The clinking of crystal glasses echoed through the private office atop Vaughn Holdings' tower. At a glance, Tristan Vaughn looked every inch the cold CEO—custom-tailored charcoal suit, silver cufflinks, watch ticking with casual precision. But Nick, seated across from him, could always see through the polished armor.
"You're tense," Nick said, pushing a thick folder across the mahogany desk. "And I don't just mean usual Tristan tense. I mean someone's-gonna-die tense."
Tristan didn't look up as he flipped the folder open. "Internal dispute with a site manager. He's been skimming labor funds under a shell company. Thought I wouldn't find out."
"And?"
"I did."
He closed the folder. The sound was final.
Nick let out a low whistle. "Construction business gets messier every year."
"It's not just business," Tristan muttered, standing up. "It's legacy. It's reputation. It's every damn brick laid with my name behind it. I won't let it rot from within."
The clock hit 8:00 PM.
And just like that, the shift began.
An hour later
The polished CEO was gone. In his place stood something else entirely.
Beneath a dimly lit garage compound, Tristan stripped off his jacket and shirt, standing bare-chested as an underboss knelt before him, giving a quiet report in the coded language of the streets. On his back, a complex, inked mural sprawled from shoulder to waist—an ancient dragon coiled with a burning phoenix, chained together by runes. Each symbol, each line of ink, represented a story soaked in blood and power.
"Double-crossed by Tiga Familia again," said the underboss. "They want territory east."
Tristan didn't blink. "No more warnings."
"Yes, sir."
He waved the man off, stepping toward a darkened mirror, his reflection fractured by age and bullet cracks. It was strange, how the man who commanded underground empires and signed billion-dollar steel contracts could feel... tired.
Empty.
Like all the concrete in the world couldn't fill the silence.
9:47 PM – Home
He returned to his estate, the looming quiet greeting him like an old friend. He shrugged off the day—both of them—and moved toward the kitchen.
Dinner was already laid out.
Garlic mushroom pasta. Lightly salted. Bread toasted with a soft crust.
And a note.
"Went light on the garlic tonight. Hope the day didn't crush you too hard."
It was a joke. But also... not.
Tristan stood there for a long moment, staring at it.
She didn't know him. Didn't see the ink on his back. The blood on his hands. The weight in his eyes. And yet, her words landed. Not for who he was—but for what he carried.
He picked up the note.
Fingers brushing over her handwriting.
The pasta was good. Comforting. And this was the first thing all day that didn't demand something from him.
He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.
A ritual, now.
A secret he wouldn't explain.
From across the kitchen, Nick leaned against the wall, sipping a drink.
"She's getting to you," he said, amused.
Tristan didn't respond.
Didn't deny it either.