Behind Him

"BOSS! The Queen is calling out your name!" The man spoke urgently, fingers brushing the earpiece behind his ear as his sharp gaze swept the surroundings.

He had been present at the auction, watching, waiting, and anticipating any move from their enemies.

Across the dimly lit room, the one they called boss slowly lifted his gaze. His steel-gray eyes, cold and unyielding, gleamed like sharpened blades in the dark.

"Kill everyone inside that goddamn house," he ordered, his voice like ice.

"I'm bringing my Queen back to our palace-without a single scar."

"Roger, Boss!" his men responded through the earpiece, their voices filled with unwavering loyalty.

The mafia boss, his expression unreadable, took a slow, deliberate glance around, his blood boiling with rage within. How dare they? They had taken his Queen-his atonement, his salvation-from him. She belonged at his side-safe, untouched, and revered. Yet these fools had dared to lay their filthy hands on her.

Unforgivable.

"Boss! They're putting the queen up for auction-selling her to the highest bidder!" The voice crackled through his earpiece-his hacker, the one who kept him updated on every detail.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists. Then, without warning-BANG!

He grabbed the nearest enemy-one of the auction's security heads-and slammed his skull against the wall with a sickening crunch.

Blood splattered, and the body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.They had no idea what kind of monster they had provoked.

"These motherfuckers," he snarled, eyes blazing with fury. "I'll reduce this entire f*cking place to rubble." He was like a lion denied of his queen-and now, he was on the warpath.

Every single guard, every enemy in his way, fell without mercy. One by one, he gunned them down, their bodies collapsing into pools of blood. Their cries for help meant nothing to him.No one was spared.

Unless-she commanded him to stop. The queen was the only one who had the power to rein in the mafia boss. She was the only one he would listen to. But right now, she wasn't here to stop him.

Some of the men tried to beg for their lives. Pathetic. Without a second thought, he aimed his gun, pulling the trigger. Each one fell with a bullet between their brows.

"STAY OUT OF MY WAY!" His roar reverberated like thunder, his voice so chilling it seemed to come from the depths of hell itself.

And then-he saw her.

His Queen.

Up on the stage, forced into the spotlight, surrounded by leering eyes and greedy hands. She looked terrified. Broken. But still his.

The auctioneer stood before her, speaking into a microphone."She is the one and only Velloetti Queen! Whoever wins this auction should consider themselves lucky-you can do whatever you want with this b*tch! The bidding starts at $50 million-"BANG.

The man's sentence was cut short as three bullets ripped through his skull. His lifeless body collapsed onto the stage, eyes wide open in shock.

Screams erupted from the crowd. Panic spread like wildfire. The guests-men who had come with their wallets full, eager to bid-now trembled in their seats.

They knew. They knew exactly what was about to happen. The devil himself had arrived. And he had come to claim what was his.

With a menacing smirk, the mafia boss stepped forward, gun in hand. His voice was a deadly promise.

"I'm blowing this place to hell for one billion dollars. And the only ones walking out of here alive are me, my Queen, and my men."

Khione Louelita Silay. That was the name given to her by one of the nuns at the orphanage where she grew up. It was a name that carried no ties to a family, no connection to a past she could return to-only the identity of a girl who had learned to survive on her own.

Now, seated in her small yet comfortable townhouse, Khione let out a deep sigh of relief.

"Three months of pleading, begging, and finally..." She clenched her fists in excitement. "They let me work from home!"

She nearly wanted to collapse in joy. It was the best thing that had happened to her since joining the National Bureau of Investigation's Counter Intelligence Department. The NBI had recruited her three months ago because of her exceptional skills in computer information technology.

However, what the government didn't officially acknowledge was that she was also one of the most skilled hackers they had ever encountered. Her job required absolute secrecy.

Her identity had to remain protected at all costs. The Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) had taken Khione away from her neglectful parents at a young age.

She was no older than four or five when she was placed under their care, and from there, she had been sent to an orphanage. No one came to claim her; no relatives stepped forward to take her in.

She had spent her entire childhood within the orphanage's walls until she graduated from school.

It was at that orphanage where her unusual talent was first discovered.

At the age of ten, with nothing but an old, barely functioning computer, she had hacked into a government website-without even fully understanding what she was doing.

Her actions had caused the site to go offline for an entire week. The government, intrigued by the sudden cyberattack, traced the source back to the orphanage. But instead of punishment, they made her an offer: education in exchange for service.

The deal had shaped her entire future. Now, at twenty years old, she already owned her townhouse, a privilege granted by her employers. However, her salary had been significantly cut, with the excuse that her education had been an investment. It was clear to her-they had no intention of paying her what she was truly worth.

According to the agreement she had signed upon graduating from university, she was required to work for the NBI Counter Intelligence Department for five years. It was a contract she had no choice but to fulfill. But even with her talent, even with her intelligence, there was something Khione struggled with.

