Welcome Back

"Look at you, Audrey." Vance’s voice dripped with deep, biting disdain. He stood near the door of the living room, his eyes locked onto the woman he had called his wife.

Audrey took a frantic step forward, her fingers trembling as she reached out to grab his sleeve. Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "Vance, please," she pleaded, her voice shaking. "Please believe me."

He stared at her hand, feeling nothing but a profound, hollow emptiness. Before he could peel her fingers away, a loud scoff echoed from the plush leather sofa.

"Audrey, just drop the act and get a divorce already," Bryce chimed in. He leaned back, spreading his arms across the cushions without a shred of shame. "Preston Sterling is loaded. The guy has a hundred million in personal assets minimum. If you marry him, I won't have to be so damn tired all the time."

Vance shifted his gaze to his brother-in-law, a sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth. Tired? Bryce Blakely didn't know the meaning of the word. The man was a chronic parasite. He spent his days hopping between underground poker tables and seedy mahjong parlors. He borrowed cash at exorbitant interest rates just to rent luxury cars, parading around the city to hook up with naive girls. He hadn't worked a legitimate job in his life. Over the past five years, Audrey had funneled over half a million dollars of her own hard-earned paychecks directly into Bryce's pockets, draining her accounts to keep him afloat.

"He has a point," Gareth muttered from his armchair, nodding eagerly.

Helen’s eyes lit up with unvarnished greed. "It's a good idea. A very good idea."

Vance felt a dark, suffocating rage pool in his chest. They were standing right in front of him, openly discussing selling off their daughter to the highest bidder while her legal husband was still in the room. The sheer disrespect was staggering.

"Give me my two million," Vance demanded. His tone carried a freezing, lethal edge. "Give it back right now, or I'll break your legs."

Bryce’s smug expression vanished, replaced by a flash of primal anger. He shot up from the sofa, his hand dropping to the heavy glass wine bottle resting on the coffee table. His fingers wrapped around the neck. With a guttural grunt, he hurled the thick glass directly at Vance’s head.

The bottle spun through the air. Vance didn't flinch. His hand snapped up, his reflexes honed by a past they knew nothing about. He caught the heavy glass mid-flight. The impact stung his palm, but he didn't waste a fraction of a second. He pivoted, dropping his shoulder, and launched the bottle right back.

The glass smashed against Bryce’s forehead with a sickening crunch. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces. Bryce stumbled backward, a shrill scream tearing from his throat as blood gushed from the open wound, painting his face crimson.

The living room descended into instant chaos.

"Vance!" Audrey roared. She spun around, her tearful expression morphing into the furious glare of an enraged lioness. She didn't spare a single glance at the fact that Bryce had thrown the bottle first. "Why did you hit him?!"

"Get out!" Gareth bellowed, jumping to his feet, his face purple with rage. "How dare you pull this thug garbage in my house!"

Helen shrieked, her voice a piercing crescendo that made the windows vibrate. "Divorce him! Audrey, you sign those papers right now! Preston is a hundred times the man he is! How dare you lay a hand on my son, you worthless trash! You must have a death wish!"

Helen lunged forward. She swung her arm in a wide arc. Vance saw the strike coming a mile away. He could have dodged. He could have caught her wrist. Instead, he stood perfectly still.

Smack.

Her palm connected hard with his cheek. The sound echoed off the high ceiling. A bright red handprint blossomed across his jaw. His expression darkened into a thunderous scowl. It had been years since anyone had dared to strike him. But this woman was still his mother-in-law, and he held his ground.

"Go away, Vance!" Audrey cried out, stepping between him and her mother, her eyes full of venom. "Just go away!"

Bryce clutched his bleeding forehead, peeking through his crimson-stained fingers. "I'm going to kill you!" he screamed frantically, spitting blood onto the rug. "Say goodbye to your money! I am never returning a single cent of that two million! Never!"

Helen stood with her hands on her hips, her chest heaving. "Scram, you ungrateful leech!"

Vance swept his cold gaze over the room. He looked at Gareth’s indignation, Helen’s viciousness, Bryce’s cowardly rage, and Audrey’s betrayal. He committed their faces to memory. Without uttering another syllable, he turned his back on them, stepped out into the freezing night, and pulled the front door shut with a heavy click.

The icy wind hit him the second he cleared the neighborhood gates. He tilted his head back, staring at the pale sliver of the moon hanging in the starless sky. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists in his jacket pockets. Time was running out. His grandfather lay in a sterile hospital bed, machines beeping a steady rhythm to his fading heartbeat. The old man needed that surgery.

