The Man They Tried to Erase

Chapter 003

The late September rain in Novus City carried a distinct, bone-chilling dampness that seemed to seep through even the most expensive wool. Standing outside the towering glass and steel facade of The Gilded Resort, Allen Morgan remained perfectly still, his silhouette nearly swallowed by the obsidian night. To any casual passerby, he looked like a shadow carved from the darkness itself, but to Allen, the world felt like a sensory overload of neon flickers and the rhythmic, metallic pitter-patter of the drizzle against the pavement.

He stood there for a long time, the cold water slicking back his dark hair, listening to the city’s pulse. The incessant roar of the traffic and the distant hum of the skyline were a far cry from the silence he had grown accustomed to over the past twelve months. He pulled a silver case from his pocket, ignited a high-end cigarette, and watched the orange glow illuminate his sharp, angular features for a fleeting second. As the smoke curled into the wet air, his mind drifted back—back to the voices that still haunted the peripheries of his memory like jagged shards of glass.

"Allen, you worthless piece of trash, get the hell out of this house!"

"If the chores aren't finished by dawn, don't even think about touching the dinner leftovers!"

"Why are you even still breathing? If you were dead, Christian could finally marry a man who actually has a last name that matters!"

Those voices—bitter, sharp, and laced with an inexplicable venom—belonged to his former in-laws. Four years ago, he had arrived in this city like a beaten dog, stripped of his heritage, his wealth, and his pride. He had entered the Hobbs family as a live-in son-in-law, a title that, in the rigid social hierarchy of Novus City, was considered lower than a stray cur.

Even though the Hobbs family was merely a ninth-rate clan struggling to stay relevant in the cutthroat business world, they had treated him with a cruelty that surpassed the imagination. For three years, he was their servant, their punching bag, and their collective shame. He had cooked their meals, scrubbed their floors, and endured their physical and verbal a***e without a single word of protest. Even his wife’s immediate household had never offered him a single moment of warmth. Finally, a year ago, they had meticulously engineered a scandal to frame him, successfully kicking him out into the rain with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Now, standing on the same soil, Allen felt a strange, detached melancholy. The city hadn't changed, but he had.

"Sir, the rain is intensifying. You'll catch a chill."

A massive black umbrella moved over his head, shielding him from the elements. The man holding it, dressed in a bespoke Italian suit that probably cost more than a mid-sized sedan, stood with statuesque precision. He was unbothered by the fact that his own shoulder was becoming soaked, prioritizing Allen's comfort above all else. This was Philip Keen, the Vice President of Vita Coperation and Allen’s most trusted strategist. To the world, Mr. Keen was a titan of industry whose arrival in Novus City had sent the local stock market into a frenzy; to Allen, he was a brother-in-arms.

Allen took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the entrance of the five-star hotel. "Tell me, Philip," he began, his voice a low, melodic rasp that carried the weight of a thousand secrets. "In your professional opinion, does this qualify as a triumphant return to one's home? Or am I just a ghost haunting an old crime scene?"

Philip didn't hesitate. His voice was firm, laced with an unwavering, almost religious loyalty. "If you so desire, Sir, it is not merely the Hobbs family that will bow. The entirety of Novus City will be brought to its knees by sunrise. We didn't come here to play by their rules; we came here to rewrite them."

Allen flicked the ash from his cigarette, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "And the Hobbs family? Are they on the guest list for tonight’s festivities?"

"They are," Philip replied, his eyes reflecting the cold neon of the hotel sign. "They’ve spent the last three weeks begging for an invitation. They believe this gala is their ticket to the big leagues. They have no idea who actually owns the chair they are trying to sit at."

Allen nodded and walked toward the entrance of The Gilded Resort. It was a bastion of opulence, a monument to excess that Philip had quietly acquired on Allen's behalf weeks ago. It was now the flagship property of Vita Coperation in the region. The lobby was a symphony of gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and polished marble. Every footfall on the plush red carpet felt like a drumbeat of destiny.

As they approached the elevators, the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, aged scotch, and the frantic energy of people trying too hard to impress. Hundreds of socialites, business moguls, and heirs-apparent were huddled in groups, their conversations a low hum of ambition.

"Sir," Philip whispered as they stepped into the elevator hallway. "Govener Sean Harris is waiting for you in the private suite on the eleventh floor. He’s anxious to discuss the initial $500 million investment phase and the land grants near the harbor. He knows that without Vita Coperation, his development plans for the next decade are dead in the water."

"You handle the politics, Philip," Allen said, adjusting his black jacket. "You know the parameters. I’m going to stay in the main hall for a while. I want to see the 'upper crust' of this city from the shadows. I want to feel the weight of their gaze before they know who I am."

The elevator chimed at the tenth floor. Philip bowed slightly as the doors opened, then headed toward the VIP conference rooms to meet the city’s power brokers. Allen stepped into the grand ballroom alone.

