The marble steps of the Paragon Hall echoed with a final pair of footsteps as Erwin Smith emerged into the chilled midnight air. Behind him, the last strains of polite laughter and clinking glasses dissolved beneath the slow-closing doors. The gala had ended—another performance of diplomacy, curated gestures, and inherited charm. A success, some would say. He didn't care.
The plaza was near-empty now, bathed in the geometric hush of lamplight and shadow. A dark vehicle idled by the curb—a Bentley Mulsanne, polished obsidian under the city's moonless hush, its presence quiet but indisputably intentional. The chrome shone like a surgeon's blade.
As Erwin approached, the driver's side door opened without urgency. A tall figure stepped out with the kind of precision one acquired only from decades of service. Bertholdt Hoover, the family's longest-standing chauffeur, moved with a silent grace. He wore the livery with clean austerity, collar crisp, gloves uncreased. His eyes—narrowed from years behind the wheel—met Erwin's only briefly.
"Evening, sir," he offered, voice low, respectful, as he pulled the rear door open.
Erwin gave a small nod, the kind that acknowledged but never invited. "Bertholdt."
No inquiry. No warmth. Just recognition.
He slid into the back seat, the leather cool against his back, and the door shut behind him with a hush that swallowed the street.
Inside the car, the silence was a different breed. It wasn't the emptiness of absence—it was curated, engineered, expensive. The soft purr of the engine was barely perceptible. The city lights passed in horizontal streaks across the tinted windows as they pulled away, carving through the sleeping arteries of the capital.
Erwin exhaled once, slow, before slipping off his gloves—dark leather, lined in cashmere, folded neatly beside him. He leaned back, loosening his collar with a faint movement of the wrist, eyes half-lidded in thought.
Then, wordlessly, he lowered the window. A faint breeze crept in—cool and flavored faintly with the metallic scent of the river. With a flick of his wrist, a cigarette was between his lips. A muted click, and the flame danced briefly in the reflection of the window before he inhaled.
Only then did he speak, smoke slipping between his words.
"You don't usually drive me."
From the front, Bertholdt's voice came after a measured pause.
"Madam is with another driver tonight."
Erwin blinked, slowly. "Since when does she allow that?"
"I wasn't informed, sir. Only asked to collect you."
That earned a faint upward twitch of Erwin's mouth—not quite amusement, not quite disdain.
He watched the streets glide past. A late-night diner. A closed antique shop. A woman walking a dog beneath a flickering lamp. And still, the silence between the front and back seats stretched, coiled, held.
Bertholdt had known him since he was a boy. Had stood beside his father's casket without blinking. Had watched Vivienne Smith manufacture grief with the precision of a stage actress. And yet, for all their shared years, Erwin couldn't say what Bertholdt thought of any of it. He was opaque—like the car, like the life they all moved through. Loyal, yes. But to whom?
He tapped ash into the built-in crystal tray, then let the question linger in the space between words.
"She didn't say where she was going?"
"No, sir."
Erwin didn't answer. His gaze had drifted to his own reflection in the glass, superimposed over the city. The angles of his face were sharp tonight, drawn. His blue eyes colder than they had been two hours ago, though no one at the gala would have noticed.
Vivienne Smith had been absent, of course. She rarely appeared in person anymore—preferred to operate through others. Through whispers. Through press releases. Erwin knew she hated these events, not because of the politics, but because they bored her. Power was only satisfying when it could be manipulated up close.
His father—Reginald L. Smith—had once said that Vivienne could charm a guillotine. That was before the official story: heart failure at 59. Dignified. Private. Elegantly mourned.
Erwin knew better. His mother had written that ending long before the final act.
He took another drag. "She never changes," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Bertholdt said nothing.
The silence that followed was not comfortable, but practiced. A mutual performance of boundaries neither man wanted to disturb. Bertholdt focused on the road, as he always had. Erwin leaned into the hush, letting the smoke fill the space that used to hold things like trust, or grief, or familial obligation.
Outside, the city continued on without them.
Inside the car, nothing moved but the shadows.
***
The iron gates parted without a sound, gliding open to reveal the estate beyond—a mansion that stood not only as a testament to wealth, but to the enduring vanity of legacy. The Smith family home, nestled behind curated hedgerows and centuries-old oaks, loomed in the soft wash of moonlight like a monolith. Five stories of pale stone and wrought balconies, its windows framed in shadowed gold, its walls heavy with inherited secrets. Light spilled from a few rooms on the second floor—none of them welcoming.
The Bentley came to a smooth halt on the gravel roundabout. The crunch beneath its tires ceased like a breath held too long.
Bertholdt stepped out before the engine finished its quiet sigh, circling to the rear. He opened the door with practiced fluidity. The interior light illuminated Erwin's face—serene, unreadable, and faintly tired in the way only those who've mastered endurance can appear.
