King's Kane

"BREAKING NEWS! January 3, 2025: A £5,000,000 ($6,100,000 USD) 20-carat black diamond, The KSI Eclipse, was stolen from KSI Headquarters in London. Authorities are searching for possible suspects and urge witnesses to contact them with information."

Stan grinned while listening to the news on the large TV in the living room.

“Center of attention, aren’t we? You’re all over the news.” He beamed at the guy holding a pistol in his right hand and a rug in his left, cleaning it spotless. 

The guy smiled proudly and continued his chore. After cleaning the pistol, he adopted a stance and aimed at the range target shaped like a human figure. His shot was spot-on—right on the head. 

“Let’s go?” he asked Stan as they prepared to head to a special room in the mansion. 

Just then, his friends arrived. 

“Wow, the price of the items you steal has gone up,” Marco said, making himself comfortable on the sofa. 

“Yeah, care to share how you managed to steal it? I want to learn from the best,” Ven added, raising an eyebrow and mimicking Marco’s casual pose. 

Kane turned to them with an innocent look. 

If Marco and Ven didn’t know better, they would have believed the moron. 

“You stole the black diamond, Kane. We know you did.” 

Instead of responding, he gestured for them to follow him. All of them proceeded to the secret room. 

It wasn’t the first time Marco and Ven had been there, but they were still in awe as they roamed their eyes around. The room was simple, with plain cream-colored walls, tiles, and a ceiling. What made the room exceptional were the paintings hovering all around. Realistic and conceptual paintings surrounded them—remarkable and worth a second glance. 

When they noticed Kane’s latest painting, they immediately glanced at him in astonishment. It was the black diamond! 

Stan, standing beside Kane, smiled haughtily and stared at the newest addition to his dear friend and master’s collection. The painting was so lifelike it felt like you could touch the diamond and pick it up. 

“I know you’re a great artist, and I’ve seen your works multiple times already, but I’m still in awe,” Ven said. Just as he was about to touch the painting, Kane swiftly slapped his hand away, earning him a pout from Ven. 

“No touching.” 

They scanned the place, and after they were content, they left the room. 

“Go, I have somewhere to be after this,” Kane stated, mockingly dismissing them. 

“Can we just lounge here instead? I just arrived from New York, and I haven’t slept a minute. Spare me, Kane,” Marco grunted, plopping himself onto the sofa as if he owned the place. 

“Ahuh, me too. I only had two hours of sleep because I had to finish my research. Don’t you feel bad for us? Hmm?” 

The two nonchalantly lay on the sofa, and Ven opened his phone, ignoring everyone afterward. 

“Thick faces,” Kane muttered, as if it were his fault they were sleep-deprived. 

Stan nodded in agreement. 

“You’d think they’d at least have the decency to get a hotel room,” he added. “These freeloaders.” 

But before long, Marco was fast asleep, and Ven seemed completely detached from the world, glued to his phone. 

A minute later, his phone slipped from his grasp as he dozed off. Kane and Stan exchanged a knowing glance and began to tidy up. 

This was one of those days Kane had been looking forward to. He wanted to return to where he truly belonged—his throne. 

He swiftly took the pistol from his pocket and slid it into his duffle bag’s secret compartment. No one would have known that beneath all the paintbrushes, palettes, extra clothes, camera, and all the normal things an artist might carry—was a pistol, fully loaded and ready to fire. 

With Stan’s help, they had contacted the gallery a month ago, where his solo exhibit would take place. They arranged everything and sent invitations to influential people and media. Everyone of high status would be there, and he made sure that special someone would also attend. 

With a wide grin, Stan tapped his shoulder and smiled. 

This is the start. 

The solo exhibition was held at Vanguard Gallery.

Every careful brushstroke was on full display, earning the attention it deserved. It didn’t even feel like an art exhibition—it was more like a gathering, a cocktail party where social elites mingled, securing opportunities and connections. 

High-profile figures hovered everywhere, and selling the paintings was the least of their concerns. They were all sold in a split second. 

For all of this to happen, one figure had to be honored—none other than Kane Soren Vitali, the youngest renowned artist of his generation. At a young age, he had made a name for himself in the art world. 

He had pushed through his career, no matter the consequences, and was now known as an inspiration, especially to the youth with the same aspirations. A refined figure, a respected one—or at least, that was his reputation. That was what he was known to be. 

“Is it okay that we just left Marco and Ven?” Stan asked as he sipped his wine, standing beside Kane. 

“Just let them be. They won’t cause any trouble,” Kane shrugged. Those two weren’t his priority at the moment, and he knew they could take care of themselves. 

Stan started to voice his concerns. “What if someone attacks while—” but Kane silenced him with a gentle gesture, placing his index finger in front of his lips. 

Stan’s words trailed off, and he clamped his mouth shut. Perhaps his worry stemmed from his limited knowledge of Kane and his friends. After all, Stan had only been around for a year and had only seen Marco and Ven four times in that entire period. 

Meanwhile, Kane remained relaxed, observing the crowd. He greeted people from time to time, receiving endless congratulatory messages. Yet his eyes were searching—for a certain something. 

Or rather, a certain someone.

Despite his calm and composed appearance, his gaze was hunting for his prey. It never stopped roaming—until it landed on the gallery entrance. 

A man in a suit entered, accompanied by high-ranking officials and subordinates as if they were protecting him. He walked slowly toward Kane. 

From the outside, Kane might have looked pleased by his presence, but inside, his blood was boiling with hatred. 

The man stopped in front of him. Kane felt it—like all his blood had drained, leaving his body cold when their gazes met. 

It was as if those eyes were dead. Lifeless. Emotionless. 

And then, the man spoke. 

“King Kairos Marchetti.” 

That man—King—introduced himself and extended a hand for a handshake. 

Instead of taking it, Kane blinked, momentarily stunned, thinking his mind was playing tricks on him. 

King smiled—a playful curve on his lips—before returning to his stoic demeanor. 

Kane’s blood boiled even more, but he remained calm. Regaining his composure, he extended his hand, mirroring King’s action—smiling, then turning stoic once again. 

“Mind chatting with me for a while? Just the two of us?” 

Kane was adamant. 

And the fire inside him was raging.