The sound didn’t merely echo—it detonated.
A violent, thunderous blast ripped through the stillness of the night, shattering the calm like a hammer striking glass. The air itself seemed to tremble, and within the estate of the the Chandler family, even those accustomed to power and danger felt a reflexive jolt of fear crawl up their spines.
Inside the manor, deep within a carefully curated study that exuded old money and cultivated discipline, Cody Chandler stood before an antique hardwood desk. The room smelled faintly of ink and aged paper, the kind of scent that clung to tradition and prestige. Brush, inkstone, rice paper, and a polished ink slab were arranged with meticulous precision, each object placed not merely for function, but as a reflection of identity.
He held a calligraphy
