Chapter Text
The room was too quiet.
Even for Sua.
The wall clock ticked once, then twice, and the sound grew louder, echoing in the stillness. Each tick felt like a hammer strike against the fragile silence. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly, its hum grating against her nerves like chairs scraping against floors. Even the distant sound of the ocean, usually soothing to the siblings, didn't offer any comfort
Ivan stood by the wall, his figure rigid. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his posture was deceptively calm, but Sua knew better.
His gaze was fixed on some point far away, his eyes unfocused, a distant look that suggested he wasn’t entirely present.
He hadn’t said a word since they arrived.
Sua faced him, arms spread wide, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as Marty continued to take her measurements. The silence and her anxiety was eating at her. She waited—five more seconds, maybe ten—hoping that he would speak first. But he didn’t.
"Okay," she said, deciding to break the silence, the words slicing through the tension like a knife through tofu. "You’re being weirder than usual."
Ivan sighed, resigned. He already knew where this conversation was going.
"What was going on with you at the golf course?"
Ivan's brow twitched, just slightly. “What do you mean?”
"You were... tense. Distracted." She softened her tone, though there was a hint of concern. "You barely spoke, and you kept zoning out. Does it have something to do with Unsha?"
"Everything has something to do with Unsha," he muttered.
"But this time, it’s different," Sua pressed, her voice almost gentle now.
The silence that followed stretched thin, ready to snap at the slightest touch.
Ivan’s gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was low, barely more than a whisper.
"He arranged a marriage for me."
Sua blinked. For a moment, her mind struggled to process the words. "What?"
Ivan didn’t repeat himself.
She stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "He... What?"
Ivan shrugged.
"Who? Why? Since when?" Sua’s mind raced, questions tumbling out before she could even process them. "You don’t even like talking to people."
A dry scoff escaped Ivan’s lips. "I know."
"Do you even know the person?" Her voice was quiet now, barely above a whisper.
"No." His answer was as simple and final as the first.
Sua fell silent, the weight of it all sinking in. She didn’t know what to say.
"Why now?" she finally asked, her voice barely audible in the heavy quiet.
Ivan’s gaze dropped further, fixing on the floor as though it might offer him some kind of answer. "That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out."
Sua exhaled a long, slow breath, the silence pressing down around her like a physical thing. "That’s weird," she commented, more to herself than to him. "Even for him."
Ivan nodded faintly.
"You think it’s political?"
"Could be," Ivan mused, his voice flat. "Or a distraction. Or a PR stunt."
He paused, frowning as he squinted, as if trying to see the truth in between the fabric of the carpet.
"He said he wanted grandchildren."
Before Sua could formulate a response, the stillness was abruptly shattered by a sudden, sharp clatter.
Marty hissed as a small wooden box toppled from the table. Spools of thread rolled across the tiles, pins glinted under the harsh light.
Marty hastily bowed, scrambling to collect the mess. His hands trembled slightly as he gathered the fallen items. "A thousand pardons, young miss, young master. Just a minor slip-up. Please, don’t mind me—"
Sua exchanged a brief look with her brother. And just like that, the uneasy silence slid back into place.
Marty had been “measuring” them for hours, looping tape measures around their wrists, muttering about smudged ink and wrong numbers.
But they both knew he wasn’t here for measurements.
He was stalling.
But for what?
Sua’s patience thinned. “How many times do you have to measure me?”
Marty chuckled nervously. “Perfection shouldn’t be rushed, young miss. Fashion is… a spiritual process.”
“You’ve measured my spiritual wrist a million times already.” She yanked her hand away.
Silence once more. Thick. Heavy.
Ivan, still leaning against the wall, finally spoke again.
"Marty, leave us."
The tailor froze. He sputtered out, "W-well, you see—the measurements—"
"I know you already have them," Ivan cut him off. "If you’re worried, guard the door. Just not in here."
Marty, after a moment, gave Ivan a bow, looking more than a little relieved to be dismissed. "As you wish, young master."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room enveloped in a new, thicker silence.
Sua rubbed her wrist absently, frowning as the tension gnawed at her. "Something’s wrong."
"I know."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied her brother, watching the way his shoulders tensed, the way his gaze flickered briefly to the door before he looked away. "How much do you know?"
Ivan pushed himself off the wall. "That depends."
"Ivan." She took a step closer. "What do you know?"
"About what?"
"You know what I mean."
His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. "I don’t."
"You do." Her glare hardened. "Why did Father want to be alone with Mizi?"
"And Till," Ivan added.
"Him too, but why? Why go out of his way to get rid of us just to be left alone with them?"
"I don’t know."
"Liar."
"I’m serious. I don’t know."
"They could be in danger, Ivan. You know what kind of person Unsha is." She folded her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing.
"I have no idea what he wants with Mizi, my issue with father has nothing to do with her or Till."
"Then what's wrong?"
Ivan hesitated. " I’ve been… investigating."
Sua blinked. "About what?"
"About Father’s new business."
"Another laundering scheme?"
"No."
"Weapon trafficking?"
"No."
"Drugs?"
Ivan turned slowly toward the window. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Sort of."
"Sort of?"
He glanced back over his shoulder at her. "What do you know about power suppressants?"
Till blinked awake.
His skull throbbed, and the air pressed heavy against his lungs. He sat up slowly. Thick walls. No windows. A single light buzzing overhead.
He was in a cell.
He turned, and his breath caught. “Mizi!”
She jolted upright. “Till!” She scrambled to his side. “You’re awake. I was starting to freak out.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “How long was I out?”
“I don’t know. Hours, maybe. You wouldn't wake up.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” She tried to smile. “Just my pride.”
Till exhaled. “Right. That makes two of us.”
Mizi sighed. “So much for being top villains. We got kidnapped like amateurs.”
“I should’ve seen it coming,” Till muttered. “If anyone would do something like this, it’d be Unsha.”
“I gave him the benefit of the doubt." Mizi said bitterly. “He was about to be my father-in-law, after all. But I should’ve known better. Nobody gets that rich without doing a little crime.”
Till scanned the cell again. “He’s got a prison on his private island. This man’s way past ‘a little crime.’”
“What do we do?”
“What we don’t do is sit here waiting to be rescued.” He pushed himself up, stretching his arms. “We break out.”
“You’re not powerful enough to transport us off the island.”
"But I can at least—”
He stopped suddenly, frowning as he flexed his fingers, the strange, empty feeling creeping up his spine.
Nothing.
His chest tightened, his throat constricting.
“What the...?”
“Till?” Mizi asked quietly.
He stared at his hands, his throat tightening as panic gripped him. “My powers…” he whispered. “They’re gone.”