Empire of Shadows

That afternoon, another round of thunderstorms rolled in, with a rhythm that was almost predictable: CRACK... BOOM... WHOOSH... drip-drip-drip... silence.

Some said it was the final thunderstorm of the season, but who could really know?

In an upscale apartment in the Bay Area, a woman in her late twenties stretched lazily, waking from an afternoon nap. Dressed in lingerie, she pushed open the window, letting in the cool, post-rain air.

On the balcony next door, a young man smoking a cigarette caught sight of her. So entranced was he by the view that he didn’t notice the cigarette burning down to his fingers, scalding him.

The woman giggled, throwing him a flirtatious wink before retreating into her apartment.

As a kept woman, she lived the envy of many.

She didn’t have to work or navigate the soul-sucking drama of office politics. She could nap whenever she felt tired, wake up whenever she pleased, and eat whenever hunger struck.

Each month, she received several hundred dollars in spending money. In exchange, all she had to do was provide some occasional “companionship.”

It was just sex, after all. As feminist activists often proclaimed, “A woman’s body is her own asset. She has the right to decide who gets access to it, when, and how.” No one had the right to judge her for using what was hers.

She loved this lifestyle. If she could, she’d live this way forever.

After returning to her room, she took a shower. Summer naps always left her sweaty. Unlike most Federation citizens, who bathed in the mornings and went to bed dirty after long days of work, she preferred to bathe whenever she felt like it.

As she washed, a thought nagged at her. It had been a while since her benefactor, Kent, had last visited.

He hadn’t kept his promises lately, either.

Because Kent was the one who always initiated contact, she couldn’t reach him. She had no idea what was going on.

Still, she wouldn’t reach out herself. Who the hell goes looking to get screwed? She didn’t crave it, and Kent’s performance was average at best.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Wrapping herself in a towel, she shouted, “Coming!”

But the person at the door didn’t seem to hear.

From the persistent doorbell ringing to loud pounding on the door, it was clear this visitor wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Annoyed, the woman opened the door slightly, keeping the chain lock in place. Outside stood several men.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked.

The man in front spoke, “I’m Kent’s brother. Name’s Will.”

His calm demeanor made her uneasy.

Kent—the man who funded her comfortable life—was clearly using her for her looks and body, but she didn’t mind as long as the money kept coming.

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” she said cautiously, making no move to let them in.

Will stared at her. “You sure you want to have this conversation in the doorway, where anyone can hear about you and my brother’s ‘relationship’?”

Still skeptical, the woman replied, “I can’t confirm who you are. For all I know, you’re just someone who heard about me somewhere.”

Will pulled out a photograph of himself and Kent together. “How about now?”

Her confidence wavered, and Will pressed further. “He’s dead. I need to know a few things.”

Her expression turned to shock. “Oh my God!”

She hesitated for a moment before unhooking the chain. “Fine, you can come in—but not them.” She nodded toward the burly men standing behind him.

“They’ll stay outside,” Will assured her.

Once inside, Will glanced around. “My brother rented this place for you.”

It wasn’t a question. He had already done his research.

Sitting on the couch, Will watched as the woman awkwardly adjusted her towel.

“I’m going to change,” she mumbled, disappearing into the bedroom.

When she returned, she was wearing a summer outfit—comfortable but revealing, with just enough to hint at her figure.

Will didn’t seem impressed.

“How did he die?” she asked.

“He was gutted and bled out,” Will replied bluntly.

“Do you remember him calling you or saying anything unusual in early August?”

The woman frowned, racking her brain. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Will’s expression darkened. “Listen, I don’t have time to waste. This is about finding his killer. Think harder.”

She squirmed, the news of Kent’s death bringing a wave of anxiety.

With him gone, she would lose this apartment and the monthly allowance that funded her carefree life.

She had no talents besides her looks. Finding another benefactor like Kent would be nearly impossible.

The frustration and fear clouded her thoughts, and all she could think about was how to secure her next sugar daddy—not anything Kent might have said before his death.

Will’s patience snapped. Lunging forward, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face against the coffee table.

THUNK!

She screamed in pain, a large bump swelling on her forehead.

Leaning down, Will growled, “Now tell me—did he say anything?”

Terrified, the woman stammered, “I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”

“You spent his money, lived in his apartment, and enjoyed the life he gave you. And now that he’s dead, you claim to know nothing?”

Will delivered several punches to her face, each one drawing desperate pleas for mercy.

The commotion caught the attention of her neighbor, a young man who had admired her from his balcony earlier.

Curiosity turned to concern as he heard her screams. Grabbing his baseball bat, he opened his door—only to find three imposing men in the hallway.

They all turned to look at him. One of them casually lifted his shirt, revealing a holstered pistol.

The young man froze.

Realizing he was no match for them, he quickly stammered, “I was just... going to play baseball.”

One of the men sneered. “Go back inside, lock your door, and keep quiet. Don’t call the cops, don’t talk to anyone, and forget everything you heard.

“Do that, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”

The young man nodded frantically, retreating to his apartment and locking the door.

Inside, the woman, her face swollen and bloody, suddenly remembered something. “Wait! I remember now!”

Will stopped mid-stride, lighting a cigarette as he sat back down. “You’d better not waste my time.”

“Kent called me the last time and said he’d conned a fool out of $1,500. He wanted to take me shopping...”

Will exhaled a cloud of smoke, slowly rolling up his sleeves. “Do you know who he scammed?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Then tell me the exact day and time,” he demanded.

The woman provided the details, her voice trembling.

Two minutes later, the young man in the neighboring apartment heard screams from the balcony. Racing out, he peered over the edge to see a crowd gathering below.

There, lying motionless on the pavement, was his alluring neighbor.

From his car, Will watched as blood pooled beneath the woman’s lifeless body. Lighting another cigarette, he ordered the driver to leave.

If his brother’s favorite toy couldn’t provide answers, she could at least keep Kent company in hell.

The woman’s death soon attracted police attention. They knocked on the young man’s door, but he sat frozen in his apartment, too terrified to answer.

By the time officers left, they had concluded the unit was unoccupied.

The next day, rumors spread about a depressed woman who had jumped to her death in the Bay Area.

In a society hungry for lurid tales, the truth mattered little. People only cared about playing a part in the drama, regardless of how unflattering their role might be.

Back in the Imperial District, Will pieced together more of the puzzle. He was getting closer to the truth.

If Kent had been scamming someone, it had likely happened at his casino. Will’s advice to his brother had been clear: Don’t leave the casino unless you close it first. And for God’s sake, don’t stir up trouble.

Kent hadn’t listened, and now he was dead. But Will was determined to uncover the killer.

Meanwhile, Lance, dressed in his new bespoke suit, arrived at Alberto’s office for a meeting.

Though unsure of the exact agenda, Lance had a strong hunch: the whiskey.

The skyrocketing price of Gold Label Napoléon whiskey had inflated its value to a staggering $500,000.

A fortune stored in a warehouse—wealth that could still grow with time.

And as Lance stepped into the office, he realized his instincts were spot on.