When Roman Griffin first founded V-Oasis, there was a fire in his belly.

His grandfather wouldn’t hear of it. Emerson Griffin, his father, was equally dead set against it. Their intent was crystal clear: he was to step into the family business, shoulder the burden of the empire, and mature into the successor they demanded. The distance between a pampered heir with no real authority and the true helmsman of the Griffin legacy was a chasm, one that required at least a decade of meticulous paving.

Roman understood the weight on his shoulders, yet he couldn’t help but ask, "Why not wait for Kaisen?"

"Kaisen is still too young. And his temperament..." Emerson shook his head. "You know your brother as well as I do."

He did. He knew him all too well.

In the Griffin family, the elder brother played the role of the father. While Emerson was busy circling the globe, chasing deals and politics, Roman had been the one to look after Kaisen. Perhaps Kaisen’s current reckless, devil-may-care attitude was, in part, a product of Roman’s own over-protection.

Roman smiled, a thin, ironic gesture. "And my temperament is just right for the job?"

"We have hundreds of thousands of employees at home and abroad. Someone has to be responsible for them."

They were sitting in an old-fashioned bistro in the heart of the historic district. It was a place frozen in time, with dark wood paneling and a musty, antique charm that the older generation of Deepwater residents adored.

The back door of the shop opened into a dense residential block. Looking down from the window, the narrow, winding alleys stretched out like veins in an old hand. Roman stood by the pane; the late autumn breeze wasn't particularly biting, but he felt a simmering, irritable restlessness beneath his skin.

"I don’t want to enter the company this early," Roman said, a rare flash of rebellion in his voice. "If I do, I can see exactly where the next twenty, thirty years of my life are heading. It’s a straight, flat line."

He was young then. He still had the grit to brawl, the ego to build something from nothing, and he wasn't ready to let his future be pre-programmed.

If he joined the family firm, no matter how successful he became, there would always be that whispering asterisk: "Oh, him? He’s just a trust-fund kid who started at the finish line." Roman didn't care about the opinions of others, but he cared deeply about the underlying reality—that without the Griffin name, he might truly be incapable of accomplishing what he wanted.

The blueprint for V-Oasis was no longer just a pipe dream. He had the plan. He knew who his partners were, how to structure the investment tiers, and how to navigate the board. All he lacked was the wind at his back.

He lacked the resolve to tear himself away from the safety of the gilded cage.

Emerson, comfortable in his position of absolute authority, spoke with a weight that demanded silence. He frowned at Roman’s protest. "So what if you can see the end? That’s how life works. You’re currently walking a path that others wouldn't even dare to dream of."

Roman nodded, offering a perfunctory, "Mhm."

He had started smoking recently, a habit picked up while pitching his vision to cold-eyed investors. Sometimes, he’d even lower his posture just enough to offer a cigarette to a potential backer. His pedigree usually left them trembling with performative gratitude, but if they knew he was locked in a cold war with the Griffin family over his dream, would they still be so desperate to latch onto his coattails?

It was a difficult move. The arrogance bred into his bones for twenty-some years wasn't something he could shed overnight. He would have to swallow his pride, navigate scenes he had never had to deal with, and fight for every inch of ground.

Bradley Harper had asked him once, "Look, Roman, the idea is great, but why pick the hard path? Why go looking for trouble when you don’t need to?"

See? Even his closest friend thought he was a glutton for punishment.

Leaning against the window, breathing in the scent of aged tea leaves and the cool, damp air of the evening, Roman reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. Maybe the simple act of lighting up in front of his father would shock the man, force him to look at his "dutiful" son with something other than expectations.

Just as his hand brushed the cold metal of the case, a shrill, piercing scream ripped through the silence of the alleyway below.

Emerson slowed his lecture, casting a sharp glance toward the window. "Close that. It’s just noise."

The heavy wooden shutters were merely decorative; they couldn't block out the chaos. Roman stood, his attention fractured, ignoring his father’s words as he focused on the drama unfolding in the shadows of the alley.

Arguments, the thud of fists, the sound of a life being dismantled behind closed doors. Neighbors leaned out of their windows, pointing fingers but keeping their distance.

"That's the guy. Always hits his wife the second he’s had a drink. Savage, isn't he? Last time he broke her head, she ended up in an ambulance."

"Shh, keep your voice down. He’s a psycho. You want him to come for you next?"

Plenty of spectators, but not a single soul willing to step into the fray.

Roman was locked in, watching. He heard the woman’s muffled whimpers, her pathetic, desperate pleading: "Please stop, stop! I’ll make sure to go to the grocery store earlier next time!"

He couldn't just sit there. But before he could even move, another voice sliced through the heavy, stagnant air.

"Hey! I’ve called the police! Stop what you’re doing right now!"

It was a voice of startling clarity—sharp, biting, and articulated with a crispness that stood out against the slurred local dialect. It sounded as precise as a primetime news anchor.

"Who the hell are you?" a man roared, his voice thick with drunken menace. "Stay out of this, or I'll beat you into the ground too!"

"Try it! Hit me!" the girl didn't sound even remotely afraid. "I’m a reporter from the local station, and my father is the Police Commissioner. You land one punch on me, and I’ll have you on the front page tomorrow and in a holding cell the day after. You won’t have a second of peace!"

"Don't lie to me."

"Try me and find out!"

The man stammered, his bravado instantly punctured. Most of these domestic tyrants were bullies who only knew how to terrorize the weak; once faced with real, unrelenting force, they crumbled.

"She’s legit," a neighbor whispered. "Look at the press badge hanging around her neck."

The commotion in the alley tapered off into nervous murmurs. Roman, now fully distracted, let his father’s lecture wash over him like background noise.

Minutes later, the wail of a siren approached, cutting through the autumn night. The crowd dispersed. Two voices moved along the base of the wall, their conversation drifting up to Roman’s window.

"Ma'am, don't be afraid. Tell the officers exactly what happened. If they suggest you settle for the sake of 'family harmony,' you tell them no."

"But... is that going to work?"

"We'll start by documenting your injuries, then we’ll file for a restraining order. If you want to leave him, you need to find somewhere else to stay tonight. Don’t go back. He’ll only hurt you more."

The girl’s voice remained calm, methodical, and chillingly logical.

"You said your father was... the Commissioner..." the victim hesitated.

"Oh, uh, sorry about that," the girl sounded embarrassed, though her voice remained firm. "I lied. I just needed to scare him."

Before the woman could react, the girl’s tone hardened again. "But I really am a journalist, and that’s the truth. I’ll make sure this story stays in the light."

"...Will it actually do anything?"

"It’s better than doing nothing. Trust me. I’m just a rookie, so I don't have much power yet—but I’m a hot-blooded one, and I’m not going anywhere."

*A hot-blooded rookie.*

Roman finally let a faint, genuine smile tug at the corner of his lips.

Emerson frowned, clearly offended. "What’s so funny? Are you even listening to me?"

"I am," Roman said, turning his face away to hide the trace of amusement. "But my decision stands. I want to test my own limits. Have you ever met a 'hot-blooded rookie,' Father?"