𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

𝙁𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠

The study was too quiet-eerily so.Eighteen-year-old Nani sat on the edge of the leather chair, hands resting stiffly on his knees, eyes darting from the bookshelf to the clock and back again. The faint tick-tock made his chest feel tighter with every passing second. He had been in this room a few times before, but tonight it felt different-he couldn't shake off the weight in the air.

He tried to recall if he had done something wrong. Did he say something he shouldn't have? Was it about Sky? Maybe Vegas didn't like how close they'd gotten lately? The thought made his stomach twist. Nani admired Vegas deeply-the man carried an air of control and authority that both intimidated and fascinated him. He wanted to be perfect in his eyes, worthy of being called his son-in-law someday.

The door opened with a soft click, and Nani instantly straightened up. Vegas walked in, his presence filling the room effortlessly. He was calm as always, but the look in his eyes was sharp-too sharp. He sat across from Nani, lacing his fingers together, studying the boy silently for a few seconds.

"You look nervous," Vegas finally said, his tone unreadable.

Nani swallowed hard. "I... I didn't mean to, sir. I just... I wasn't sure why you called me here."

Vegas leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. "Relax. You're not in trouble." Then his voice softened, but there was something cold beneath it. "I just wanted to talk. About Sky."

At the mention of that name, Nani's face instantly brightened before he quickly composed himself. "O-Oh. Is everything alright with him?"

Vegas sighed, tapping his fingers on the desk. "That's the problem, Nani. Everything is too alright. He's attached to you-more than I've ever seen him attached to anything. And you..." his gaze sharpened, "...you look at him like he's your whole world."

Nani's lips parted, but no words came out. Vegas's stare was piercing, as though he could see through every layer of him.

"You see," Vegas began, voice low, deliberate, "nothing is permanent in our world. In the morning, Sky may kiss you before heading out, and by evening, you might be staring at his dead body. That's how fragile things are here." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Force is my best friend, and you're his son. There's no way I'd ever want to see you hurt, not even for my own blood."

Nani's throat tightened, and he blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.

"So I'm asking you," Vegas continued, leaning forward, his tone softer but heavy with sincerity. "Are you sure about this, Nani? Are you ready to love someone who lives every day with death in his shadow?"

The question hit deep. Nani's fingers curled into his palms, heart thundering. He looked down, then back up, eyes shimmering. "I know what you mean, sir. And... I know Sky isn't safe. But I can't stop myself. Even if it hurts later, I still want to be with him. I'd rather have one day with him than a lifetime without him."

For a moment, silence blanketed the room. Vegas watched him carefully-then, for the first time that night, a faint, bittersweet smile crossed his lips.

"You really are trouble," he murmured. "No wonder my son can't stay away."

𝙋𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩

Sky's head throbbed as consciousness crept back in. The taste of blood coated his tongue, metallic and bitter. His wrists burned where the ropes dug into them, tied behind the back of a cold metal chair. The faint hum of a generator filled the warehouse-along with muffled voices, boots scraping against concrete, and the heavy scent of gasoline.

When he finally lifted his head, his blurred vision focused enough to make out several men surrounding him, armed and tense. But his attention fixed on the two standing directly in front of him.

"Ohm..." Sky drawled, a smirk slowly curving his split lip. "And here I thought you were smarter than this."

The officer's jaw tightened, his face hard but eyes betraying the flicker of frustration. Before he could speak, Sky's gaze slid to the man beside him-and that made him laugh. A sharp, genuine laugh that echoed through the silent warehouse.

"Didn't know you were this desperate, Joong," Sky said, his tone laced with mockery. "Governor's son, future face of politics, teaming up with a dirty cop. That's a new low-even for you."

Joong Archen's eyes darkened, his pride pricked. "Watch your mouth, Sky. You won't be so smug when your empire burns."

Sky tilted his head, studying him. "Empire?" he echoed, voice dripping with amusement. "You mean the empire you keep trying to destroy because it reminds you of how much of a failure you are in your father's eyes? Please. You're pathetic."

Joong took a threatening step forward, but Ohm raised a hand, stopping him. "Enough," Ohm snapped, his voice firm, trying to keep control. He turned to Sky. "You think this is a game? The kind of poison you're spreading-people are dying. These new drugs, they're stronger than anything we've seen. It kills faster. How can you live with yourself knowing what you've done?"

Sky leaned back in his chair, his expression one of mild boredom. "Oh, please spare me the morality speech," he said dryly. "I didn't force them to take anything. They wanted it. They paid for it. They begged for it." His lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "They want to kill themselves slowly, and somehow, I'm the bad guy for giving them what they asked for? Very unfair, don't you think?"

