knuckles strain white.

I drop my palm straight into the hot wax pooled around the candle’s wick.

The sting is immediate—sharp, punishing, real.

Good.

Pain I can handle.

Pain I understand.

Pain doesn’t lie.

“I will end you,” I whisper, voice raw. “I’ll burn your life the way you burned mine.”

The vow slides deep into my chest, acidic and familiar, the only thing that’s kept me alive for two decades.

A soft creak cuts through the tension.

The door cracks open, spilling hallway light across the floor.

“Did the candle yoga exceed three seconds yet?”

Marcus’s voice—smug, amused, loud enough to echo.

I groan and flop backward onto the bed, rubbing at my face. “Fuck you.”

“Love you too, princess,” he replies, shouldering the door open with the confidence of someone who owns the place—and, technically, he does.

Marcus Grey.

The only person on this planet I trust with my life.

I met him three years after the fire that destroyed my life.

Back when I was ten, starving, feral, slipping out of a café window with stolen bread while a security guard chased me.

I should’ve gotten caught.

Marcus didn’t let that happen.

He pulled me into an alley, hid me behind a dumpster, mouthed “shut up” before the guard ran past us. I didn’t know him. He didn’t know me.

He just… saved me.

We’ve been stuck with each other ever since.

“Why’s there a corpse of a chair on the floor?” Marcus asks, stepping over the wreckage.

He’s holding a folder tucked under one arm, hair a mess like he rolled out of bed and decided hygiene was optional.

“It insulted me,” I mutter.

“Did it say you’re emotionally unavailable or that fire gives you trauma? Because one of those is obvious.”

I glare. “Sarcasm before coffee is illegal.”

Marcus snorts and plops down on the edge of the bed, kicking his boots onto my sheets because he’s a degenerate.

His green eyes—those damn haunting eyes—glow in the low light.

Eyes that remind me of someone I lost, someone whose memory still claws at the back of my mind even though twenty three years have passed.

Maybe that’s why I stayed with him at first.

Those eyes felt like home.

Like something I’d once loved fiercely.

We built everything together.

From nothing.

From pain, hunger, hatred.

Now we own this city’s nightmares.

THE APEX.

On paper, we’re a security firm.

In reality…

we’re the reason certain corrupt officials disappear overnight.

We’re the whisper under the table.

The threat in the dark.

The power behind the curtain.

Nothing about us is legal.

Nothing about us is clean.

But justice never came for my family—so I stopped believing in justice.

Marcus tosses the folder onto my chest. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my—”

“Yeah, but you get cranky every time I don’t acknowledge your trauma-versary.”

I flip him off and open the file.

A photo slips out.

A girl.

Staring somewhere off-camera like she doesn’t belong in her own skin.

Elara Hayes.

Daughter of William Hayes.

My target.

My key to his empire.

My way in.

For the past year, I’ve been watching her.

Studying her.

Waiting.

She’s… strange.

A ghost wearing human skin.

In twelve months, I’ve never seen her with friends.

Never seen her talk to anyone.

She goes to college, goes home, repeats.

No nightlife.

No outings.

Nothing.

Not even a voice.

But the hospitals—

She visits every week.

Like clockwork.

I’ve watched her walk in.

I’ve seen the exhaustion in her posture, the way she wraps her arms around herself like she’s holding something inside that might spill.

But when we pulled the hospital records…

There was nothing.

No files.

No appointments.

No diagnosis.

Not a single trace.

Like she doesn’t exist on paper.

Marcus whistles low as he sees my face. “Creepy little secret, isn’t she?”

“What is she hiding?” I murmur.

“Daddy’s money can make a lot of things disappear.”

“So can mine,” I say.

Marcus smirks. “That’s the spirit. Murderous and confident. Good to know ruining your childhood room didn’t slow you down.”

I ignore him, flipping through the report.

More photos.

More surveillance notes.

Elara walking alone. Elara staring out of windows.

Elara disappearing into doctor’s offices with no name on the door.

A strange tightness creeps through my chest.

Not sympathy.

Not interest.

Just… curiosity.

A dangerous kind.

“Still think she’s just a pawn?” Marcus asks.

“She is,” I say instantly.

“Hmm. You sound sure.”

“I am.”

I have to be.

She’s the only way to get to Hayes.

To gut him from the inside.

To burn him the way he burned me.

Marcus stretches out lazily. “So what’s the plan? Kidnap? Seduce? Random collision in a hallway? You gonna be all broody and mysterious and make her fall in love with you?”

I glare again. “I don’t need her to fall in love. I need access.”

“Right, right. No romance. Strictly business.” He pauses. “You said that last time too. And we both remember how that ended.”

“That was different.”

He raises a brow. “You stabbed the guy.”

“He winked at me when I asked him his room password for the documents so, He deserved it.”

Marcus laughs. “You’re impossible.”

“And you talk too much.”

“And yet you keep me around,” he says smugly.

Against my will, a ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth.

Barely there.

Gone in a second.

Marcus stands, stretching. “So. When do you make your move?”

“Soon,” I answer. “She’s predictable. Routine-oriented. If I push at the right moment—she’ll break pattern.”

“And walk straight into your hands.” He nods approvingly. “Classic Adrian. Terrifying as always.”

I close the folder, fingers tightening around the edges.

Elara Hayes.

Isolated.

Silent.

Unrecorded.

A girl who shouldn’t matter.

But does.

Because she belongs to the man who ruined everything.

I stand, brushing wax flakes off my palm. The sting is still there, pulsing in small, grounding waves.

Marcus watches me carefully. “You okay?”

No.

But I give the answer I always do.

“I will be.”

He nods like he understands, even though nobody really understands the mess inside me. “Try not to destroy more furniture. It’s expensive.”

I shove his shoulder. “Get out.”

He grins and strolls to the door. “Love you too.”

The door clicks shut.

Silence settles again.

Heavy.

Expectant.

I stare

at the candle—wick blackened, smoke curling upward like a ghost.

This isn’t just revenge anymore.

It’s survival.

It’s purpose.

It’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing under the weight of the past.

Elara Hayes has no idea who I am.

No idea her father is a monster.

No idea I’ve been watching her.

Waiting.

But soon…

she’ll know my name.

And her father will burn.