Chapter 138: Kinda Cute!!!
The day passed in its own rhythm. Ray had stayed just long enough to meet the family. Elena, warm as ever, expressed her gratitude to the man who had once guided her son. And just like that, Commander Ray of the Graveyard took his leave from Star Harbor, as quietly as he had arrived.
Another morning. Another day.
Miles guided his car through the streets toward the office. The city was alive outside his windows—horns, the hum of traffic—but inside, the cabin was silent except for the low rumble of the engine.
Then the dashboard screen blinked. A call.
He tapped it. "Yes, sis. What you got?"
Monica’s voice came sharp and steady. "Boss, I went through the files you sent. I think I’ve heard about them before."
Miles slowed the car, pulling to the side. His expression shifted. "When?"
"In the Crimson Island," Monica said.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "What? Do you have anything solid on them?"
"Not really," she admitted, "but I know someone who might. I’ll need to go to the Island."
Miles’s jaw tightened. "Are you sure you want to go?"
"Don’t worry, boss. It’s not like I’m staying there. I’ll do my work, gather what I can on The Web, meet Grandpa, and come back."
He let out a low breath. "Fine. But be careful."
Monica chuckled softly. "No one dares to touch the Carter family, boss."
"Yeah. Give the old man my greetings," Miles muttered.
"He’s your grandpa too, you know."
"Not until my mom accepts him," Miles replied flatly. "For now, he’s just an old man."
Monica puffed a laugh through the line. "Alright, alright, little brother."
The call ended.
Miles pressed down on the accelerator, letting the car surge forward. Soon he was gliding into the underground parking of Sterling Enterprises. The engine cut off, the echo of its purr fading into silence.
He walked through the lobby, his stride calm but purposeful. Then his eyes caught on something—someone—sitting in the waiting area.
A girl.
She sat straight, hands folded lightly in her lap, her expression calm but touched with tension. When she noticed him, her gaze lifted. Recognition flickered.
Miles slowed, his steps carrying him toward her.
The girl stood up as he approached, her lips curving into the faintest smile.
Miles blinked once, recognizing the girl. "Sayaka?"
Sayaka, from the Snow Women clan—the one he had once faced in the clan’s succession contest.
She lowered her head slightly, her voice soft. "Mires-san..."
Miles chuckled, shaking his head. "Mires-san? Call me Miles."
"But... you are Clan Supreme’s future husband," Sayaka said timidly.
Miles sighed, lips quirking. "What? She’s spreading that? Anyways, you don’t have to be so formal. We’re the same age. Say it—Miles. Maaaiiiles."
Sayaka tried, her lips curling around the unfamiliar syllables. "Mires..."
"Not Mires, Miles."
She squinted, concentrated. "Maaiirres..."
Miles chuckled again. "Close enough. It’s your Japanese accent. Kinda cute, actually."
Her face flushed red instantly, her composure cracking.
"Right," Miles said lightly, shifting the moment back. "So... Lady Yurei sent you, I assume?"
Sayaka straightened, her tone sharpening. "Yes. Master sent me for a very important task."
Miles’s expression turned more serious. "Come on, let’s go to my office."
He led the way to the private elevator. Sayaka followed, her gaze catching on the massive windows as they rose. The city stretched out beneath them, sea glimmering at the horizon. She pressed a hand lightly to the glass, taking in the view, and breathed deep—a quiet, peaceful moment. But she said nothing.
The doors slid open, and they stepped into the upper floor.
Whispers drifted through the office as employees caught sight of the unfamiliar guest.
"Good morning, boss," June greeted with her usual calm smile.
"Good morning, June," Miles replied.
June’s gaze flicked to Sayaka. "And this is...?"
Miles gestured. "June, this is Sayaka."
June froze just for a second, recognition flashing. She straightened quickly. "Hello, Miss Sayaka."
Sayaka bowed gently, her voice soft. "Hello."
Miles didn’t linger. He ushered her into his office. Inside, he pulled a chair out for her. "Have a seat."
"Thank you," Sayaka murmured as she sat.
A staff member arrived quietly with a tray, pouring tea into delicate cups. Steam curled in the air, then the door shut softly behind them, leaving the two alone.
Miles leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "So. Tell me—what does Lady Yurei have to say?"
Sayaka reached into her sleeve, pulling out a sealed envelope. She placed it gently on the desk and slid it across.
Miles broke the seal, eyes scanning the neat handwriting.
His jaw tightened, his face darkening as he read.
Finally, his voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.
"What—?"
Sayaka rose from her chair suddenly, bowing low, her voice trembling with urgency. "Please, it’s a request... you will be well rewarded."
Miles blinked, taken aback by the sudden formality. He lifted a hand gently. "Hey, please... have a seat. Raise your head."
