Some grudges don’t fade. Some scars don’t heal. And some people? They don’t forgive—they wait. For years. For the perfect moment. For the perfect strike. That’s exactly what happens when Seraph Valen returns from the grave to burn Rohan Veydor’s empire to the ground. No second chances. No mercy. Just pure, calculated revenge.

 

The Fall of a King

The Ghost of Vengeance

A sharp, stinging pain at the base of his skull was the first thing Rohan Veydor felt as consciousness clawed its way back to him. His vision swam, darkness pressing at the edges, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or if the nightmare had finally begun.

The air around him was damp, thick with the scent of rust and something metallic—something unmistakably close to blood. His body ached, muscles stiff from being bound in place for too long. He tried to move, but the rope dug into his wrists, biting against his skin. Cold steel pressed against his ankles, the chair beneath him unyielding.

Then he heard it.

A slow, measured set of footsteps echoed through the room. Each step deliberate. Confident. The kind of confidence that came from knowing you were the one in control.

His breath hitched.

“Finally awake?”

The voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was something underneath it—something coiled, waiting to strike. It wasn’t the voice of a stranger. No. This voice belonged to someone Rohan had buried long ago.

His heart slammed against his ribcage as the figure stepped into the dim light.

Seraph Valen.

The ghost. The walking corpse. The dead man who wasn’t dead at all.

Rohan’s mouth went dry. His body tensed, instinct screaming at him to run, to fight—anything but sit there like a lamb waiting for the slaughter. But the ropes held firm, and Seraph was already watching him with that maddeningly calm expression.

“You—” Rohan’s voice cracked, hoarse from either exhaustion or sheer disbelief. “You should be dead.”

Seraph tilted their head slightly, as if considering the statement. Then, with a slow smirk, they replied, “Yeah. I should be.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.

Rohan’s pulse pounded in his ears. Six years. Six years since that night. Six years since he had destroyed Seraph Valen and left them to rot. Six years thinking this particular ghost had been buried for good.

Yet here they were. Alive.

And very, very angry.

Seraph took a slow step forward, gloved fingers dragging across a rusted steel table nearby. “You look surprised,” they mused, eyes locked onto Rohan’s. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”

Rohan swallowed, his mind racing. “How the hell did you—”

“Survive?” Seraph cut in smoothly. “Oh, I could tell you. I could tell you every detail of how I crawled out of the grave you put me in. How I spent years rebuilding what you destroyed. But,” they leaned in slightly, voice dropping, “I think it’d be more fun to watch you figure it out yourself.”

The chair creaked as Rohan shifted against the restraints. His jaw clenched. “If you’re gonna kill me, just do it already.”

Seraph chuckled, and the sound sent a chill down Rohan’s spine. “Oh, no,” they murmured, tapping a single finger against their chin. “See, that’s where you and I are different. You? You like quick solutions. Cut the problem at the root, move on. But me?” Their smirk widened, but there was no humor behind it. “I like to take my time.”

Something in Rohan twisted. He had spent years playing this game, manipulating, controlling, ensuring that no one could touch him. But this? This wasn’t a game anymore.

Seraph reached into their coat, pulling out a small, familiar object—a sleek black phone. Rohan’s phone.

“Let’s see,” Seraph mused, casually swiping across the screen. “Who should I call first? Your business partner? Your little pet politicians?” They gave him a sidelong glance, watching the flicker of panic cross his face. “Or maybe I should just send a nice little message to the press? You know, expose a few… secrets.”

Rohan’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. “You think this will scare me?”

Seraph leaned in until their face was mere inches from Rohan’s. “No,” they whispered, eyes glinting with something cold, something lethal. “I think this is just the beginning.”

And for the first time in his life, Rohan Veydor knew what it meant to be truly powerless.

 

A Scar That Never Heals

The weight of silence hung thick in the air, pressing down on Rohan like an iron shroud. His pulse pounded against his skull, a frantic rhythm of panic and rage, but he forced himself to stay still. To think. To find a way out of this.

Seraph stood before him, still holding his phone, their expression unreadable. The dim light cast sharp shadows across their face, highlighting the faint scar that ran from their temple to their jaw. A mark from the past. A mark Rohan had given them.

“Let’s talk about scars,” Seraph mused, rolling up their sleeve to reveal another one—a deep, jagged line trailing down their forearm, old but unmistakably brutal. “Didn’t heal right. Nasty, isn’t it?” Their dark eyes flickered up to meet Rohan’s. “You left me with plenty of these.”

Rohan gritted his teeth. “You think I care?”

Seraph’s lips curled, but there was no amusement in it. “No. You never did. That’s the problem.”

With a casual flick of their fingers, Seraph tossed the phone onto the nearby table. “You always were a control freak,” they said, pacing slowly. “Always needed to be the one pulling the strings, deciding who lived and who didn’t.” Their voice darkened. “Tell me, Rohan, did you ever feel even a shred of guilt? When you had me locked away, when you watched them drag me off, knowing I wouldn’t make it out alive?”

