Son of the richest man in Asia

Rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse, turning the neon sprawl of Shanghai into a bleeding watercolor. Below, the city that bowed to his father’s name slept uneasily, unaware that tonight, the heir they’d never seen was about to vanish. I wasn’t supposed to exist in public records, in headlines, in conversations that mattered. But a single email had just hit my encrypted inbox, and it said only this: _They know who you are._ The hunt was about to begin, and running meant admitting I was afraid. Staying meant becoming the target my father spent twenty years trying to erase. My hand hovered over the delete key. One tap and the message would be gone, the thread burned, the trail cold again. That was the plan. Stay invisible. Stay safe. Let the old man’s enemies think his only son died in that car crash in Jakarta ten years ago. But the attachment loaded anyway. A photo. Me. Taken yesterday, outside the noodle shop on Nanjing Road, the one place I thought no camera could reach. I was wearing the hoodie, the cheap watch, the face of a nobody. None of that mattered. The timestamp was wrong. It was from three hours in the future.what a mess,I didn’t even notice being watched,their eyes were in every corner The lights in the penthouse flickered. Once. Twice. Then the power died, and the only sound left was the rain and my own breathing. Someone was already inside the building. The emergency exit sign flickered to life down the hall, casting a sickly green glow across the marble floor. I grabbed the only thing within reach — a paperweight shaped like my father’s company logo — and moved silent on the balls of my feet. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Not security. Security didn’t walk like they were savoring it. The apartment was a maze of glass and steel, designed to show off power, not survive a breach. Every window was a liability. Every reflection a potential giveaway. I slipped into the study, the one room without exterior walls, and killed the last LED strip with a flick of my wrist. The door handle turned. A voice, low and accented, spoke through the gap: “Master Li, your father sent us. He wants you to come home.” Liar. My father hadn’t spoken to me since the funeral that wasn’t mine. I held my breath and waited for the door to give --- The door exploded inward from heavy banging Wood and metal splintered as two men in black stormed through, guns raised, flashlights cutting through the dark looking for me.I was already moving,stealthy I grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the bookshelf — old, taped grip, the only thing in the room that didn’t look like it cost 5 grand. First guy came in too fast. I swung low, caught him behind the knee. He went down hard The second man pivoted too fast. My fist caught his wrist as I leaped fast before he could fire, and we crashed into the desk. His gun skittered away. He kneed me in the ribs. I groaned “Stop moving!” he hissed. I didn’t. I brought the bat up, clipped his jaw, and drove him back into the floor. He went out cold. Silence again. Except for the rain, and the man groaning in the hallway. I didn’t check if they were dead. Checking meant staying. Staying meant dying. I grabbed my bag, vaulted over the balcony railing, and dropped 20 floors onto the service ledge below. The hunt had started.