SHADOWLESS LOVE

The Underworld—an abyss where shadows breed, and bloodlines are stained with violence. Here, darkness doesn't lurk in corners; it consumes every inch. Survival is simple—kill, or be killed. That is the only creed. But beneath its chaos lies an unyielding hierarchy, a brutal caste system no one dares defy unless they're willing to offer their soul—a currency most here spend without hesitation.

Four tiers divide this sinister realm, each more harrowing than the last.

The Showmen—the expendable base, where back-alley goons clash in an endless cycle of gang wars. Pawns in a game they'll never play, their only currency is information, whispered between bloodied lips and desperate souls. They belong nowhere, bound to nothing but the inevitability of death.

The Hustlers—a step above the Showmen, but shackled nonetheless. To rise here means to swear allegiance, to trade freedom for belonging. They serve as the eyes of their leaders, as the flesh offered to knives when war erupts. Like the forgotten middle class of society, they are torn—yearning for importance yet used as mere stepping stones. Their lives are the threadbare fabric stitched between power and ruin.

But the real battle begins at the summit.

The Haven—where money and guns dictate every conversation. Here, gang leaders wage wars, destroying and consuming in a savage dance. Those not leading are either spies, betraying kin for the coin, or businessmen dealing in the commodities of death. The Havens are the architects of destruction, their influence rippling through the Underworld like poisoned veins.

And then, at the peak of this shadowy empire, lies the abyss itself.

The Helhim—a world of opulence drenched in blood, where the elite wields unimaginable power. Money flows like rivers, and artistry is found in the precision of death. Helhim's fifteen families rule not just the Underworld but stretch their claws into the mortal world as well.

Outwardly, they masquerade as saints—philanthropists and visionaries. But beneath the gilded facade lies their truth: not even demons would embrace their hypocrisy.

Once, there were sixteen families. Ten years ago, that balance shattered. Three houses conspired to destroy the House of Partio, the third-strongest family. Their name was erased, their legacy obliterated.

Fifteen remain, ruling under a singular crown—the King of Helhim.

Alexander of the House of Saints.

The predator. The liar. The man I once called my closest friend.

I raised him from the dirt, and carved his path to power. Now, he sits upon the throne as the Crown King while being hungry for my blood, his House of Saints reigning supreme for over two centuries. Their strength is immeasurable, their reach extending from noble halls to the darkest slums. But their empire is built on a single principle: annihilation. At the faintest whisper of opposition, they obliterate their enemies so completely, that it's as if they never existed.

Just like the House of Partio.

"Sir, we've arrived at the House of Ivanova," Cassian's voice jolted me from my thoughts. I glanced out at the opulent mansion before us, its grandeur a stark contrast to the bitterness clawing at my chest. My fingers brushed the cold surface of the pendant hanging around my neck.

The weight of it was unbearable, yet I clung to it—a cruel token of a memory I could never let go.

Cassian's eyes lingered on me briefly. "You should tuck it inside. Precious things deserve protection, not display."

His words struck deeper than he intended. I nodded, slipping the pendant beneath my shirt. The gemstone pressed against my heart, a bittersweet ache spreading through me.

"You know, Aeron," Cassian said lightly, "you're a different person when you hold that thing. Almost… softer."

Softer? Perhaps. It wasn't often I allowed my mask to slip, not even for a moment.

"Even predators have their secrets," I murmured, a ghost of a smile on my lips.

I patted the pendant gently, the memory of the person who gave it to me burning brighter than the gemstone's luster. That ache—raw, unyielding—threatened to consume me. Love like that doesn't fade; it carves itself into your soul, unrelenting.

As I turned my gaze back to the Ivanova mansion, my heart carried the weight of silent longing and an unbearable love I could never forget.

If you were here, watching me now, I could almost hear your voice cutting through the silence.

"Can't you do things with a little less flair? What a drama queen—oh, wait. Drama king."

Your teasing lilt, that infuriating smirk—I can see it so clearly it hurts. It always did, the way you managed to make light of everything, even the pieces of me I kept hidden from the world.

I suppose you were right. I am a drama king. Who else would go to such lengths, clutching at fragments of a memory that's slipping through my fingers? Why else would I torment myself with these rituals, these pointless gestures, as if they could bridge the void you left behind?

But you'll never know, will you? Never know what you meant to me.

Because you're gone.

Dead.

And I'm the fool, standing here, holding onto a ghost that doesn't even linger anymore.