Something that made her daily life unbearable outside the safety of her home.

Social anxiety disorder.

A persistent, overwhelming fear of being watched, judged, or ridiculed. It affected her in ways that many would never understand. Simple interactions left her paralyzed. Meeting new people sent her into a state of panic. Her mind would go completely blank whenever she was forced into a conversation. She knew people found it strange-how could a genius hacker be afraid of talking to people?

But it was who she was. She had been like this since childhood, no matter how many psychologists had tried to help her. Even her job interview for the NBI had been a disaster. She had sat there trembling, unable to say a single coherent word in front of the department director.

She had been completely frozen, overwhelmed by the weight of their stares. But despite her failure, she had still been hired. Because the higher-ups wanted her. And now, she was finally working in the only place where she felt comfortable.

Home.

"This is a good life!" Khione stretched her arms with satisfaction.

Inside her house, she was free. No awkward conversations. No judgmental stares. No anxiety eating away at her.

Even when she had lived at the orphanage, she had always preferred to stay inside. Other children had tried to befriend her, but she would run away before they could even say a full sentence.

The only person she had ever trusted was Sister Faith, the nun who had acted as her mother figure. She had never needed friends. She was better off alone.

Khione's thoughts were interrupted by a message notification on her screen. One of her coworkers had sent her a chat. She stared at the message for a moment-then ignored it.

"Why do they keep trying? They already know what my answer will be." She considered closing the chat tab altogether.

Instead, she logged into the NBI portal and checked her assigned tasks for the day. A large, bold word appeared on her screen: AUTHENTICATION REQUIRED

She sighed and opened her security device to verify her identity. Within seconds, the system granted her access.

Her stomach twisted as she saw the first assignment waiting in her queue. She knew this was going to be bad.

Khione bit her lip, inhaling sharply before clicking the file open. Her screen was immediately flooded with graphic images and classified reports.

Her stomach churned. "What the hell is this?" she muttered, covering her mouth with one hand.

The photographs were horrifying. Bruised and battered children. Teenagers with vacant, lifeless expressions. Medical reports detailing sexual abuse. Documents exposing human trafficking networks selling them to wealthy clients.

Khione swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep reading. This was beyond horrifying. And then she saw something else. A list of potential suspects.

She clicked on the names-and her blood ran cold.

Politicians.

High-ranking officials.

CEOs of powerful corporations.

She exhaled sharply. "Of course... of course they're involved," she whispered, gripping her desk.

This wasn't just some underground crime syndicate. This was systematic. Organized. Protected.

"Why do I have to be the one handling this?" Khione leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

It didn't make sense. She was just a hacker. A specialist in cyber intelligence. And yet... They had given her this case.

"Are they... are they using me as bait?" The thought sent a chill down her spine.

She stood up abruptly and walked to her small kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. She needed to think. But no matter how hard she tried to shake it off, something about this case felt personal.

Then it hit her. The orphanage. She froze mid-sip. She remembered it now. Children had gone missing. Back then, they had been told it was just bad luck.

That some kids ran away. That some were taken in by families. But... Has that been a lie?

Khione's fingers trembled as she set her glass down. She forced herself to return to her desk. She couldn't let her emotions cloud her judgment. She opened a coding window and began typing, her fingers moving with mechanical precision.

As she worked, another thought crept into her mind.

A memory.

A nightmare.

The very reason she was here today. And the terrifying truth she had spent her whole life trying to forget.

"Boss, they've arrived."

The voice of Erza Slain Velleoti's right-hand man was low, cautious, as if uttering those words too loudly might summon something dangerous.

Ezra took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember at the tip burning bright in the dimly lit room. He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl lazily toward the ceiling before dissipating. He didn't even acknowledge the announcement with a nod or a glance. His men were used to this. Ezra never wasted words unless necessary.

Before him, on a lavishly designed stage, women danced in near-nothing attire, their bodies moving in sensual waves under the flashing neon lights. Their gazes, hopeful yet hollow, sought the attention of the wealthy and powerful men scattered throughout the club. Ezra was among them, but unlike the others, he remained detached, unaffected.

These women were nothing more than background noise to him. Their attempts to seduce him and capture his interest were wasted efforts. They could bare their souls along with their bodies, and it wouldn't make a difference. Ezra was a man who indulged only when he desired, and tonight, his mind was elsewhere.

At thirty-five years old, Ezra held a power most men could only dream of-power that wasn't inherited but built, sharpened like a blade over the years. He had the ability to destroy anyone, anytime, without consequence. But he wasn't reckless. He never acted without reason. He never touched someone unless they crossed a line.

And for those who did?

He never spared even a strand of their hair.

He finally shifted his gaze, steel-like and piercing, toward the direction his subordinate indicated. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of interest-just a flicker.

