The ballroom plunged into chaos. Crystal glasses shattered, heels clicked frantically against the marble floor as guests scrambled for safety. The grand chandeliers cast eerie reflections over the turmoil, their golden glow unable to mask the deadly chill in the air.
Ochieng didn't flinch.
The gunshot had been a warning, but the real game was just beginning.
A second shot rang out.
Bella reacted first. She grabbed Ochieng's wrist, her body tense, her eyes sharp as a blade. "We need to move," she whispered. "Now."
But Ochieng was already moving, his instincts honed from years of surviving the ruthless underworld. He reached for the small, hidden compartment in his custom Ferragamo blazer—inside, a sleek black pistol rested, cold and familiar against his fingers.
The voice echoed through the speakers again.
"Happy birthday, Ochieng. I see you're still playing king in the shadows."
The guests were gone now. Only a handful of key figures remained—Yujin, frozen near the grand piano; Bella, standing beside him; and three men who had been watching him all night from the VIP section.
The mafia leaders.
The Black Lotus Triad.
They were here for a reason.
And Ochieng was about to find out why.
---
The scent of old books. The sound of muffled laughter. The cruel whispers behind his back.
"He thinks he belongs here?"
"Just another poor scholarship kid. He should know his place."
The University of East Hills had been a battlefield of class and wealth. Ochieng had walked its halls as an outcast, mocked for his simplicity, yet inside, his mind burned with ambition.
He remembered the day he had taken a job at the campus café, wiping tables while students like Yujin and her rich friends laughed at him.
He remembered the night he walked home in the rain, his stomach empty, his pride even emptier.
And he remembered the promise he had made to himself—that one day, he wouldn't just own a table in this world. He would own the entire damn building.
That day had come.
---
A shadow moved at the entrance.
Then another.
Then ten.
The doors of the grand ballroom swung open, and a man in a pristine white suit stepped inside. His piercing silver eyes gleamed under the chandelier lights, his jet-black hair slicked back with a precision that spoke of power and control.
Lucien Zhao.
The leader of the Phantom Mafia.
The man who held the secrets to Ochieng's past.
The one who had whispered, years ago, about his parents' tragic fate.
Lucien stopped a few steps from Ochieng and smiled—a slow, taunting smirk. "You've built quite a kingdom, haven't you?"
Ochieng met his gaze, his fingers tightening around his pistol.
Lucien chuckled. "Relax. It's your birthday, after all. I came to give you a present."
With a snap of his fingers, a silver briefcase was brought forward. One of his men placed it on the table and clicked it open.
Inside, a stack of old documents and a single photograph lay on top.
Ochieng's blood ran cold.
It was a picture of his parents.
Alive.
Taken two weeks ago.