After seven years in prison, Damien Cole's first breath of freedom tasted of rust and rain.
He had lost everything—his name, his company, his future—all thanks to one man: Walter Graves, the media mogul who framed him and walked away clean.
But Graves was dead.
"Lucky bastard," he muttered, flicking a cigarette into the rain-slicked gutter. He didn't crave peace. He wanted justice. And now, only one thread remained: Alina Graves, the mogul's only daughter.
His lips twitched. Fury burned in his chest—raw, seething, untamed. He had to let it out or lose his mind, the same way he nearly had in prison, where sunlight barely kissed his skin and books—which would have been his only escape—were a luxury he never got.
Instead, the grey walls swallowed him whole, staring back in silence, day after day, night after night.
Seven years. Gone.
Seven years could make or break a man. It had broken him—and everything he'd built.
Damien stood in the rain, letting it soak through his black button-down shirt. His first day out of hell, and the skies greeted him with a storm. He watched the street, watched as strangers ducked their heads and rushed for shelter—while he stood still, drenched and unmoving.
"The rain feels like a blessing—only when you've been starved of it," he muttered, shaking his head.
A red Honda pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down, and a face appeared, barely leaning out, shielding itself from the rain.
"What the hell are you doing out there, getting soaked?" Victor shouted. "Get in!"
Damien obeyed, slipping into the passenger seat. But his eyes lingered on the building behind him. The prison walls loomed high, so tall they swallowed the skyline. A shiver ran through him. Freedom tasted strange—distant. He was out, yes, but not free. Not yet.
His freedom would only come with revenge.
"Ahh," Victor cursed, tossing a kerchief at him as Damien slid into the seat. "If you missed the rain that much, you could've waited until you were driving your own damn car."
He shot Damien a glare, but it went unanswered. Damien's eyes stayed fixed ahead.
"I doubt I have a car left in my name."
There was a long pause. And then....
"Damn, Damien… it's good to see you back." Victor's tone softened, trying to cut through the tension. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tightening. "I'm glad you're out, man."
"Graves is dead. Is that why they let me go?"
"I doubt it," Victor said. "Sure, he's dead, but his connections run deep. Most of them would rather see you rot than risk their embezzlement schemes falling apart."
"Then someone got me out," Damien said, voice low, thoughtful. "The question is… who?"
Victor shrugged. "I've got no idea," he said, starting the engine and easing into the road. "But I heard she's powerful—and prefers to stay in the shadows."
Damien clicked his tongue.
"I wonder what could make someone like that bother with a nobody like me."
Victor glanced at him. "You're not a nobody, Damien. Prison or not, your name still makes powerful men flinch. You've got skill, and that doesn't vanish with time. No matter how hard you fall, you've always known how to rise."
Damien shot him a glare. What the hell was he talking about?
Rebuilding a tech company from the ground up wasn't some motivational slogan. Graves hadn't just stolen his life—he'd burned every bridge, every resource, every ounce of credibility. Starting over wasn't just hard. It was damn near impossible.
But of course, Victor wouldn't get that. He was a lawyer—salary, structure, safety. He'd never had to bleed for something that didn't come with a paycheck.
"It's not like you lost everything," Victor said, eyeing him.
What remained wasn't much—just the scraps he'd built in secret, the ones only Victor knew about. But how could that ease the damage? How could that heal anything?
"The deed's been done," Damien muttered, clenching his fist. "Graves took something precious from me."
My freedom.
He didn't say that part out loud.
"And the bastard had the nerve to die… right when I got out."
Victor glanced at him but said nothing, eyes shifting back to the road.
"I don't care if he's dead. That bastard still has a debt to pay," Damien said, voice low with promise.
"No, no, Damien. You're a free man now. Let it go," Victor sighed.
"Free?" Damien let out a bitter laugh. What was freedom, really? To him, it was a thirst—deep, burning, unquenchable. And until he got what he needed, that fire would keep raging.
For Damien, freedom had a name.
Revenge.
And the bastard had made one fatal mistake—he hadn't hidden his family. Good. At least now Damien had something to feed the flames.
"No, Damien," Victor said, shaking his head like he could read his thoughts. "You're not thinking of going after his family…"
"Not all of them," Damien replied, voice calm, cold. "Just his daughter. Alina Graves."
A cold raindrop touched his lips as the name left his mouth.
"Alina," he repeated, lips curling into a slow, sharp smile.
Well… time to say hello.