"Did they bring anything with them?" His voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight that sent a chill down his right-hand man's spine. It was the kind of tone that signaled danger, like the calm before a deadly storm.

"No, Boss," the man replied, his own voice betraying a hint of unease. "Only their terrified expressions."

Ezra scoffed. Typical.

He crushed the cigarette into the glass ashtray beside him, reaching instead for his whiskey. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but he welcomed the sensation. It kept him grounded and kept his patience intact-what little he had left.

With a subtle hand gesture, he ordered his men to retrieve what needed to be retrieved from the other side of the room.

The music swelled, drowning the tension for a moment. Laughter, drunken chatter, the clinking of glasses-this place was a sanctuary for those seeking temporary pleasure, for men who thought power was measured by how much money they could throw.

Ezra despised it.

The mixture of alcohol, sweat, and desperation clung to the air, an unbearable stench that made his stomach turn. But he endured it. Business came first.

Even as women continued to flaunt themselves in his direction, their glances growing more desperate, Ezra remained unmoved. They meant nothing. They were just another distraction in a world full of meaningless things.

His eyes flicked to the side as one of his men returned, moving quickly through the crowd.

Ezra immediately caught the look on his face. Nervous. Hesitant. That alone was enough to sour his already thinning patience.

"B-Boss," the man stammered, stopping just before him. "They... they're asking for another month to pay their debt."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a loud crash.

Ezra slammed his glass onto the table with such force that it shattered, sending shards of crystal flying. The club fell deathly quiet. The music stopped. The dancers froze mid-motion. Even those seated at the nearby tables held their breath, their faces paling as an unsettling aura filled the space.

All eyes turned to him, yet no one dared to move.

Ezra's gaze darkened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was ice-cold, slicing through the silence like a blade.

"You will either pay... or you will die. Choose!"

No one spoke. No one even breathed.

The men at the table across from him-the ones who owed him a hundred million-sat frozen. Their leader, in particular, seemed to shrink under Ezra's gaze.

The hesitation only made Ezra's blood boil.

With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed his empty glass and hurled it straight at the man's head. The bastard barely dodged in time, the glass shattering against the back of his chair. Had he been even a second slower, his face would've been sliced open.

"F*cking coward," Ezra growled, his patience now razor-thin.

The man flinched, swallowing thickly. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his entire body trembling.

"P-Please, Mr. Velleoti," he stammered, barely able to form words. "Just... just one more month."

Ezra let out a sharp exhale through his nose, leaning back in his seat as if contemplating. Then, he laughed.

It was a hollow, humorless sound.

"I have been hearing that for six months." His voice, though calm, carried a venom that made the air feel suffocating.

The man continued to plead, his words a mess of desperation and excuses.

Ezra had had enough.

With one swift motion, he pulled out his gun. The metallic click echoed through the club, followed by a deafening bang.

A body dropped.

Blood splattered across the floor, the scent of gunpowder mixing with the already foul air. The victim-a bodyguard-didn't even have time to react. He was dead before he hit the ground.

A chorus of horrified gasps and screams erupted around them. The dancers fled the stage, some customers scrambling to escape, but Ezra's men swiftly blocked the exits.

"No one leaves," one of them barked.

"Call the police!" someone yelled.

Ezra rolled his eyes.

Pathetic.

He turned back to the shaking man before him, raising his gun once more. The leader of the debtors was now on his knees, hands clasped together in a pitiful attempt at begging.

"Please, I swear I'll-"

Bang.

The man took a bullet straight to the forehead.

The man collapsed lifelessly onto the floor, his plea unfinished. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the expensive carpets.

The screams only grew louder.

Ezra's men looked on without reaction. They had seen this before-many times. There was nothing new about it.

The remaining men-those who had accompanied the now-dead leader-were paralyzed with fear. None of them dared to move, afraid that the next bullet would be theirs.

Ezra, unfazed, stepped over the fresh corpse and scanned the room, his gaze sharp, predatory.

"You think you can borrow from me and run?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You should've known better."

One of the remaining men instinctively took a step back.

Ezra smirked.

"Try to move again... and you'll be next."

The man stopped dead in his tracks, his breath hitching.

Ezra knew he had already won. He had made his point clear.

But just to be sure, he turned back to the corpse of the debtor and, without hesitation, emptied the rest of his bullets into the lifeless body.

The horror in the room was palpable. Some people closed their eyes, others sobbed into their hands, praying this nightmare would end.

Ezra finally turned to the remaining men, his face an eerie mix of calm and sadistic amusement.

"Listen closely." His voice was low, yet it demanded absolute attention.

"If anyone-anyone-breathes a word of this to the cops, you'll all be dead before the next sunrise."

His smile widened, but there was no warmth behind it. Only death.

"Now... clean this sh*t up."

And just like that, the beast had spoken and left.