Rohan stayed silent.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew how this worked. He’d played this game too many times before—push the right buttons, find the weak spot, turn the situation in his favor. But Seraph wasn’t giving him an opening. They were patient. Too patient.

Seraph sighed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

They reached into their coat again, pulling out something smaller this time—a switchblade. With a single flick, the blade snapped open, gleaming under the dim light.

Rohan tensed, but Seraph only twirled it lazily between their fingers, as if debating its purpose.

“You know,” Seraph mused, their tone almost conversational, “it would be so easy to end this here. Just one slice. A cut in the right place, and you’d be gone in under a minute.” They tilted their head. “But that’s not what I want.”

Rohan forced a smirk. “Then what do you want?”

Seraph leaned forward, bracing one hand on the armrest of Rohan’s chair. Their voice dropped to a whisper.

“I want you to know what it feels like to be stripped of everything.”

A chill ran down Rohan’s spine.

“You built an empire on betrayal,” Seraph continued, their fingers tightening around the handle of the blade. “You stepped on people, crushed them under your heel, and thought no one would ever come back for you.” Their eyes darkened. “You were wrong.”

Rohan’s jaw clenched. “And what, you think you’re any better?”

Seraph let out a slow exhale, then—without warning—drove the knife into the wooden armrest just inches from Rohan’s hand. The impact sent a sharp crack through the room.

“No,” they admitted. “I don’t.”

The air grew heavier, tension thick enough to suffocate.

Seraph slowly pulled the knife free, straightening up. “You think this is just about revenge?” They shook their head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

They took a step back, their grip tightening on the blade.

“This isn’t about making you suffer, Rohan.” Their voice was quiet, but there was something more dangerous in it—something far more terrifying than rage.

“It’s about taking everything that made you feel untouchable… and burning it to the ground.”

And just like that, Seraph turned, walking towards the door.

Rohan’s breath came in short bursts. “You think you can break me?” he called after them, his voice hoarse but defiant.

Seraph paused in the doorway, their silhouette framed by the dim light spilling in from the hall. They didn’t look back.

“You’re already breaking,” they said simply.

And then they were gone, leaving Rohan alone in the dark, trapped in the unraveling of his own empire.

 

The Fall of a King

Rohan Veydor had built his empire brick by brick, lie by lie, betrayal by betrayal. He had always known power was fragile, but he had spent years ensuring his throne remained untouchable. No loose ends. No threats. No ghosts.

And yet, within hours of Seraph Valen’s return, cracks were already forming.

It started with a phone call.

The moment his guards stormed the abandoned warehouse and cut him loose, Rohan was already barking orders. Find Seraph. Shut them down. End this before it escalates. He barely made it to his car before his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He answered.

“Good morning, Rohan.”

His grip tightened around the steering wheel.

“You—”

“Miss me already?” Seraph’s voice was smooth, infuriatingly calm. “Hope you had a good night. Thought you could use some… early morning chaos.”

A sharp beep cut through the call. Rohan glanced at his screen. A second call was coming in—his CFO. Then a third. His legal team. The notifications began piling up. Messages. Missed calls. His stomach twisted.

“What did you do?” he snarled.

Seraph clicked their tongue. “You’ll see.”

Rohan didn’t wait to hear more. He switched the call, pressing the phone to his ear. “What the hell is going on?”

“Sir,” his CFO’s voice was strained. “The accounts—our offshore holdings—someone leaked everything.”

A cold weight settled in Rohan’s chest.

“Leaked?”

“Bank statements, shell companies, transfers—everything. The media is already running the story. There are government agencies looking into it. Sir, it’s bad.”

Rohan’s vision blurred with rage. “Find out who—”

“We already know who.”

Silence.

Then the CFO hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s Seraph Valen.”

Rohan’s fingers curled so tightly around the phone he thought it might crack.

Seraph had barely been back for twenty-four hours, and they were already cutting him at the throat.

He switched back to Seraph’s call, his voice a low growl. “You’re making a mistake.”

Seraph hummed. “See, I don’t think I am.”

“You think this will stop me?”

“No,” Seraph admitted. “But I think it’ll keep you busy.”

Another beep. Another call. This time from his lawyer.

Seraph chuckled. “I’d answer that if I were you. Sounds important.”

And then the line went dead.

By noon, Rohan’s empire was in flames.

His name was plastered across every major news outlet. Investigations were being launched. Business partners were scrambling to cut ties before they went down with him. Even his most loyal allies—men he had dirt on, men he thought would never turn—were already retreating into the shadows.

It was happening too fast. Too precise.

Seraph hadn’t come back to fight him. They had come back to erase him.

