Charles sat slumped at the bar, his glass of whiskey nearly empty, though he had long lost count of how many had preceded it. His fingers tightened around the rim as he lifted it to his lips, draining the last amber drop before slamming it onto the counter.

  "Another whiskey," he demanded, his voice thick with intoxication.

  The bartender, a seasoned man accustomed to handling unruly patrons.

  "Settle your tab first, then we’ll talk."

  A smirk twisted Charles’s lips. With a careless flick of the wrist, he yanked his wallet from his pocket, extracting a handful of crumpled bills before tossing them onto the bar.

  "There. Now bring me the damn whiskey!"

  The bartender remained unmoved. "You’ve had enough. Time to leave."

  The refusal ignited something volatile within Charles. His blood boiled with drunken indignation. Before he fully processed his own actions, he seized the empty glass and hurled it at the bartender.

  The glass shattering upon impact on the bartender’s head. The bar fell into stunned silence as the shards rained down.

  "I said, bring me another!" Charles roared, his breath ragged, his vision blurred with rage.

  A sudden force wrenched his arms behind him. Two bouncers, swift and merciless, clamped down on him, their grips unyielding. He struggled against them, but they moved with practiced ease, dragging him toward the exit.

  "Do you know who I am?" Charles bellowed, his voice laced with venom. "I’ll make sure every last one of you regrets this!"

  The bouncers remained indifferent. With a final, unceremonious shove, they sent him sprawling onto the cold pavement outside.

  One of the security guards stepped forward, looming over him with a smirk of his own. He crouched, plucked Charles’s wallet from the ground, rifled through it, and pulled out a wad of bills. Tossing the wallet back at Charles’s face, he held up the money with a mocking sneer.

  "Consider this compensation. And don’t bother coming back."

  Charles stared at them, chest heaving, hands clenching into fists. He could fight, could lunge at them in a blind fury-but what would it change? Instead, he staggered to his feet, dusting himself off. He wasn’t as drunk as he was furious, not just at them-but at himself.

  A storm of thoughts swirled in his mind, relentless and suffocating. Why did I ever agree to work with White? Am I truly this much of a coward? The idea of confessing to John sent a sickening churn through his gut, yet the alternative-to keep walking this path-felt like plunging into a pit of quicksand. There was no escape. No way forward that didn’t lead to ruin.

  The sky had darkened by the time he found himself scrolling through the latest news. His pulse quickened as he read about Thalas-the catastrophe, the unnatural flood. His instincts screamed at him to stay away, but his mind had already made the decision. He had to see it for himself.

  Even in his inebriated state, nothing deterred him. He climbed into his car, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like lead. The engine roared to life, and he launched onto the highway, pushing the accelerator down hard.

  Yet no matter how fast he drove, the fear inside him remained.

  With a sudden burst of desperation, Charles screamed-raw, guttural, feral. The sound barely filled the hollow inside him. He turned the radio up to its highest volume, drowning himself in music, forcing his own voice to join the melody in a cracked, off-key harmony.

  For a fleeting moment, it helped.

  But as the song faded, the fear came surging back-heavier, more relentless than before.

  Two hours later, Charles neared the outskirts of Thalas. He veered off the highway, his car skidding slightly as it came to a halt on the rugged terrain. Without hesitation, he flung the door open and stepped out, his breath curling in the cold night air. Ahead loomed the mountain, an unyielding monolith beneath the silver glow of the full moon.

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  With resolute strides, he began his ascent, the sharp rocks beneath his boots mirroring the chaos within him-jagged, merciless, and unrelenting. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, dulling exhaustion, fueling his drive.

  The twisted silhouettes of moonlit trees clawed at the sky like specters, whispering his deepest fears back at him. He muttered under his breath, his voice gaining urgency with each step:

  "Why did I agree to work with White?"

  "I had no choice… Nothing happens in this cursed country without his approval."

  "But Father’s murder…"

  His voice cracked into a hoarse shout as he pressed forward, his footing precarious, his body slipping on loose gravel. Yet each time he stumbled, he pushed himself up again, refusing to surrender to the weight of his thoughts.