Ten minutes later, Vance stood on the worn welcome mat of a modest apartment. The door swung open to reveal Toby Hayes, a man whose tired eyes matched the dark bags under them.

"Toby," Vance said, his breath pluming in the cold air. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit it, needing something to steady his nerves. "My grandpa is still in the hospital. The bills are piling up. Can you lend me three hundred thousand?"

Toby’s face fell. He ushered Vance inside the cramped living room, glancing nervously toward the closed bedroom door down the hall. Toby dug into his wallet and pulled out a plain blue bank card.

"There's around eighty to ninety thousand on this," Toby whispered, his voice thick with deep apology. He pressed the plastic into Vance’s hand. "This is all the cash I managed to stash away secretly. I'm so sorry, man. I just don't have any more to give."

Vance looked at his friend. Toby was risking his own peace for him. "Toby, I—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Toby Hayes?!"

The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the drywall. A sturdy, plump woman stomped down the hallway. Rita Cole’s face was twisted in an ugly sneer, the flesh on her cheeks jiggling with every heavy step. Before Vance could secure the card, Rita swiped her thick hand out and snatched it right out of his grip.

"Are you insane? Do you have a death wish, handing out our money to this stray?" Rita yelled, waving the card in Toby’s face before turning her glare on Vance. She pointed a stubby finger toward the exit. "Get out of my house! Now!"

Toby shrank back. He opened his mouth, but the fear in his eyes silenced him. He couldn't defend his friend against his own wife's wrath.

Vance didn't argue. He knew Toby's life was hard enough. He reached out, offering a gentle pat on Toby’s slumped shoulder. "Sorry for troubling you," Vance murmured.

He stepped back out into the bitter cold. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, the sound of the deadbolt locking echoing in the empty hallway.

Walking down the dimly lit sidewalk, Vance pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, the battery low. He dialed a number he hadn't wanted to call. He listened to the dial tone, the sound dragging out his desperation. Finally, a click.

"Hello, Uncle Ralph," Vance said, his voice tight. "Grandpa is sick. It's bad. I need six hundred thousand to pay for the surgery immediately."

A harsh, grating laugh barked through the speaker. It wasn't his uncle.

"We don't have your money!" his aunt spat, her voice dripping with venomous spite. "I am not giving a single cent to that decrepit old man! Why don't you just tell him to die already and save us all the headache!"

Click.

The line went dead.

Vance stopped under a flickering streetlamp. The silence of the night pressed in on him. His grip on the phone tightened. The plastic casing groaned. The glass screen spider-webbed further. With a sharp snap, the device crushed inward, tiny sparks dancing across his knuckles as the battery housing gave way.

His chest heaved. Uncle Ralph had shamelessly maneuvered his way into taking five million dollars' worth of the old man's real estate years ago. They were sitting on a fortune that belonged to the man currently fighting for his life on a ventilator. And now, they refused to offer even a fraction of it to save him.

A sudden, piercing roar tore through the quiet street, shattering Vance's helpless rage. Blinding white headlights washed over him, casting long, warped shadows against the brick walls. A sleek, crimson Ferrari 458 tore around the corner, its engine growling like a caged beast before screeching to a halt right at the curb beside him.

The tinted passenger window hummed down.

Preston Sterling sat behind the leather-wrapped steering wheel, the glow of the dashboard illuminating a condescending smirk. Sitting in the passenger seat was Bryce. A thick layer of fresh white gauze was wrapped tightly around his forehead, a faint pink stain seeping through the center.

Vance narrowed his eyes, a glint of lethal fury flashing in his gaze. He had just left the Blakely house. Within minutes, Bryce had already run into Preston’s waiting arms. The orchestration was painfully obvious. Preston was circling the family, buying their loyalty to get his hands on Audrey.

"Look at you," Preston remarked, leaning over the center console to get a better look at Vance. "You look like a pathetic, beaten dog. I guess it really is a sin to be born poor. I hear you need six hundred thousand. Am I right? Because I can write you a check right now."

Vance remained silent. He didn't blink. He just stared at the rich heir, the cold wind whipping his jacket around him.

Preston chuckled, taking Vance's silence for submission. "Not going to say anything? Fine. I only have one condition for the money. You divorce Audrey. You sign the papers, walk away, and you get your six hundred thousand."