Rohan stood in his penthouse office, staring out at the skyline, fingers twitching at his sides. His reflection in the glass looked foreign—jaw clenched, eyes wild with fury.

He turned sharply. “Where’s Lucien?”

His head of security stepped forward, expression grim. “Gone, sir.”

Rohan’s stomach twisted.

“Gone?”

Lucien had been with him for nearly a decade. A man who had done unspeakable things in Rohan’s name. A man who knew too much.

“He left this morning. No warning. No trace.”

Rohan’s breath came fast and shallow. He could feel the walls closing in, the noose tightening around his throat.

Seraph wasn’t just destroying his empire. They were isolating him. Cutting off his escape routes. One by one.

And then, as if on cue, his phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number.

Rohan exhaled slowly, pressing the answer button.

“Still holding up?” Seraph’s voice was laced with mock concern.

“Where the hell are you?”

Seraph chuckled. “You’re not quite at that stage of desperation yet. But soon.”

Rohan clenched his jaw. “You want me to beg?” he spat. “Not happening.”

“Begging is boring,” Seraph mused. “I’d rather watch you fall.”

Rohan forced a cold laugh. “You think you’ve won?”

“I know I’ve won.”

A beat of silence.

Then Seraph’s voice dropped into something quieter. Something lethal.

“But I’m not done yet.”

And for the first time, Rohan realized—

This wasn’t just revenge.

This was an execution.

 

The Executioner’s Smile

The city pulsed below, its endless maze of lights stretching far beyond the glass walls of Rohan Veydor’s penthouse. He had spent years ruling from above, watching the world bow at his feet. But tonight—tonight, he stood alone.

The empire he had built was crumbling. His name was poison. His allies had fled. The fortune he had hidden away in places no one should have been able to reach—gone.

And Seraph Valen had done it all with a smile.

A slow, taunting clap echoed through the empty room.

Rohan turned sharply.

There they were.

Seraph leaned casually against the doorway, hands tucked into their coat pockets, their smirk lazy but their eyes burning with something cold. Something final.

“You know,” they mused, “I expected more of a fight.”

Rohan inhaled sharply, forcing down the storm of rage rising in his throat. “You think you’ve won just because you ruined me?”

Seraph tilted their head. “Rohan, I won the moment you didn’t see me coming.”

Rohan’s hands curled into fists. “So what now? You gonna kill me?”

Seraph stepped forward, slow and deliberate, their boots clicking against the marble floor. “I could,” they admitted. “I could put a bullet in you, watch the light leave your eyes, and call it justice.”

They stopped just a breath away, their voice dropping to a whisper.

“But that would be mercy.”

Rohan’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t deserve mercy.”

Seraph pulled something from their pocket and tossed it onto the sleek black desk. A flash drive.

“That,” Seraph said, nodding toward it, “is the last nail in your coffin.”

Rohan’s breath was slow and measured, but his pulse pounded against his ribs. “What’s on it?”

Seraph smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Everything. Evidence of every deal, every bribe, every crime you ever buried. Names, transactions, bodies.” They shrugged. “By sunrise, it’ll be in the hands of every law agency that matters.”

Rohan forced a laugh, sharp and bitter. “And what? You think they’ll take you back with open arms? You’re no saint, Seraph. You’re just as dirty as I am.”

Seraph’s smirk widened. “Yeah. But the difference is, I know how to disappear.”

The weight of those words sank in like a stone.

Seraph had never planned to stick around. This was never about reclaiming what they had lost. This was about ending Rohan—utterly, completely, irreversibly.

“You think you’ll get away with this?” Rohan hissed.

Seraph took another step back, their silhouette blending into the shadows. “I know I will.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Seraph let out a slow exhale.

“You took everything from me, Rohan.” Their voice was softer now, almost thoughtful. “And I waited. God, I waited. For years. For this moment. For you to feel what I felt.”

They tilted their head slightly.

“But now that I’m here?” Their smile faded. “I don’t feel anything.”

Rohan stared at them, his body rigid. He had expected satisfaction in Seraph’s eyes. Victory. The sick pleasure of revenge.

Instead, there was only exhaustion.

Seraph inhaled deeply, then turned toward the door. “Enjoy the last few hours of your freedom.”

Rohan took a slow, measured step forward. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”

Seraph paused in the doorway. Then, without looking back, they murmured, “No, you won’t.”

The words hung in the air long after they were gone.

Rohan stood frozen, his breath shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Then his phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up, the weight of inevitability settling in his chest.

He already knew what he was going to hear.

And for the first time in his life, Rohan Veydor finally understood what it felt like to lose.

 

So, was it justice? Or just another monster being born from the ashes of revenge? One thing’s for sure—Rohan Veydor’s reign ended exactly how it started: with blood, betrayal, and a ghost he thought he’d already buried. But hey, karma’s got a hell of a memory, doesn’t it?