Nestled in one of the capital’s affluent hillside suburbs, Judge Charles Brown’s mansion buzzed with daily activity. The air rang with the gleeful shouts of little Tom as he darted through the expansive living room, his eyes alight with excitement. Clutching the control panel of his brand-new drone-a gift from his father that very morning-he guided the device with eager hands, watching as it weaved effortlessly from one end of the room to the other before ascending toward the second floor.

  A grand staircase curled upward from the living room, leading to a sprawling hallway that branched into various rooms. Tom, grinning with delight, climbed the steps two at a time, his gaze fixed on the drone as it hovered near the landing. But his triumph was short-lived. Losing control for an instant, he watched in dismay as the drone careened into the wall, spiraled in midair, and plummeted straight into his father’s study.

  Tom let out an exasperated sigh, waving his small hands in frustration before scampering after it. Although he was allowed to enter his father’s study freely, he never enjoyed lingering there. It was the only room in the entire house devoid of windows.

  Stepping inside, he quickly spotted the drone lodged beneath the heavy mahogany desk. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled underneath, retrieving the device with careful fingers. Just as he prepared to wriggle back out, he misjudged his position-his head collided sharply with the underside of the desk.

  A sharp pang shot through his skull. He pressed his palm against the aching spot, crouching beneath the desk for a moment. Tentatively, he checked his hand for any traces of blood. Finding none, he exhaled in relief. But as his gaze drifted upward, something peculiar caught his eye-a slim metal panel embedded beneath the desk had cracked upon impact.

  Intrigued, Tom tentatively slips a finger into the fissure, testing its depth before carefully tugging at the loosened panel. A cascade of aged photographs spills onto the floor. His eyes widen with curiosity as he picks up the images, his small fingers tracing the faded outlines of the past.

  As he sits cross-legged on the floor, immersed in his unexpected discovery, his father, Charles, happens to pass by the study.

  "Tom? What mischief are you up to in here?" Charles inquires, stepping inside and playfully tousling his son’s hair.

  "Daddy, look what I found!" Tom exclaims, holding up the photographs with an eager grin.

  Charles kneels down, accepting the images from his son’s outstretched hands. His breath hitches as recognition dawns-these are childhood photographs, relics of a time he hadn’t revisited in years. His fingers tighten around them, his mind momentarily spiraling into reminiscence.

  Tom calls out to him once or twice, but Charles remains transfixed, his gaze locked onto the ghosts of his past. By the time he gathers himself, Tom has already lost interest, too preoccupied with recalibrating his drone for another flight.

  Exhaling, Charles methodically returns the photographs to a desk drawer, closing it with a quiet click before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds his wife, Mary, seated at the counter, engrossed in something on her phone. She barely looks up as he approaches.

  "Tom stumbled upon some old photographs," Charles remarks, his voice casual but tinged with an undertone of something unreadable.

  Mary finally lifts her gaze, her expression unreadable. "And what did you tell him?"

  "Nothing. He’s already forgotten about them," Charles replies, though his own mind lingers on the images.

  Wordlessly, Mary extends her phone toward him. "You should read this."

  Charles's takes the device from her hands. His eyes scan the screen, his pulse slowing as he registers the words:

  "Gerard White, the owner of White Holdings and a prominent philanthropist, was found dead under mysterious circumstances near one of Thalas’s mines.”

  Charles rereads the headline multiple times, his mind grappling with the weight of its implications.

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  "Do you think it's true, or just another sensationalized fabrication meant to drive site traffic?" he finally asks.

  Mary smirks, her lips curling in amusement. "They fake celebrity deaths for clicks, but spinning a story like this about Gerard White? That would be a reckless gamble-one that borders on tragic folly."

  Charles exhales sharply. "I need to meet with John. It’s best I speak with him directly to get the full picture."

  A few hours later, within the austere confines of the capital’s criminal court, Charles stands by his office window, gazing out over the sprawling cityscape. He takes a slow sip from a glass of whiskey. His expression remains grim, his thoughts drifting to the distant past-childhood memories of a still-developing Thalas, the bitter sting of his father’s arrest, and the abrupt, haunting news of his unexpected suicide in prison.