The heat of the room hit him first—a mixture of high-stakes tension and the clinking of crystal glasses. The lighting was dimmed, punctuated by the dazzling reflections of the chandeliers in the champagne flutes. Men in five-thousand-dollar tuxedos and women in haute couture gowns moved like peacocks, showcasing their status. To them, this was a battlefield of influence. To Allen, it was a theater of the absurd.

He moved like a ghost through the crowd, finding a secluded corner table far from the center of attention. He picked up a small, intricately decorated pastry, watching the spectacle with a detached curiosity. A year ago, the people in this room were giants he couldn't hope to reach. Now, he saw the cracks in their veneers—the desperation for a contract, the fear of being left behind by the new economy.

"Well, well! I thought I smelled something rotten. If it isn't the parasite who lived off our charity for three years!"

The voice was shrill, cutting through the sophisticated atmosphere like a rusty blade. Allen didn't need to look up to recognize it. Jane Hobbs, his former mother-in-law, was marching toward him. She was dressed in a flamboyant gown that screamed 'new money,' her face twisted in a familiar expression of disgusted superiority.

However, Allen's gaze didn't linger on Jane. It drifted past her to the woman standing a few paces behind.

Christian Hobbs.

She was as breathtaking as he remembered, perhaps more so. She wore a pale blue, floor-length gown that left her slender, porcelain shoulders bare. Her dark hair fell in a silken waterfall down her back, and her eyes—those cold, beautiful eyes—held a lingering sense of melancholy that seemed out of place in this celebration. She looked like a lone star in a crowded, noisy sky, an ice queen who had mastered the art of hiding her heart.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the crowded room. Ten paces felt like a light-year. Allen saw the flicker of shock in her expression, followed quickly by a mask of frozen indifference. He looked away first, turning his attention back to the red-faced woman in front of him.

"What the hell are you doing back in Novus City, Allen?" Jane hissed, her voice loud enough to draw glances from the surrounding tables.

"Business," Allen replied calmly, taking a slow bite of the pastry. It tasted far better than the scraps he used to eat at their table. "And," he added, his voice dropping an octave, "I came to pay my respects to the memory of James Hobbs."

At the mention of the late James Hobbs, Allen’s heart tightened. The world often forgot that his survival was due to that old man. Four years ago, a devastating fire had leveled the Morgan villa in the Veritas City. Allen had been poisoned, paralyzed, left to die amidst the roaring flames. It was James Hobbs, a man who happened to be passing through the capital on a business trip, who had risked his life to pull Allen from the wreckage.

James had brought him back to Novus City, but the old man’s lungs had been ravaged by the smoke. He passed away from complications shortly after, leaving Allen alone in a family that hated him. Allen owed that man his life. It was the only reason he had endured three years of hell—out of a sense of profound, silent debt to the one man who had shown him mercy.

"Don't you dare speak his name!" Jane’s voice rose to a screech. "You have no right to be in this hotel, let alone at a Vita Coperation event."

Allen didn't bother to argue. He knew Jane's world was built on a foundation of spite. He looked at Christian, who remained silent, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"Mother, that's enough," Christian finally said, her voice cool and elegant. She stepped forward, the blue of her dress shimmering under the lights. "There’s no need to make a scene. He’s clearly just here for the catering. Let him eat and leave."

"Leave? I want him thrown out into the mud where he belongs!" Jane turned to the crowd, realizing she had an audience. "Look, everyone! This is the man who tried to ruin the Hobbs family! A predator in a cheap suit!"

The surrounding guests began to whisper. The scandal of the Hobbs family's "useless son-in-law" was a favorite topic of local gossip. One of the more malicious rumors involved a fabricated attempt by Allen to assault his own sister-in-law, Erin Hobbs—a lie concocted by Jane herself to justify his expulsion.

"So that's the famous loser? He doesn't look like much."

"I heard he was a literal servant. How pathetic."

Allen felt the weight of their disdain, but it no longer burned. It was like watching a play performed by amateurs. He was far beyond their reach now.

"You know, Jane," Allen said softly, "I used to wonder why James Hobbs was the only one in your family with a soul. A year hasn't changed you at all. You’re still small-minded, still obsessed with a status you don't actually possess."

"How dare you!" Jane’s hand flew up, ready to strike him, but she stopped when she saw the look in his eyes. It was the look of a predator watching a frantic insect.

Allen stood up, smoothing his jacket. The movement was fluid, graceful, and carried an air of natural authority that momentarily silenced the nearby tables. "I asked you if I had the right to be here. You didn't answer the question."

"You have no right!" Jane screamed.

"We'll see about that," Allen murmured. He turned his back on them, walking toward the center of the ballroom where the power players were beginning to gather for the opening remarks.

Behind him, Jane was still yelling, but her voice was drowned out by the sudden, heavy silence that fell over the room. The main doors to the VIP gallery opened, and Govener Sean Harris appeared, walking side-by-side with Philip Keen. They weren't looking at the crowd; they were looking for their leader.