By the time the private jet's wheels kissed the sun-warmed tarmac of Paradise International—the only airport on Hell's Paradise Island and therefore arrogantly stuck with the main name because there was literally zero competition to justify anything fancier—Phei was elsewhere entirely.
Lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, turning the deed over and over like a man examining a blade he had never intended to draw.
He had enslaved a man.
A fully matured, fifty-six-year-old Legacy patriarch forged in decades of iron will and a name that could silence federal judges mid-sentence. All of it undone in less than fifteen minutes: one casual flick of the thumb, one ancient syllable that had not existed in his vocabulary a week earlier. Cosmic Dragon Slave Mark. Two short sounds. That was all it took to rewrite a soul while he sat obediently in his lap like a loyal hound awaiting command
