The sprawling, opulent corridors of the Santoso estate had always felt like a museum dedicated to the family’s boundless vanity. Every imported rug, every gilded mirror, and every towering oil portrait was a calculated projection of invulnerability. But as Adrian Voss walked away from the dining room, leaving the heavy oak doors shut behind him, the atmosphere of the mansion had fundamentally transformed. The museum was closing. The fortress was breached.
He moved through the dimly lit eastern wing with a slow, deliberate grace, his footsteps utterly silent against the plush carpet. The facade of the submissive, terrified son-in-law dissolved with every step he took away from his executioners. He rolled his shoulders back, shedding the manufactured slouch, his spine straightening into its
