The private jet touched down at a rudimentary airstrip in northern Mexico.

  Outside the airport, wind and sand whipped through the air. In the distance, a few old pickup trucks were parked outside a tattered wire fence.

  Boss Heaton stepped down from the private cabin, the hem of his shirt lifting slightly in the wind. Without a word, he got into the waiting vehicle's back seat. They drove through a silent, dusty town for over an hour, its streets empty, buildings old and pockmarked with bullet holes.

  Finally, they arrived at a location that barely existed on any map.

  Vance was led into a main house, a yellowed Spanish colonial building. There, he saw the face he hadn't seen in so long—

  Reggie Heaton.

  Old Heaton looked up. His hair was silver-white, his gaze sharp. His grey eyes were clouded and cold.

  "Long time no see, my son." The voice that spoke was dripping with chill.

  He sat in a custom-made wheelchair as if it were a throne.

  "Long time no see... Father." Vance emphasized the final word.

  Before the old man was a tea table covered with a white cloth, holding an exquisite porcelain pot and several canisters of tea leaves—a collection utterly unlike that of a fugitive on the run for years.

  "You know, this cartel stronghold was built from the ruins of an old church." Old Heaton glanced out the window, starting the conversation on a seemingly random tangent. "Isn't that delightfully ironic?"

  "What do you want to say?"

  Old Heaton slowly raised a hand, pointing to a collapsed cross outside the window, a sickly pleasure curving his lips. "The sound of faith crumbling is the most beautiful music in the world."

  "I didn't come all this way to listen to this."

  "Patience. I've taught you that many times." Old Heaton waved a dismissive hand, then took a sip of his tea. "And you were always so slow to learn."

  The silver-haired man took a gentle breath, savoring the aroma of the tea. He drank only aged black tea, the water temperature measured precisely with a mercury thermometer. Subordinates who poured at the wrong time were severely punished.

  "Let's start with something... warmer." Old Heaton asked leisurely. "How are your legs, Vance?"

  "Thanks to you, they're fine."

  "Ah, what a pity." Old Heaton's tone held genuine regret. "You can run free. While I am trapped in this chair. How I wish you were like me."

  "That is not something a father should wish for his son."

  Vance looked at the old man's legs. Though hidden by fabric and shoes, he knew the deformed feet beneath.

  "Why not?" Old Heaton wore a gentle expression. "By the way, it's not just this wheelchair troubling me lately. Your police and lawsuits have made it quite difficult for me to move."

  "This is already my mercy toward you."

  "Hah. You know perfectly well the Jungle's operations still rely on me. Continuing like this will only lead to a stalemate where no one wins. You must resolve this for me."

  "Correct. I don't want a stalemate either." Vance narrowed his eyes. "That's why I intend to eradicate the Jungle along with everything else."

  Old Heaton finally looked directly at him, a dark glint flashing in his grey pupils under the light.

  "If you were still my child, you would understand the Jungle Club can never truly fall." Old Heaton chuckled. "The Jungle isn't some filthy thing. It's human nature. As long as people live, it will exist. So rather than leaving it to wild dogs, it's better we control it."

  "I don't deny it's human nature. But you turned a scattered sandbox into a thriving industry. And I will tirelessly dismantle such industries." He continued. "Starting with you. The lawyers, prosecutors, designers, investors you once sheltered—I will find every single one."

  Old Heaton's expression shifted slightly. "After all these years, you still haven't absorbed a single thing I taught you."

  "It seems we have nothing more to say. Rot here in this place."

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Vance stood, turning to leave. The voice spoke again.

  "I heard that boy is back. What was his name?" Old Heaton pretended to think. "Ah, yes... Elian."

  Vance's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.

  "Such a pretty thing, isn't he?"

  Seeing Vance's halted steps, Old Heaton's snake-like eyes gleamed.

  "Is he important to you?"

  His son didn't respond. This made Old Heaton laugh. "You like him, don't you?"

  Hearing the word "like," Vance turned back, a look of disgust on his face.

  "No one is important to me. And I don't like him."

  But Old Heaton had already glimpsed the truth in that fleeting reaction.

  Just as carrion attracts vultures, he could always precisely sniff out the cracks in a person's armor. He laughed louder, until a coughing fit seized him, the wheezing echoes filling the empty room.

  After leaving the gloomy mansion, Vance leaned against the car window, lost in thought as he watched the landscape pass.

  The cold, serpentine-like presence of Old Heaton seemed to have followed him into the vehicle. Vance's childhood, adolescence, even now—he couldn't shake that feeling.

  Old Heaton had always taught him to be patient, to have foresight, never to casually reveal his emotions to others. But underneath it all was just the old man's bottomless need for control.

  He closed his eyes, involuntarily slipping into memories from years ago.

  Once, he had a horse named "Uranus."