Bryce leaned out the window, a malicious grin twisting his face despite the fresh injury. "Just give it up, Vance! Stop fighting it. Everyone knows you and my sister haven't even done the deed yet. Your marriage is a joke! You're no match for a man like Preston. My sister is going to leave you, and she always listens to me. Give up your delusions!"

Vance’s boots shifted on the pavement. He took a deliberate step toward the luxury car, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he prepared to drag both of them out through the open window.

Preston saw the shift in Vance's posture. The heir let out a mocking laugh and slammed his expensive Italian leather shoe onto the accelerator. The Ferrari surged forward with a deafening roar, leaving thick, dark tire marks on the asphalt.

Bryce's voice trailed behind them, carried by the rushing wind. "You really are a dog!"

Vance stood alone in a cloud of dust and acrid exhaust fumes. He watched the glowing red taillights vanish around the next intersection. A slow, deeply sarcastic smile touched his lips. He looked down at his empty, scarred hands.

For five long years, he had earnestly attempted to live a peaceful, low-profile, ordinary life. He had swallowed his pride, endured the endless insults, and played the part of a struggling, devoted husband to keep his promise. And what had it earned him? Relentless betrayal. Theft. Unforgivable humiliation. The people he had tried to support had stripped him of everything, laughing as they tossed him aside.

The charade was over. His attempt at an ordinary life was a confirmed failure. It was time for a comeback.

Vance walked the rest of the way in silence. He let himself into his dark, empty apartment. The air inside felt stale, devoid of any warmth. He didn't bother turning on the overhead lights. He moved straight to the small desk in the corner, flipping open the lid of his heavy, reinforced laptop. The screen flared to life, casting a harsh, pale blue glow across his angular features.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a brief second before he began typing. He input a complex, heavily encrypted series of credentials, bypassing security layers the average person didn't even know existed.

The screen went pitch black. A second later, a sleek golden crest appeared, rotating slowly.

A cold, synthetic robotic voice broke the heavy silence of the room.

"My supreme god. Be advised. Activating the Zenith System will restore all unimaginable wealth and power to your direct disposal. However, you will be forced to bear the corresponding level of global responsibility. Your peaceful existence will be permanently destroyed. Do you wish to proceed?"

Vance stared at the blinking cursor. He thought of the two million stolen from him. He thought of his grandfather gasping for air. He thought of Helen’s slap, Bryce’s mocking grin, and Preston’s condescending offer.

He gripped the mouse. He clicked 'Yes'.

The screen flashed a brilliant white.

"Welcome back, my supreme god. You have authorized the activation. Do you wish to unlock all nine levels?"

Vance hesitated. Unlocking all nine levels would plunge his reality into an irreversible spiral of blood-soaked chaos. He wasn't ready to wage a global war just yet. He only needed enough to crush the insects crawling around his feet.

He clicked 'No', deliberately choosing to activate only the first level.

Immediately, a pulsing red dot appeared on the corner of the screen. It was a beacon. A silent, unstoppable signal broadcasting his return across hidden, impenetrable networks worldwide.

Across the globe, shockwaves rippled through a select, terrifying few.

In a lavish, penthouse bedroom overlooking a European skyline, a stunningly beautiful woman stared at a blinking monitor. She gasped, leaping off her silk sheets and cheering wildly. As she jumped, her plush bathrobe slipped down her shoulders, pooling at her waist, but she didn't care. Her eyes were alight with an intoxicating thrill.

Thousands of miles away, rain lashed against the steel deck of a remote, imposing battleship cutting through unforgiving oceanic swells. A massive, battle-hardened soldier clad in tactical gear dropped his rifle. He fell to his knees on the wet metal, ignoring the storm, and bowed his head toward the east in a display of absolute, unbreakable reverence. "It has been five years," he roared over the thunder. "He is finally back!"

In a dim, smoke-filled underground bar in the heart of a sprawling metropolis, a handsome man stared at a vibrating pager. His eyes widened, filling with a fiery, manic devotion. He raised his glass of burning liquor, downing it in one swift gulp. "Lord Kensington is back! We are no longer lost!"

Back in the dark apartment, Vance sat perfectly still on his cheap, worn couch. The screen saver bathed the room in shifting shadows. He took a slow, deep breath, holding it in his lungs before letting it out in a long exhale.

In that single second, the transformation was complete. The reserved, ordinary shell of a struggling, humiliated son-in-law melted away like wax in a furnace. The slouch in his shoulders vanished. The quiet resignation in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, predatory gleam. He sat there not as Vance the wage-earner, but as Lord Kensington. An imposing, terrifyingly domineering aura flooded the small room, thick enough to choke on.