The morning light in the loft wasn't golden; it was a cold, unforgiving grey that leaked through the cracked window-panes like an accusation.
Ren sat at the small wooden table, his thumb hovering over his phone screen. He had refreshed the banking app ten times in the last minute, hoping—praying—that the red text was a glitch. A nightmare. A cruel joke.
ACCOUNT TERMINATED. BALANCE: €0.00.
The silence in the room was deafening. Behind him, he could hear the soft clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl as Mia ate a dry portion of cereal. She was humming a disjointed tune, oblivious to the fact that the roof over her head had just vanished.
"Ren?"
Jace's voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the floorboards. He was standing by the kitchenette, his hair still damp from the shower, a grey hoodie stretched tight across his broad shoulders. He looked like a man who had finally found peace, but the moment his eyes landed on Ren's pale face, that peace evaporated.
"He did it, Jace," Ren whispered, sliding the phone across the scarred wood. "He didn't just arrest me. He deleted me."
Jace picked up the phone. His jaw tightened, the muscle pulsing in his cheek as he read the alerts. He didn't swear. He didn't panic. He just looked at Ren with an expression that was halfway between pity and a grim, familiar understanding.
"This is how the Laurents fight, Maestro," Jace said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, gravelly register. "They don't need to pull a trigger if they can make sure you can't buy a loaf of bread or a liter of gas. He's not trying to kill you yet. He's trying to starve the Symphony until you crawl back to the mansion on your hands and knees."
"I'd rather starve," Ren snapped, his voice cracking. "I'd rather rot in this alleyway than let him win."
"And her?" Jace nodded toward Mia. "She can't eat 'pride,' Ren. We have half a tank of gas in the van and three passports that expire in a month. We are ghosts in a system owned by your father."
Ren stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. The panic was finally setting in, a cold tide rising in his throat. "Then what do we do? We have nothing! No name, no money, no safety—"
"We have the one thing he couldn't touch," Jace said firmly. He walked over to the corner and picked up the black velvet case.
The Stradivarius.
Ren felt a physical pang in his chest, like a string snapping under too much tension. "No. Jace, no."
"This piece of wood is worth three million euros on the black market in St. Pauli," Jace said, his eyes locking onto Ren's. "It's a ticket to a new life. It's a plane to South America. It's a house where Mia can have a garden. It's everything, Ren."
"It's the only thing I have left of my mother," Ren whispered, his eyes filling with hot, angry tears. "It's my voice. If I sell that... I'm not 'The Maestro' anymore. I'm just... nobody."
Jace stepped into his space, dropping the violin case onto the table with a heavy thud. He grabbed Ren by the front of his hoodie, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.
"You were never 'The Maestro' to me, Ren," Jace murmured, his breath warm against Ren's skin. "You were just a boy trapped in a gold cage. I don't need a masterpiece. I need you. I need the person who chose me over a billion-euro empire. But I can't keep you safe if we're standing in a target-zone with empty pockets."
Ren looked at the case, then back at Jace. The man who had taken a bullet for him. The man who had jumped into a freezing river for him. The man who was now his only home.
"Sell it," Ren said, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat. "Call Klaus. Tell him we're going to St. Pauli. Tell him the Maestro is dead."
Outside, the low, predatory growl of a high-end engine echoed in the alleyway. A black Mercedes SUV crept past the entrance, its windows tinted dark as ink.
The "Encore" hadn't just started. The hunt was on.