Chapter Fifteen-The Midnight Terror

“Please, don't touch. Don't” A little boy, the age of twelve pleaded as a woman with a predatory smile climbed the bed he's kneeling on.

“Common boy. You will enjoy it. These are what the big men are dying for” She smiled while moving closer to the boy.

“No. . I don't want to. Let me go” the boy wailed.

The boy was Khaid was drowning in the cold, thick water of a recurring nightmare. He was twelve again, thin and sharp-boned, trapped in the suffocating black of a room he couldn't escape. The scent of cloying, unfamiliar perfume was overpowering. Above him loomed a figure, a woman with a face he couldn't grasp, always obscured by shadow and malice.

She was heavy. Suffocating. “You will never be strong enough, boy,” a voice hissed, not deep or rough, but smooth and cutting like polished glass. “If I can't have your father, then I can have you, right?” She laughed crazily and proceeded to take off his shorts.

He struggled, his twelve-year-old limbs powerless against the pressure. His mind screamed, but his throat was mute. He thrashed against the phantom weight, the feeling of absolute violation and helplessness searing into his memory. The perfume, the weight, the chilling certainty of his own destruction.

“No no no. . Leave me. .let me go. . Dad. . mum. . .mum” With a violent, silent surge of adrenaline, Khaid jolted upright.

His bedroom was dark, but for the weak, technical glow of his communication console. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was drenched in a cold sweat that plastered his silk sheets to his skin.

The digital clock on his bedside table flashed 3:00 AM.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, dragging air deep into his lungs. The dream always left him feeling utterly weak, utterly exposed. It was the single chink in the impenetrable armor of Khaid Jager. He needed to strip the memory away, cleanse the metallic, anxious taste from his mouth.

He pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and left the room, moving with the preternatural quiet of someone who spent years navigating darkness. The mansion was silent, the silence of expensive, heavily secured walls.

Khaid didn't go to the nearest minibar. He walked the long distance to the main, industrial-grade kitchen in the Central Wing, wanting the shock of the cold, sterile environment. He reached the expansive, darkened kitchen. All stainless steel and black granite and moved to the immense refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of alkaline water, twisting off the cap. As he lifted the bottle to his lips, a minute shift in the ambient light caught his attention. A figure stood near the far end of a center island, silhouetted against the pale glow filtering in from a service window.

The figure was small, dressed in something white and oversized. It was completely still, almost blending into the shadows.

Khaid immediately dropped the water bottle. It hit the granite counter without a sound, his reflexes cutting off the noise. The moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by the deadly, clinical focus of a predator. His training, years of self-defense, instinct, and paranoia took over. He scanned for movement, assessed the size and posture of the threat. The figure was small, yet its stillness was unnerving. “How did it get past the internal motion sensors?” He wondered.

His hand instinctively went to the small, specialized handgun he kept tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants, a gesture as natural as breathing. His voice, a low, lethal rasp that bore no resemblance to the amused tone he used with Anna or the mocking chill he used with Elvira, cut through the silence.

“Who the hell are you?”

The figure slowly turned its head. The pale, diffused light caught a glimpse of wide, frightened eyes, and a mass of dark, tousled hair. She was wearing one of the ridiculously oversized white cotton shirts from the guest wing.

“It's me” Bluey's tiny voice sifted through the dark. Khaid quickly tucked the gun into his pants and reached for the switch. Light flooded in.

“What are you doing here?” Khaid asked. Looking at her in boredom. He was still exhausted from the nightmare he had but he was doing a great job at hiding it.

“I'm brewing herbs” She responded succinctly as she stirred the content of a large pot. The medicinal aroma engulfed the air like a fog.

“At 3am?”

“That's the time I do make my herbs” She replied and moved with precision and utmost familiarity towards the sink. As if she has been here all her life.

“How did you get past the…door?” He quizzed.

“That? It was actually very simple. It's just a game of wit and puzzle and I love puzzle” She giggled. “How about you? You couldn't get a rest?”

“It's none of your business” Khaid countered and picked the bottle of water, preparing to leave.

“I can give you some herbs you know. This is not aphrodisiacs. It's a relaxing concoction for insomnia, body pain and unrest. It's good for the body” Bluey explained. “But I can't give you without your consent though, so. . .”

“Get me a cup then” Khaid intoned nonchalantly and walked out of the kitchen.

Bluey gave a mock bow. “As your lordship pleases”

★

The next morning. . .

