Devil and evil

The man in the hospital ward scrolled through his phone, his silver-grey eyes narrowing slightly. Those eyes—the sharp blend of angelic grace and devilish intensity—seemed to pierce through whatever they landed on. Even in the simple hospital gown, he exuded an authority that demanded the world’s obedience.

Iden Ruan rose from the edge of the hospital bed. The clean, minimalistic lines of the room seemed to bow to his commanding presence. His frame, towering above six feet three, moved with a predatory elegance. Muscles rippled beneath the fabric, their angular definition hinting at raw power. A strong jawline, cut as if by a master sculptor, framed a mouth that was both cruel and inviting, while strands of black hair shimmered faintly under the morning light streaming through the window.

In less than fifteen minutes, Iden had washed away the residue of rest, dressed in a perfectly tailored coat, and was walking briskly out of the ward. His movements were calculated, the click of his polished shoes echoing through the pristine hallway. The air around him seemed to shift with his steps, drawing gazes from those who passed—some in awe, others too afraid to linger.

“Boss, are you sure about leaving already?” James’ voice broke the rhythm of his strides, the young man trailing slightly behind him. Flanked by Iden’s black-clad security, James handed him a list. “Your health—”

“I don’t need rest,” Iden said curtly, slipping on his Rolex as his gaze moved ahead, unyielding. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

James sighed audibly, flipping through the day’s itinerary, though concern flickered across his face. Iden’s pace remained unbroken as the sleek black limousine approached. The driver swiftly stepped forward, opening the door with practiced ease.

“Work’s always been your remedy,” James murmured under his breath, “but some wounds don’t heal with distractions.”

Iden stiffened slightly but didn’t respond. As he settled into the leather interior, a faint shadow passed over his features, his mind briefly wandering to memories that refused to fade—the echo of her voice, the ghost of her touch. The ache was always there, quiet yet consuming.

---

The dimly lit room reeked of desperation, the faint metallic tang of blood thick in the air. The overhead bulb flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Kneeling on the floor, his once pristine suit now stained with crimson, Uncle John clasped his trembling hands together. His face, pale and drawn, glistened with a sheen of sweat.

“Iden, please,” John’s voice wavered, the crack in his tone betraying the fear that gripped him. “Forgive me... just one chance. For old times’ sake.” His eyes darted up to meet Iden’s, searching for even a flicker of mercy.

Iden remained seated, an aura of icy calm surrounding him. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his fingers, twisting upward like specters of the man’s impending fate. With deliberate ease, Iden leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee as his piercing gaze locked onto John’s tear-filled eyes.

“Rest in hell.” The words slipped from his lips, smooth and venomous. His mouth curved into something that could almost be called a smile—except no warmth accompanied it. “Don’t worry about your daughter. She’ll be... fine.”

John’s sobs shook his fragile frame as he folded his bloodied hands once more. “If... if not mercy, then grant me one last wish,” he pleaded, his breath hitching painfully.

Iden exhaled, smoke wafting around his face like a sinister crown. “Speak,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the man’s despair like a blade.

“I... I don’t want to die by your hands.” The request trembled in the air, raw with fear and desperation.

Before Iden could respond, a sharp crack broke the silence. Blood sprayed across the room, painting the dim walls in streaks of crimson. John’s body collapsed forward, lifeless, as the echo of the gunshot dissipated.

From the shadows, Kaito stepped forward, his long black hair tied back in a clean ponytail. The tattooed second-in-command lowered his gun with precise grace, his expression unchanging. “Done,” he muttered, his deep voice carrying a hint of cold satisfaction.

“Don’t be mistaken,” Iden said dryly, flicking ash onto the floor. He rose to his full height, brushing specks of blood from his sleeve with a flick of his fingers. “I didn’t kill him.”

Kaito holstered his gun, his dark eyes following Iden’s movements as they exited the room. The underworld knew Kaito as a ruthless executioner, but even he couldn’t deny the quiet terror Iden commanded.

“Boss,” Kaito said as they reached the car. “With Uncle John gone, who’s handling the arms shipments?”

Iden slid into the limousine with the fluidity of a man who belonged in control. “Jack,” he answered simply, his tone dismissive. He reached for a tissue, slowly wiping the stray flecks of blood from his knuckles. The hum of the engine was the only sound as the city lights flickered outside.

“Arrange the meeting,” he said at last, his voice echoing in the stillness of the car.

“Yes, boss.”

---

The office’s mahogany table gleamed under the harsh glow of overhead lighting as James slid a folder toward Mr. Weber. The older man, his lined face set in determination, opened it with trembling fingers.

“I’ve already made my decision,” Weber began smugly, his voice carrying a false bravado. “The shares are being sold to the M&D group. You should’ve thought about that before rejecting my initial offer.”

James stepped back as the door behind him opened. Iden entered silently, the faint sound of his polished shoes tapping against the floor. His movements were deliberate, his towering frame radiating controlled power. Without a word, he sank into the chair across from Weber, his forearms resting lightly on the table.

“Are you sure,” Iden began, his tone low and even, “that you can sell your shares... even now?”

Weber froze as the weight of Iden’s words settled over him. His eyes darted to the folder, scanning the crisp papers with frantic urgency. His lips parted soundlessly as realization dawned, his fingers brushing against his chest.

“How...” The whisper barely escaped him before his knees buckled. Clutching his chest, Weber collapsed to the floor.

Iden rose with a detached grace, smoothing the lapel of his jacket as he turned toward the door. James cleared his throat. “Boss, are we going to Mr. and Mrs. Stone’s anniversary?”

For a brief moment, Iden’s footsteps faltered. Her name lingered on the edge of his thoughts, a ghost of something he’d long buried. But he moved forward, unyielding as ever.

Beyond black and white, there existed shades of grey. And Iden’s eyes mirrored them perfectly—cold, calculating, and infinite. He was the king of the underworld, a prince in politics, and an emperor in business. He was everything and nothing.