The Laurent Estate was exactly as Ren had left it: smelling of expensive lilies, polished marble, and a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight on his chest. But after the roar of the Berlin train and the heat of the "Red X," the mansion didn't feel like a home anymore. It felt like a high-end mausoleum where his soul had been laid to rest.
Ren sat on the edge of his bed—the same four-hundred-thread-count silk sheets, the same designer pillows—but he felt like a ghost haunting his own life. His hands, still stained with the faint dust of the cargo container, looked alien against the pristine white duvet.
"You've lost weight. And you look... unkempt."
The cold, sharp voice sliced through the room like a scalpel. Ren didn't look up. He didn't have to. Arthur Laurent stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh, clinical light of the hallway. He looked immaculate, his cufflinks glinting, as if he hadn't spent the night hunting his own son like a stray animal.
"The gala is in thirty-six hours, Ren," Arthur said, stepping into the room. He didn't ask if Ren was hungry. He didn't ask how his heart was. "The press has been told you were on a 'private creative retreat' in the Alps to finalize the concerto. You will look rested. You will look grateful. And you will play like the prodigy I spent millions to create."
Ren finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, his voice a low, dangerous tremble. "And if I don't? If I walk out onto that stage in front of the cameras and tell them you're a monster? That you kidnapped me from my own life?"
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't even get angry. He simply walked over to the window and adjusted the heavy velvet curtains. "Then the 'Thief'—the boy currently sitting in a cold holding cell in Rostock—will find himself facing charges that will ensure he never sees the sun again. I have already drafted the statement. 'Kidnapping for Ransom.' One phone call, Ren, and Jace is gone. Not just from your life, but from the world."
Ren's breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out across his neck. "He didn't kidnap me! He saved me! You know that!"
"The world knows what I tell them, Ren," Arthur whispered, leaning down until his shadow completely engulfed his son. "You are my masterpiece. And a masterpiece does not run away with the help. Now, get in the shower. The stylist is waiting. We have a reputation to rebuild. Do not test me again."
The door clicked shut, and the sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoed like a gunshot.
Ren was alone. He walked over to his grand piano, a black lacquered beast that felt like a cage within a cage. He pressed a single key. Middle C. It was perfect. Pure. And utterly soulless.
He closed his eyes, and instead of the sheet music, he saw Jace's face in the sawdust. He felt the phantom pressure of Jace's hand on his waist. His fingers began to move, but he didn't play the concerto. He began to play a melody that was jagged, wild, and filled with the grit of the Berlin streets—a song for a drummer who wasn't there.
Three floors down, the service entrance was a hive of activity. Vans were unloading crates of vintage champagne and trays of silver-leafed hors d'oeuvres for the gala rehearsal dinner.
"Watch it with those crates, kid! That's five grand a bottle!" the head butler barked at a new delivery driver.
"Sorry, sir. Heavy load," the driver muttered, pulling his low-brimmed cap further over his eyes.
Jace adjusted the collar of his borrowed catering jacket, his heart hammering a rhythm against his ribs that was faster than any drum solo he'd ever played. His stomach was still bruised from the rifle butt, and his lungs burned, but he was inside.
He moved with the practiced ease of a ghost, sliding past the busy kitchen staff and into the shadows of the pantry. He knew he only had minutes before someone checked his ID, but he didn't care. He followed the sound.
High above, drifting through the vents and down the grand staircase, was a melody Jace knew by heart. It wasn't the classical garbage Arthur Laurent loved. It was their song. The one they had hummed in the dark of the "Red X."
Jace looked at the grand staircase, guarded by two security men in suits. He touched the pocket of his jacket, where a small, silver-plated master key—swiped from the security office during the chaos of the delivery—sat heavy against his thigh.
"Hang on, Ren," Jace whispered into the steam of the kitchen. "The noise is coming."
He didn't have a plan. He didn't have a weapon. He just had a rhythm and a promise. And as the "Golden Boy" played his heart out upstairs, the "Thief" began his ascent.