When Shadows Move

The night was still when the first sign came.

A black envelope was delivered to the estate gates. No name, no stamp — just a single wax seal with the crest of a rival mafia clan.

Larson was the first to find it when he returned from a late meeting. His face darkened as he read the threat scrawled in crimson ink:

“This is your last warning. Leave the city. Or bleed.”

By the time the letter reached the family’s hands, the estate had turned tense. Guards were doubled at the gates, and Archer, usually calm and composed, barked orders to strengthen security.

Vincent paced the hallway, furious. “Eight years of silence, and they dare to threaten us now?”

“Someone is testing us,” Julian muttered, his jaw tight. “They must think we’ve gone soft.”

Alina’s eyes were sharp, but her voice was steady. “We will deal with this tomorrow. Tonight, we stay calm.”

But someone was already moving.

She had heard everything. The letter, the anger, the fear beneath their voices. When the house finally fell quiet, she slipped away into the dark.

Within an hour, the city’s underworld felt her presence.

In a warehouse on the far side of town, the rival clan gathered to celebrate their “warning.” Laughter echoed off the walls, their confidence swelling.

Until the lights went out.

The sound of boots echoed across the floor — slow, deliberate.

And then she appeared.

Dressed in black, her face hidden by the same silver-and-obsidian mask the world feared, she moved like death itself.

The leader of the rival clan tried to speak, but the words froze in his throat when she leveled a silenced pistol at his head.

Her voice, cold and distorted through the modulator, cut through the silence.

“You touched what is mine.”

No one dared to breathe.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her presence was enough to make men twice her size drop to their knees.

By the end of the night, the clan leader had signed a treaty surrendering his operations in the city. His men were left kneeling, weapons on the floor, too shaken to move as she walked away without looking back.

Back at the estate, dawn was breaking.

When Larson woke the next morning, he was stunned to find news spreading like wildfire — the rival clan had withdrawn overnight, their leader missing from public view.

“Someone got to them before we did,” Archer said, scanning the reports.

Heluria frowned. “But who?”

“Whoever it was,” Julian muttered, “they left a message.”

He tossed a slip of paper onto the table. It was short, written in the same elegant, sharp handwriting that had haunted the criminal world for years:

“No one touches the House of Kim.”

Silence fell.

Vincent let out a low whistle. “Guess someone’s watching over us.”

Aroua glanced toward the staircase, where she stood silently, watching them from the shadows. Her face was calm, almost serene.

Riyan’s eyes lingered on her a little too long, as if something about her stillness didn’t sit right with him.

She turned away before anyone could see the faint, dangerous smile that curved her lips.

The world would not touch her family.

Not while she was still breathing.