Ohm's hands clenched at his sides. "You're disgusting."

"I'm practical," Sky corrected. "You and your little justice fantasy can't save people from their own choices. The world runs on addiction-drugs, money, power, love. Everyone's hooked on something, officer. I just happen to sell the easiest one."

Joong sneered. "You talk too much for someone whose life is hanging by a thread."

Sky chuckled, low and dark, his eyes flashing with cold amusement. "Oh, Joong. You've been saying that for years, but somehow I'm still breathing." He leaned forward slightly, his tone dipping into something sharper. "You should've learned by now-no one can kill Sky Wongravee Theerapakyun and I will live long enough to brag about it."

The air turned heavier after that. Ohm's expression hardened further, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Joong, however, was trembling with fury, barely keeping his composure.

Sky sat back, watching them both with quiet arrogance, his mind already working behind that lazy grin. He wasn't afraid. Not even close.

Because if he was here... then Red was already on the move.

Red watched the live feed on his tablet with the quiet ferocity of a man folding anger into purpose. Snipers were already in position - silent little black specks in the trees, eyes on the compound. Two of his best men were perched on a ridge to keep him updated. The trackers pinged sporadically; Sky's signal flickered like a dying star, but it was enough to give them bearings.

He'd forwarded the coordinates to Vegas hours ago and over the last tense minutes his phone lit up with confirmations. Vegas was moving - fast. Red's throat tightened with a mixture of hope and something sharper: the knowledge that timing would make or break everything tonight.

The convoy arrived in a sudden roll of tires. Vegas stepped out of his Range Rover with the same controlled violence he carried in meetings; every move economical, every glance a command. His men fanned out, radios terse and practiced. Red stepped forward to brief him quickly - strategy, snipers, extraction lanes - and there was no time for courtesies.

Vegas listened, eyes narrowing into thin slits. When Red finished, the older man didn't ask questions. He didn't nod either. He simply stepped closer, palm lifted, and slapped Red across the face hard enough to sting.

A dozen things moved in Red at once - shock, heat, the reflex to strike back. He kept his hands down. He chuckled without sound and wiped his jaw with the back of his hand, the handkerchief falling away for a moment. He said nothing.

Vegas's voice was low, cold. "If anything happens to William or Sky, you are done, Red. Done." The words hung in the night like a verdict.

Red's jaw flexed. The accusation burned - old and familiar. Vegas's eyes flashed with a private history, contempt sharpened by loss. "You were the one who sold William's location to Cornal, weren't you?" Vegas continued, spitting the question like it was a curse.

Red's reply was a single, steady sentence: "I didn't, sir."

Vegas sneered as if the denial was expected and meaningless. "I don't trust you. I don't know why my son does. But know this: one day your sins will catch you. One day you'll drown in the blood you've spilled." He turned away without waiting for any more, mounting his car with the same controlled indifference he used to dismiss enemies. "Move when I say. And if you fail-"

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Red stood for a long beat after the Range Rover disappeared, a statue of coiled wire and cold resolve. The slap had stung - not for the pain but because it meant Vegas's mind was already made up; respect was not his to earn here.

Red had long ago accepted that some people would always hate him without knowing why. The thing that mattered now wasn't Vegas's opinion. It was that two people he loved were out there - one bleeding in a hospital bed, the other somewhere in enemy hands - and there wasn't a second to waste on grudges.

He breathed in, slow and deep, clenching and unclenching his fists until the tremor in his blood settled. His men reported in hushed tones. The snipers confirmed their sightlines.

Vegas had asked for a measured approach; Red didn't argue. Vegas's forces would give the operation cover, but Red would lead the tack to find the drugs - to find the box, the lab, whatever trail Sky had walked into.

"Listen up," Red said, voice low and hard. " Mr. Vegas will control the outer perimeter. We move in silent. No heroics. We get Sky, we secure any storage, and we get out. If Sky set this up, he did it to bait them - that means the prize is close. Keep eyes on the exits and watch for movement at thirty and sixty. If Veritas opens, pull back and burn the feed. Understood?"

A chorus of hardened affirmatives answered.

Red pulled his handkerchief back over his face, mask of shadow reassembled. He sat on his bike for a second, fingers tightening on the grips as he stared at the dark path ahead. There were a thousand reasons he might be hated, distrusted, shamed by men who had lost friends and favors and faith. None of that mattered in the moment.

He fired the engine. The Ducati's roar was a promise and a threat. It tore through the night toward the compound, toward Sky, toward whatever blood-slick corridor had been set to trap them - and Red's head was clear with a single, unshakable command: bring him to his home.