The party hadn't resumed.
It pretended to. The music came back on. The lights shifted warmer. Glasses were refilled by shaking hands.
But the atmosphere was different now — like something sacred had been desecrated in the middle of the marble floor, and no one knew where to stand anymore.
Ten minutes had passed since Nivrit Vashirayan walked out.
His absence felt louder than the fire.
---
Somewhere near the back patio, surrounded by the rich and the rattled…
Sera stood with her circle — daughters of oil families, tech heirs, legacy royalty who knew how to laugh without moving their eyes. Each dressed in silk, curated to look effortless. All of them rattled under the surface.
"Did you see that guy?" one of them hissed.
"Caldwell's face looked like it was made of rubber. I could see his nose bone."
"And he just stood there."
"No one moved. Even security."
"He apologized," another said, wide-eyed.
"Like he'd bumped into someone at a café. And left."
One of them laughed nervously.
"Kind of hot, right? In a psycho way."
Someone else chimed in, brushing her hair back.
"Isn't he friends with Ethan? McAllister?"
Then they turned.
All of them. Toward her.
"You know who he is, Sera?"
She took a slow sip of her drink. Something clear. No ice. The glass caught the light just so.
"No," she said calmly.
Then, after a pause:
"But he wasn't improvising."
The group quietened.
Even among the elite, Sera's words had weight.
She wasn't known for flattery. Or exaggeration.
If she said he wasn't improvising, then whatever he was — it had been practiced. Precise.
---
Moments later…
Sera walked away from the group.
No fanfare. No announcement. Just a quiet glide through the crowd.
She paused near the scorched patch of marble. The blood had been cleaned fast — faster than protocol allowed. But the heat still lingered. A faint scorch smell. Expensive perfume masking something primal.
She stared at the space where Jacob Caldwell had screamed.
Then lowered her gaze.
Silent.
Thoughtful.
She'd grown up around killers.
Men who snapped necks like breadsticks.
Men who shook before they shot.
But this boy — he didn't shake.
He just decided.
It didn't scare her.
That was the strange part.
It intrigued her.
Not because of the violence — she'd seen worse before breakfast.
But because he didn't try to make a scene.
And still, the room had bent around him.
---
Elsewhere — Niv at home
Niv sat on his bsd, scrolling through headlines.
A few texts:
One from Ethan.
One from Ishaan.
Two unread from his mother.
He wasn't looking at them.
He was thinking about her.
Just a flash — the way she'd watched him. Not shocked. Not disgusted.
Just… focused.
He blinked and looked away from the window.
God.
"Words are cheap."
Who even says that?
Sounded like a teenage Sith Lord.
He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that came from being seen.
---
Sera's Penthouse – Late Night
Her makeup was half-wiped. Hair in a loose braid. The city glittered behind her glass walls like a fake constellation.
She sat on the low couch, curled up in oversized silk loungewear, drink untouched.
Jaime was nearby. Sharpening a blade on a ceramic stone, slow and methodical.
Ex-SAS. Discharged for excessive force. The kind of man who didn't miss, didn't flinch, and didn't need backup. He was her shadow. Always.
"Did you get a read on him?" she asked quietly.
Jaime paused.
Then:
"Yes."
"And?"
He didn't look up.
"Trained. Not just muscle. Real control. Close-quarters emphasis. Zero hesitation. No wasted energy."
He paused — just for a beat. Like remembering it made something in him tighten.
She nodded once, absorbing it.
Silence stretched between them.
Then she said, almost absently:
"He didn't even look at me."
Jaime paused mid-stroke.
Then resumed sharpening.
Flashback – Two Years Ago
His dad had pulled him aside one day. No anger. Just curiosity.
"You've changed. Grades. Focus. You're not picking fights anymore. Who's this Nivrit kid?"
Ethan had shrugged. "Friend from school. Smart. Chill. Indian."
His father had nodded. Said nothing else.
A few days later, he brought it up again — voice low, eyes narrowed like he'd just read something classified.
"I tried to look into him. Into his family."
Ethan frowned. "And?"
"And I got a call. Not from the school. Not from police. From a minister. Cabinet level. Told me I should consider myself lucky."
"Said your friend comes from… very old power. Not mafia. Not royalty. Just said — don't look further."
Flashback – A Week Later
It bothered Ethan.
Not the "secret power" thing — he could handle weird. He was weird.
It was the silence from Niv that felt strange.
Like there was a whole page missing from the script.
So one evening, while they were catching up on the latest episode of One Piece, he asked.
"Hey. Can I ask you something not fun?"
Niv didn't look away from the screen.
"That's most of life, but sure," he said, munching nachos.
Ethan hesitated.
"My dad looked into you. Got a call back.
From someone... high up. Told him not to poke around."
Now Niv looked up. Calm. Not surprised.
He nodded once, like he'd expected the question.
"Yeah. That happens."
"So… what are you?"
Niv didn't answer right away. He closed his laptop. Looked down at his drink.
Then—
"My family's… old. And involved in things I'd rather not explain." "Not illegal. Not clean either. Just... deep." "People listen when they talk."
Ethan waited.
Niv's voice softened.
"I grew up in it. Trained like it was normal. But it's not me. I'm not built for all that."
"I still talk to them. I love them. But I'm not in the game."
"That's my brother's job now."
Ethan leaned back, trying to connect the dots — the scars, the precision, the silences.
"So you're just... out?"
"I'm just trying to be a grad student." Niv smiled. "One thesis at a time."
"Okay." Ethan nodded, then smirked. "If you ever do want to be a warlord, I'll handle the social media."
"Deal."
They clinked cans and went back to watching.
And over time, Ethan filed it away — not because he forgot, but because Niv never acted like it mattered.
Present Day
Ethan stood alone in his apartment.
Lights off.
Drink in hand.
He didn't know what the hell had just happened.
Scratch that — he did know.
He just forgot what Niv was capable of.
Because Niv was the guy who once spent an entire night convincing him to rewatch Spirited Away for "emotional regulation research."
The guy who wore Crocs to a wine tasting.
Who laughed at his memes.
Who debated whether Goku could solo the Naruto universe.
It was easy to forget.
That behind the soft voice and sarcastic one-liners — there was something else.
Not hidden.
Just… patient.
Like a fault line pretending to be a sidewalk.
He took a slow breath. Sank into the couch. Stared at nothing.
Then muttered:
"Jesus, man. You melted a guy's face and then apologized for the inconvenience."
He laughed once — short, breathless.