Bruce Dhark—one of the wealthiest men alive. No one really knew where he came from or how he climbed so high. He just appeared one day, like a ghost in a tailored suit, and the world couldn't stop watching. The younger generation idolized him. His name alone was enough to sell dreams.
But none of them knew the truth.
None of them knew the scar.
He was the son of Martha Bloom.
On the night of his 10th birthday, while the cake still sat on the table, untouched… he had stepped away for just a moment—to grab a toy from his room. When he came back, everything shattered.
His mother. His twin sister. His two sisters.
All lined up at gunpoint.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream. He hid, eyes wide, hands clamped over his mouth as he watched everything. Every face. Every shot. Burned into his mind like fire on skin.
That night didn't just kill his family—it carved a monster inside him.
He never forgot.
And he never forgave.
—The Next Morning—
The sunlight bled through the tall glass windows of the penthouse, brushing over the bed like a spotlight. Bruce sat up slowly, tossing the sheets aside. His body moved like it had been trained since birth—disciplined, controlled.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Muscles lean and tight like a fighter's, not a bodybuilder's. Built from real pain, real fights. His chest and back were marked with scars—old slashes, bullet grazes, burns. Each one had a name.
He stood by the window, shirtless, black pajama pants hanging low on his hips. His black hair was messy from sleep, falling over his forehead in uneven waves. His eyes—dark as obsidian—stared out at the city without blinking.
The face in the glass reflection was beautiful in a cruel kind of way. Sharp jawline. Strong nose. But his expression never changed. Calm. Cold. Untouchable.
Talia watched from the bed, the sheets pulled around her. She didn't say anything. She knew this part of the morning didn't belong to her.
Bruce moved to the side of the room, cracked his neck, and dropped down—knuckles to the marble floor.
He started his pushups. Slow. Steady. Each one like a heartbeat.
His breathing matched the rhythm.
One.
Two.
Three…
Outside, the city buzzed like nothing had happened.
Inside, Bruce was getting ready to make sure something would.
He had a list.
And every name on it was going to bleed.
Bruce finished his last pushup, arms trembling slightly from the strain. Sweat rolled down his back as he stood up straight, chest rising and falling in silence. He grabbed a towel from the side table and wiped down his face, not bothering to check the mirror.
"You're done?" Talia's voice came from behind, soft and calm.
He nodded.
"The tub's ready," she said with a small smile, already slipping off the bed.
Bruce walked past her without a word, the towel draped around his neck. The marble floors were cool against his feet as he moved through the penthouse like a shadow, the hallway lit by warm sunlight pouring in through the high windows.
He stepped into the bathroom.
Steam curled up from the large black tub sunk into the ground. The water shimmered, tinted slightly gold from the mineral salts she always added. He dropped the towel and slid in without hesitation, his scarred back leaning against the smooth wall of the tub.
The heat hit him hard, relaxing every tense muscle at once.
He closed his eyes.
A few seconds later, he heard her footsteps. Bare, light.
Then felt her hand trail across his shoulder before she slipped in behind him.
The water rippled.
Her arms wrapped around him again.
Nothing else needed to be said.
—Fade to Black—
**
Later, the steam still lingered in the air, but Bruce was already in front of the mirror, buttoning up his black dress shirt. His body clean, dressed, but still marked.
Talia leaned against the doorway in a robe, arms crossed, watching him.
He tightened his tie, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, then pulled on his dark blazer.
"You look like a crime scene in a suit," she teased lightly.
He gave her the smallest smirk, just a flicker.
"Good," he said, grabbing his watch and sliding it on.
He picked up his briefcase from the table, checked his phone once, then walked to the elevator. The doors slid open. He stepped in, calm and collected like nothing happened.
The moment the doors closed, his face went flat again.
Elsewhere
"With the recent rise of Bruce," the woman said, standing at the head of the long, black-glass table, "we fear he's becoming a threat to our enterprise."
Her voice echoed across the boardroom. Cold. Sharp. She wore a charcoal suit, no jewelry, her hair tied back in a tight knot. The others at the table—eight in total—watched her closely.
"Leaving him to do as he pleases," she continued, tapping the surface with her finger, "will only lead us to loss. And that's something we cannot afford."
The room fell quiet for a moment, the city lights bleeding in through the tinted windows behind them. From up here, they could see everything—ports, shipping lanes, warehouses, towers.
They were The Dusk Circle—a private multinational conglomerate built on arms trade, pharmaceuticals, data laundering, and clean energy fronts. On the surface, they were investors and innovators. Behind closed doors, they moved entire governments like chess pieces.
A man to her left spoke up, older, balding, gold cufflinks flashing as he leaned forward.
"Dhark Industries is eating into our defense contracts. Half the countries in Southeast Asia are switching to their tech—lighter, cheaper, more adaptable."
Another board member sighed and flipped through a tablet. "And his biotech division just patented three more compounds. If this keeps up, he'll corner the med-supply chain by year-end."
"He's not even taking investors," the woman in black said flatly. "No board, no shares, no leaks. We can't even buy our way in."
"Because he's not playing to profit," said a man in a blue suit, voice like gravel. "He's cleaning house."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Then we burn his house down."
There was a pause.
She pressed a button on the table. A hologram of Bruce's face flickered to life above the center—black hair, black eyes, unreadable.
"We monitor all subsidiaries. Any move he makes, we get ahead of it. We cut his supply routes. We buy out his smaller partners. We freeze any overseas deals."
"And if that doesn't work?"
The woman stared at the hologram. Her fingers curled.
"Then we remind Bruce Dhark why empires fall."