Chapter 154 Dorian’s Hidden War
The bedroom was completely dark.
Dorian lay stretched out on the long sofa, his dark eyes wide open, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. The glowing red numbers on the digital clock resting on the nearby nightstand read 2:47 AM. He had been lying there in the suffocating quiet for hours.
Sleep would not come.
No matter how still he kept his body, his mind was still racing at full speed. The milk tea. The subtle look of hurt on her face. The sharp, heavy way she had turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
He had thrown it away. He had not meant to do it with so much aggression. But he had done it anyway.
He turned his head slowly against the cushion. His eyes landed on the small wooden surface of the nightstand. The small brown bottle was still there, catching the faint glint of the moonlight streaming through the curtains. It was the essential oil blend Veyra had given him earlier to help with his chronic fatigue.
He reached for it. His fingers closed tightly around the smooth glass.
He held it in his palm for a quiet moment, feeling its weight. Then he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. He walked over to the tall trash can near his desk. He lifted the lid with a slow, deliberate motion.
He hesitated.
The small bottle was warm against his palm. The faint, soothing scent drifted up through the cap, herbal, clean, and distinct.
He thought about her face in that exact moment. The way she had looked at him when he threw the custom milk tea straight into the garbage. The sudden, raw hurt flashing in her dark eyes before she masked it with cold anger.
He stood up, running a hand through his damp hair.
He walked past his bed to the back of the walk-in closet. Reaching behind a heavy coat rack, he pressed the hidden pressure switch embedded in the wall. With a barely audible click, the solid wall slid open smoothly on hidden tracks.
He stepped into the secret room, the heavy door sliding shut behind him.
The low light of the desk lamp was already on, casting a warm glow over the wide metal table. The entire workbench was littered with specialized tools, precision gear, raw metal components, delicate copper wires, and complex electrical schematics.
And on the far end of the bench, resting in a clear glass dish, sat a small ball of yarn.
It was not ordinary yarn meant for knitting. It was meticulously crafted out of ultra-high-density nanofibers, secretively developed by a top-tier nanotechnology research lab. Each micro-strand was infinitely stronger than refined steel, yet lighter and softer than natural silk.
He had been working on this exact project in secret for months now. It was a nano-bulletproof vest. It was ultra-lightweight, completely flexible under clothing, and fully capable of stopping multiple direct rounds from high-caliber tactical weapons without tearing.
He sat down on the heavy stool at the workbench. He picked up the ball of yarn, lifting it to the light. He rolled it between his thumb and fingers, feeling the strange, liquid-smooth texture of the weave.
The raw material was ridiculously expensive, extremely rare, and almost impossible to obtain through legal commercial channels. He had been forced to use all of his high-level connections, his vast personal resources, and his covert corporate influence to gather just this small batch.
But it was worth it.
He thought about his older brother.
Percy Thorne. The sudden, suspicious plane crash over the northern wilderness. The charred wreckage scattered across the valley. The missing body that was never recovered from the site.
He thought about Lydia. Percy’s wife. She was easily the kindest, most gentle person he had ever known in his entire life.
They had not died in a simple accident. They had been brutally murdered by the Black Triangle, a ruthless syndicate of international mercenaries who had deliberately sabotaged the aircraft’s control systems before takeoff.
He had spent three long, grueling years searching through dead ends for answers. Three years tracking shadowy leads across the globe. Three years quietly building his personal resources and power.
He had developed this high-tech vest not for the military. Not for corporate profit. Not for personal fame or glory.
He had developed it purely for revenge.
He picked up a single fine strand of the nanowire with a pair of fine tweezers. He tested its tensile strength against a tension gauge. It held firmly under maximum pressure. It did not break.
He set the gauge down. He picked up the specialized weaving frame and began to manually thread the material. His long fingers moved with practiced, mechanical precision, loop by loop.
He was full of expectations for the vest’s ultimate effectiveness when the time finally came to strike.
He had always loved military equipment.
Even as a small child, he had spent countless hours tucked away in his father’s vast study, reading through dense technical manuals about heavy weapons, tactical maneuvers, and urban combat.
He had fully intended to join the military academy after school. He had wanted to serve on the front lines. To protect people.
But then his brother had died. And he had been forced to step into the light and take over the family business. Zeus Group. The immense financial responsibility. The heavy corporate legacy.
He had put his original dreams completely aside to keep the company afloat.
And then, after months of quiet digging, he had finally learned the dark truth behind the accident.
The people who had targeted and killed his brother were key operatives from the Black Triangle, a shadowy criminal organization made up of rogue mercenaries and elite killers for hire.
He had decided right then to use every single one of his unique abilities, his financial resources, and his raw intelligence for a single purpose.
He would take revenge with his own hands.
He had quietly supported Wesley Wynn behind the scenes for years.
He had provided the funding and tactical intelligence to help him become the absolute leader of the Ravenwood Society, turning it into the most powerful and feared underground gang in the entire Etland Building.
He had done it not out of a desire for street power, nor for local underworld influence. He had done it simply for information.
The Black Triangle operated deep within the dark shadows of the international black market. They were practically impossible to find and impossible to track through normal law enforcement channels.
But the Ravenwood Society had eyes everywhere in the city streets. Ears everywhere in every criminal port.
Through Wesley, he had direct access to underground chatter. Through Wesley, he gathered solid leads.
To get even closer, he had also taken on a secret secondary identity in the arms trade, Ghost, a legendary master equipment modifier who operated entirely through encrypted channels. He took on high-difficulty commissions for elite clients, quickly making a massive name for himself within exclusive military circles.
And he waited patiently for the trap to spring.
He had known they would eventually come looking for someone with his specialized skill set.
The Black Triangle was always actively searching for rare talent. Always looking for master tech operators who could construct custom weapons, modify military-grade equipment, or create specialized combat tools.
He had made his master persona visible enough in the right circles. He had made himself useful to the underworld.
And just as he predicted, they had come.
He had been discreetly approached by their brokers. Courted with massive payouts. Offered lucrative high-level contact work.
He had accepted their offers without hesitation. He had played along seamlessly with their demands. He had waited quietly for the right moment to strike them from the inside.
This nano-vest was an essential part of his upcoming plan. A vital tool for survival. A deadly weapon. A physical symbol of his unwavering resolve.
He finished pulling the very last weave into place, tying off the edge with a microscopic seal.
He held up the completed vest under the desk lamp. It was amazingly light, completely flexible, and practically invisible to the naked eye when worn beneath an ordinary dress shirt.
He set it down carefully on the clean felt mat.
His hands were completely steady. His breathing was slow and calm.
He thought about Percy’s face during their last conversation. About Lydia’s warm smile. About the burning wreckage in the mountains. About the empty grave of the brother he had never found.
His jaw tightened hard, a cold, lethal focus filling his eyes.
They would pay for what they did. All of them. Every single mercenary involved, every organizer behind the curtain, and every person who had a hand in planning that flight.
He would make them pay for every drop of blood they took.