  Its name came from Greek mythology, referring to the sky breathed by the gods, symbolizing nobility and the unattainable. It was a deep chestnut horse, its mane and tail flying when it ran.

  Despite the young Vance's efforts to conceal it, Old Heaton could still see his fondness for Uranus.

  He would always frown and say, "You shouldn't show affection for anything. Especially not a beast."

  But was it just favoritism toward a horse? No big deal, right?

  At least, that's what Vance thought back then.

  Uranus had a proud temperament, but unlike Zephyr, it wasn't wild. Though a bit lazy during practice, it always delivered steady endurance and explosive power on the field.

  Until the competition that altered the course of Vance's life—

  The magnificent horse went berserk without warning during the race, throwing Vance heavily onto a stone obstacle, then stomping on him a few more times. A sharp corner struck Vance's hip, and his leg bone twisted in an eerily unnatural way.

  Every spectator rose in shock. Waves of excruciating pain assaulted Vance. He was in too much agony to speak or even cry out, finally losing consciousness.

  When he awoke, he was already in the hospital.

  He had just undergone surgery. The lower half of his body was numb, immobile.

  A doctor showed him several X-rays. "You have a comminuted fracture of the femur, multiple pelvic bone fractures, accompanied by nerve compression and joint dislocation."

  "Will I be able to walk?"

  The thought of overlapping with his father's wheelchair-bound image sent a chill through him.

  "Perhaps. But you will have to work very, very hard at rehabilitation. I can't promise anything right now." The doctor adjusted his glasses. "But you will never be able to ride again."

  You will never be able to ride again.

  Like a death sentence, Vance closed his eyes. No one could decipher what he was thinking.

  Old Heaton came to see him. Upon hearing Vance might not walk again, his brow didn't even twitch. But hearing he could never ride again, a strange smile appeared on his face.

  "Finally, you won't be neglecting your duties for trivial pursuits." Old Heaton said.

  He hated seeing his son's content expression every time he was on a horse. He hated anything that made Vance feel at ease.

  "I've already taken care of that horse for you. Consider it venting your anger for you." Old Heaton spoke in a gentle tone. "Oh, that horse had a name, didn't it? Was it—Uranus?"

  "Taken care of?" Vance's eyes widened, his voice as light as a breath.

  "It's already been slaughtered." Old Heaton was quite satisfied with the shock in his son's eyes. "What's the matter? Did you like Uranus very much? Was it important to you?"

  If Old Heaton wanted to vent his anger, then Vance wished the old man would drop dead right there in front of him.

  "You pathetic, disgusting creature. You're less than an animal."

  Even the most venomous words couldn't convey Vance's rage at that moment.

  His father was an entrepreneur running equestrian businesses. He couldn't possibly be unaware of the financial loss of killing a valuable horse.

  Old Heaton laughed, gently stroking Vance's hair. "You can only blame yourself for this. I taught you not to favor anything too much, or one day it will turn on you."

  The silver-haired man looked at his son in the hospital bed with what seemed like affection. "Remember, everything you have was given by me."

  For the first time, confusion appeared in Vance's eyes. Did I cause Uranus's death?

  Even knowing his father's madness, he had still made no attempt to hide his fondness for Uranus. Was he, himself, an indirect murderer?

  It doesn't matter. I didn't really like that horse that much anyway.

  Vance repeated this thought to himself, as if trying to convince himself.

  But whenever he thought of Uranus, a dull ache would pierce his heart.

  In his sleep, he dreamed of Uranus. The horse stood with its back to the sunlight, walking with elegant, proud grace.

  That image became a nightmare, lingering in his mind, impossible to shake.

  Before leaving, Old Heaton arranged for the best medical team, including nurses and attendants to care for him. He needed to ensure his heir survived, wouldn't die from complications.

  But whether Vance would walk again wasn't of great concern to him.

  Young Master Heaton ate very little, barely slept at night, and showed little interest in rehabilitation. It seemed he suddenly no longer cared whether he could get out of bed.

  He stopped speaking, merely gazing silently out the window, becoming a cold, isolated statue.

  Medical staff came and went around him, expecting no response. His meals were often taken away untouched. Letters of condolence and business correspondence piled up in a corner, ignored.

  Then, one day, a soft tap sounded against the window.

  A tightly rolled piece of paper bounced off and got stuck in the gap of the French window.

  Vance's gaze lingered on it for several seconds.

  It was an ugly, clumsily folded paper. On the outside, in messy, sprawling handwriting, it said: "Awake?"

  He didn't respond.

  Ten minutes later, another one arrived: "You alive?"

  Obviously.

  Vance finally turned his head, looking out at the world beyond the glass.

  On the lawn beyond the hospital wall stood a boy in athletic wear. He held a pen in one hand, seemingly still thinking about what to write next.

  Sunlight shone on his flaxen hair, creating a faint halo.

  He noticed Vance's gaze, grinned, and raised a hand in greeting.