  The shrill ring of his work phone cuts through the silence, yanking him back to the present.

  "Mr. Brown, you have a visitor," his assistant informs him.

  The door swings open, and Police Chief John strides in. The two men, bound by years of shared history, exchange a firm handshake and a familiar warmth.

  "How are you holding up, Charlie?" John asks, settling into the chair across from the desk.

  "The same as ever," Charles replies dryly, reaching for the whiskey bottle. "Care for a drink?"

  John shakes his head. "No, I’m planning to head to Thalas. I need to see firsthand what’s unfolding there-maybe I can be of some use."

  Charles momentarily averts his gaze, running his hands over his face, a habitual gesture that betrays his growing unease.

  "Any new developments on the White case?" he asks.

  John exhales,"That’s precisely what I wanted to discuss."

  Charles raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He gestures with open palms, silently urging John to continue.

  "We don’t have many details yet," John admits.

  Charles lets out a humorless chuckle.

  "Maybe not to you, John.

  For all we know, Benjamin has already hunted down the perpetrator and torn them to pieces."

  John exhales, shaking his head. "Charlie, Thalas is in chaos. The roads are flooded, no progress has been made in finding White’s killer."

  Charles hadn't heard about the flood, but he dismisses the information, his focus locked on the brutal murder of Gerard White.

  John leans forward, his voice quieter but more pressing. "Charles, this is our moment-our opportunity to cement our positions. I’ve been working with Benjamin for some time now, and he trusts me. With Gerard gone, he’s about to step into his father’s shoes, and I want you to join me."

  Charles rises, walking toward the side table where his decanter of whiskey sits. He pours another glass, before taking a measured sip. "John, after what happened to my father, I want nothing to do with the White family."

  John doesn’t falter. "Charlie, don’t be na?ve. The reality of this country is simple: you either work with the Whites, or you don’t work at all. You've been fortunate-your position as a judge has kept you out of their grasp. But the world is shifting, and if we don’t move forward with it, we’ll be left behind. Without aligning ourselves with Benjamin, we’ll never rise beyond where we are now."

  Charles tightens his grip around the glass.”John, after what happened to my father, I don’t want anything to do with them."

  John sighs, his patience unshaken. "Charlie, your father was allegedly killed by an alleged hitman, supposedly hired by Gerard White. You have no solid proof, no objective evidence. And more importantly, that war was with Gerard-not Benjamin, who wasn’t even born when your father died. You’re clinging to ghosts while the world around you changes. I’ve already started working with him, and I suggest you do the same. Together, we can be stronger."

  The seething resentment that had long smoldered in Charles’s soul had, over the years, shrunk to an ember. The raw fury he had carried for a decade or two no longer burned with the same intensity. And John's words-though calculated-gnawed at something deep inside him.

  The whiskey clouds his mind, dulling his resistance. "I’ll think about it."

  John stands, fixing his friend with a knowing stare. "Charlie, this is now or never. You have the chance to rise-to wield power. And one day, when the time is right, you can take what you’ve always wanted. But if you stay where you are now, even the thought of revenge is laughable."

  He moves toward the door before pausing, glancing over his shoulder. "If I don’t get an answer before I leave this room, then you’re out. I’ll walk this path alone. But when the moment comes to stop the Whites, you won’t even see it."

  John smirks, well aware of the weight his words carry-the way ultimatums chip away at his childhood friend’s resolve.

  "Alright," Charles finally mutters.

  John halts, his smile widening. Charles exhales sharply, running a hand down his face before continuing, "I’m with you."

  John turns back, his tone lighter, almost triumphant. "Then I’ll tell you what needs to be done. Soon, we’ll be standing in a much higher place."

  As John departs, the triumphant smirk vanishes from Charles’s face. A cold dread settles over him. He downs another glass of whiskey in a single gulp, his chest tightening.

  "Another mistake," he whispers hoarsely. "Another reckless decision."

  His palm slams against the desk in frustration.

  There was no turning back now. And he knew it.