Nepher Jager Mansion

Nepher Jager’s house, nestled on a bluff overlooking the older, more established sector of Belg City, was the architectural definition of old Mafia wealth. It didn't possess the stark, digital austerity of Khaid’s Lot 27. Instead, it was built of warm, aged limestone and dark, glossy mahogany. The house was expansive and elegant, whispering of generations of quiet dominance.

Khaid drove into the spacious compound and parked his car expertly. He ignored the greetings of the maids and guards. “Hypocrites” He muttered under his breath as he advanced towards the mansion entrance.

The sitting room Khaid entered was a monument to the 20th century elite. Heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows, and the walls were lined with custom-built bookshelves housing first-edition leather-bound classics. A massive Persian rug, thick and silent, absorbed all sound. Every piece from the bronze lion statue near the fireplace to the crystal decanters on the side table exuded a wealthy tint that was both beautiful and suffocatingly tasteful. The show glass showcasing different sophisticated guns further added to the dangerous propensity of the building. A retired Mafia boss is still a Mafia boss.

Nepher Jager, Khaid’s father, sat in a deep armchair near the cold hearth, reading a thick financial document. He was a man carved from granite, still formidable, his silver hair neatly combed back, his eyes sharp and assessing.

“Khaid” Nepher greeted, his voice a low, steady rumble, acknowledging his son without warmth or excess. “Unscheduled. Trouble?”

“Always scheduled, Father. Just not on your calendar,” Khaid replied, leaning against the doorway, observing the room with critical detachment. He felt like an intruder in this preserved museum of old power. “Metropaul. He’s becoming audacious.”

Before Nepher could reply, a woman walked gracefully into the room from a hallway. This was Jane Jager, Khaid’s mother. She was impeccably dressed in a silk dress, her composure flawless, but her eyes held a brittle sadness. It is the strain of a Mafia wife who had long ago chosen duty over happiness.

“Khaid” Jane said, a genuine smile softening her features. Her voice was the only true warmth in the room.

“Mother. You look well.”

“And you look tired, dear. I heard your car. Are you hungry? I’ll make your favorite shrimp stir-fry.”.

Nepher looked up from his document, a barely perceptible tightening around his mouth. “Jane. We have staff for that.”

Jane didn't flinch. She simply met his gaze with a look that spoke volumes of a thousand unspoken marital battles. “The staff doesn’t know his preferences, Nepher. I’ll be quick.” She turned to Khaid. “Don’t let your father corner you with his ledgers. Five minutes, and your food will be ready.”

Khaid watched her retreat into the kitchen. The one place in the house where she still claimed undisputed territory.

Khaid moved into the room and sat on the edge of a mahogany chair, maintaining a respectful but firm distance from his father.

“Metropaul returned the consignment and it arrived at the location I specified” Khaid began, skipping the preamble. “A large shipment, but he’s already mobilized. He's trying to reclaim something, and he's going in silence.”

“I know” Nepher nodded slowly, placing his document down. “The audacity. That man has the memory of a bruised elephant. He never forgave me for taking his stake in the city’s defense contracts twenty years ago.”

“The injury is personal. He also thinks I have his daughter's Key necklace now.”

Nepher’s composure cracked, just for a moment. His eyes went wide. “The silver key? The ledger key? You didn't tell me you secured it.”

“What ledger key? I don't understand father and that's why I'm here. Does that key have something to do with us? If it is so important, why will he place it on the neck of his daughter as a mere necklace?”

“You can't understand but the day is near when I will let you know” Nepher responded. His gaze, a distant gaze of someone who has seen war and conquered. “Did you secure it?”

“I didn't secure it” Khaid confirmed. “I made a fake copy and showcased it to his daughter as the original one. Right now, he thinks the original is with me and the fake is with them.”

Nepher leaned back, a dark satisfaction spreading across his face. “Good. You’re learning to bait a trap like a Jager, not just build a fortress.”

“But I need to know why this key is worth risking the life of his own daughter.”

Nepher’s eyes narrowed, shifting to look toward the kitchen where Jane was now loudly chopping vegetables, a small, domestic rebellion against the heavy atmosphere.

“Not now, Nicholas. Not now”

Just as Khaid was about to protest, Jane entered from the kitchen, placing a bowl of steaming shrimp stir-fry on the side table before Khaid. She met Nepher’s eyes again, a subtle warning in her gaze before she addressed Khaid.

“Eat, dear. You have to keep your strength up for your work. Don’t let your father distract you with the past.”

Khaid looked from his mother’s weary concern to his father’s relentless ambition. He was trapped between two legacies. The quiet kindness he craved and the brutal power he was born to inherit. He knew now that his fight with Metropaul was just a continuation of the same old, poisonous war.

“Thank you, mother”