  At last, he reached the summit-the vantage point from which Thalas should have stretched before him in familiar sprawl. But there was no city. Only a vast, churning mass of ominous gray clouds, swallowing everything beneath it.

  For a lifetime, Charles had been a mere pawn in the intricate, shadowed dance of White’s influence-never addressed directly, always through intermediaries. That distance had once felt like a shield, a layer of silk between him and the abyss of true corruption. But now, that veil had been stripped away.

  They killed him… They killed Father.

  The realization gnawed at him, an insidious whisper that refused to be silenced. And yet, here he stood, shackled to the very force that had stolen his father’s life.

  What kind of son does this?

  The thought echoed through his skull, relentless, unforgiving. Yet another voice-one borne not of grief, but of ruthless pragmatism-offered a counterpoint. Perhaps being closer to White will bring the opportunity for vengeance. Perhaps this is the only way.

  It was a lie. He knew it. But it was a lie he was willing to embrace, just as he had embraced every rationalization that had defined his existence. Fear-that was the true source of his torment. Not morality. Not regret. But fear.

  Fear of confessing to John.

  Fear of defying White.

  Fear of his own weakness.

  Charles dropped to his knees, his body wracked with tremors, shame crashing over him like a tidal wave. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, then slammed them into the frozen earth beneath him. Pain exploded through his hands.

  "Father… forgive me. But this is the only path forward-to become stronger."

  His voice was hoarse, choked with something dangerously close to desperation. He struck the ground again, his breath ragged.

  "I swear, I will bear the Brown name with honor. I will finish what you started. No more hesitation. No more fear."

  The wind howled through the mountaintop, but it carried no response. Only the echo of his own vow, swallowed by the storm.

  Charles-once a man whose voice had commanded silence in the most formidable courtrooms-now lay crumpled upon the frozen earth, his cries devoured by the vast, indifferent night. The mighty Judge Brown, he thought bitterly. Nothing more than a shattered man, begging forgiveness from a ghost.

  His fists pounded the ground, each strike a futile attempt to drive out the truth that clawed at his soul: He had done nothing. Because he was afraid.

  The realization coiled around his chest like a serpent, tightening its grip with every ragged breath. A part of him longed for the abyss-to vanish into nothingness, to be freed from the suffocating weight of his failures. A desperate, shameful whisper inside him hoped for an unseen hand to emerge from the darkness and end this wretched existence.

  His illustrious career, the prestige of his name, the life he had so carefully constructed-none of it surfaced in his mind. There were no flashes of triumph, no cherished memories clawing for recognition. Only pain. A deep, relentless ache that grew stronger with every passing second, an unbearable tide that threatened to drown him whole.

  His body collapsed against the earth, his breath hitching in his throat. Still, he struck the ground, again and again, until his knuckles split and his strength abandoned him. His screams merged with the wind, lost in the desolate expanse. And then-finally-his body surrendered. His vision darkened. His eyes closed.

  Far away, in the grand halls of Charles’s mansion, golden light still poured from the windows, defying the late hour.

  Mary sat motionless, the phone clutched in her hand, her fingers tightening around it with every passing second. The weight in her chest had settled. Something was wrong.

  She had called him countless times, each unanswered ring deepening her unease. Charles was always meticulous, always the first to inform her when he would be late.

  Finally, she made a decision. She dialed. The call was answered on the second ring.

  "John, hello, it's Mary," she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

  "Mary, dear," came John’s calm reply. "Has something happened?"

  "I'm trying to reach Charles. He hasn't answered for hours."

  John exhaled, his voice laced with reassurance. "He’s likely just preoccupied with business, Mary. I don’t think there’s any reason to worry."

  Mary tightened her grip on the phone. "When he's coming home late, he always lets me know."

  "These things happen," John offered gently. "Maybe he’s caught up in a meeting and forgot his phone."

  Mary understood the logic. But logic couldn’t quiet the storm raging in her heart. Something was wrong. And no amount of reassurance could silence the instinct screaming within her.