She hesitated but obeyed, sinking back into the chair. Her fingers curled lightly in her lap, her composure returning, though her cheeks still carried a faint blush of embarrassment.
Miles leaned back in his chair, studying her carefully. "Sending you personally to deliver this... I understand just how important it must be."
Sayaka nodded once, firmly.
"But," Miles continued, tilting his head, "why didn’t you ask for help from the other clans? I’m sure they would’ve stepped in. This sounds like the kind of thing that shouldn’t fall to outsiders."
Sayaka’s expression tightened. "Master said we cannot involve other clans in this issue."
Miles drummed his fingers lightly against the desk, thinking. "I respect the Snow Women clan’s pride, but... why me though? You already know I have a connection with the Phoenix clan. Doesn’t that make things complicated?"
Sayaka met his gaze directly this time. "Master believes in your character. She says you are... a good person." Her voice softened slightly, but she pressed on. "And apart from that, she knows you have learned the signature fighting techniques of all the clans, somehow."
Miles froze, hand lifting to his forehead. A dry laugh escaped him, bitter and sweet all at once—like a thief finally caught red-handed. "Hn. So the secret’s out."
Sayaka tilted her head, watching him closely.
He straightened, resolve settling in his eyes. "Alright. I’ll help. But I have one condition."
Sayaka sat up straighter. "Whatever it is, we will fulfill it."
Miles leaned forward slightly, his tone steady. "Then it’s settled. When are we leaving?"
Sayaka’s lips curved in the faintest smile of relief. "It starts in two days. So the sooner we leave, the better."
Miles exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Hn. Okay. Let me settle a few things first. We’ll leave in the morning."
For the first time since she entered, Sayaka allowed herself to relax, her shoulders loosening, the tension melting from her face. She bowed her head once again, but softer this time, almost warm.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Miles gave a small smile, just enough to ease the weight in the room. "Don’t thank me yet. Save that for after this is over."
The faint clink of tea cups filled the silence that followed, steam still curling in the air between them. The request had been made. The deal had been struck.
Somewhere Near the Seashore
The room reeked of stale liquor and takeout grease. Empty bottles of expensive wine and whiskey rolled against one another across the floor, mingling with crumpled food packets and half-eaten meals left to rot. Curtains hung half-open, letting the streetlamps’ dull glow bleed into the gloom.
Kyle Sterling lay slumped on the couch, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes sunken with sleepless nights. His face was pale, hair unkempt, stubble grown uneven across his jaw. He had not shaved, not properly bathed, not even cared.
For a long moment he stayed there, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him an answer. Then, with effort, he pushed himself up. His steps wavered, legs unsteady, as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
Inside, the dim light above the sink flickered. Kyle leaned heavily on the counter, staring into the mirror. The man reflected back at him was not the same Kyle Sterling who once carried himself with pride and arrogance. This one was broken, hollow, a shell.
He stared. Longer. Deeper. His expression twisted. The hollowness gave way to anger, the anger into a snarl.
"Damn it..."
His fist lashed out.
CRACK!
The mirror split into jagged spiderwebs. Shards scattered into the sink, blood smearing across the glass as his knuckles split open. He let out a raw, guttural scream that rattled against the tiles. A scream of frustration, of helplessness, of rage.
Breathing hard, he pressed his bleeding hand against the counter. Minutes passed before he steadied. Slowly, he opened the tap, letting cold water run over the wound. He wrapped it clumsily in a towel, then forced himself to shave away the mess of his beard. Bit by bit, he pulled himself back into some semblance of control.
When he stepped back into the room, a cleaning lady had already entered, gathering bottles and sweeping aside wrappers with quiet efficiency. She kept her eyes low, saying nothing. Kyle walked past her, ignoring her presence.
In the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully dabbed ointment over his hand. The sting brought clarity, if only for a moment.
His dead phone still lay on the nightstand. He plugged it into the charger. The screen flickered to life. Notifications burst one after another—missed calls, unread messages, unanswered voicemails. His finger hovered over them, but he left the phone charging and turned away.
Instead, he pulled open the drawer beneath the nightstand.
A false bottom clicked loose.
He drew out a black box. His breathing slowed, sharpened.
Opening it revealed a neatly packed pistol, a magazine, and rows of bullets lined like silent promises. But nestled beside them was something else—a card. Deep red. The mark of a spider emblazoned across it.
Kyle’s lips pressed into a thin line as he picked up the gun. His eyes narrowed at the engraved serial number on its side. He memorized it, reached for his phone, and typed the sequence into his dialer.
The line clicked.
A distorted voice answered. "H... h... hello..."
Kyle’s bloodied hand tightened around the phone.