Erwin exited without a word at first, the soles of his shoes whispering against the stones. Then, just as he passed the driver, he murmured, "Thank you."
It was a formality, not affection, but it was honest.
Bertholdt offered a quiet nod, his hands folding in front of him, expression politely empty.
Erwin didn't look back.
Inside, the house was colder. Not in temperature—no—but in presence. The marble floors gleamed with the same perfection they had since he was a child, the portraits stared down with unyielding judgment, and the chandeliers above glittered like they had no intention of dying.
He ascended the grand staircase with long, slow steps, his fingers brushing the carved banister. His footsteps softened as he reached the third floor, where the air held the scent of polished wood and aged liquor.
The bar stood quietly in its alcove—walnut cabinetry, brass detailing, and shelves lined with bottles that knew the taste of men long dead. He reached for a crystal decanter of The Macallan Red Collection 40-Year-Old—not out of reverence, but routine. The bottle was heavy, the kind that suggested consequence.
He selected a short glass, placed four cubes of ice into its hollow center, and poured. The amber liquid moved like syruped light. The first sip lingered on his tongue, smoky and quiet. A ghost of something older than either of his parents' marriage vows.
Glass in hand, he walked toward the far end of the room, to the set of arched windows that spanned almost the entire southern wall. He unlatched the lock with his thumb, slid the glass open, and stepped into the night.
Outside, the estate was silent but awake. The manicured garden below was arranged like a chessboard—precise, geometric, too obedient to nature. The wind carried the faint scent of jasmine from the lower hedges.
He stood there for a moment, letting the cool air touch his face, letting the drink dissolve thought.
Then—headlights.
A sleek car turned into the estate with all the ceremony of someone returning from somewhere they considered beneath them. A Rolls-Royce Ghost, silver, immaculate. The engine purred into silence at the steps.
Erwin didn't flinch. He sipped his drink again, slower this time.
The driver stepped out first. Not Bertholdt, of course.
Smaller, but compact. Black uniform tailored to a body like a closed fist—lean, coiled, unassuming only to the unobservant. His gait was sharp, minimal. Hair dark, kept short, with stray strands tucked behind one ear. There was a kind of dangerous stillness to the way he moved, as though every muscle had been taught to listen before it acted.
He opened the rear door with the precision of habit, not servitude.
Vivienne Smith emerged in tailored midnight-blue, a shawl of fur at her shoulders, hair pinned immaculately, smile lacquered onto her face like it belonged in a museum. She laughed at something—something the man had not said aloud. Erwin could see her mouth move. Could see her teeth, too white, too pleased. She reached to touch the man's shoulder. He did not flinch. He did not meet her gaze.
Erwin did not look at her.
His attention had narrowed, glass suspended mid-air. His eyes locked onto the man—this stranger who had taken Bertholdt's place without preamble, who had offered no bow, no smile. Just presence.
There was no reason to care. No cause for suspicion. And yet, he could not look away.
He watched how the man adjusted his collar, the deliberate precision of his fingers. He watched how he turned back toward the car, movements devoid of decoration. There was restraint there, honed into silence. Dangerous silence.
Erwin's thumb ran once along the rim of his glass. Noticing, but not naming.
Something stirred. Not fascination. Not yet.
But the beginning of something less polite.
***
Morning draped itself lazily over the Smith estate, stretching long fingers of gold across polished stone and trimmed hedges still glistening with dew. The quiet that ruled the grounds was of a particular kind—too perfect to be accidental. It was a curated silence, the sort found only in places where money had shaped not just architecture, but the soundscape itself.
The swimming pool behind the east wing lay undisturbed except for the subtle lapping caused by Erwin Smith's steady movements. The water, reflecting a pale sky and the lean shadows of cypress trees, curled around his shoulders as he swam clean lines through the blue. His form was precise—deliberate but unhurried, like a man who had long ago learned to measure time by his own standards.
When he emerged, there was no dramatic splash, no shaking off of water like an animal. Just the soft slosh of liquid breaking away from skin, and the faint squelch of footsteps against warm travertine as he made his way toward the lounger.
The reclining poolside chair, upholstered in off-white linen, awaited him beneath a linen sunshade. Beside it, a small teakwood breakfast table held a simple but fastidiously curated tray: a tall, sweating glass of freshly pressed orange juice, a small ceramic plate with two slices of brioche toast—golden brown, crusted delicately, layered with cultured French butter and thinly sliced Seville orange marmalade. Nothing extravagant, but everything bespoke.
Erwin slipped into a plush terry bathrobe, the belt loosely tied, dampness clinging faintly to the inside. His hair, slicked back from the swim, left wet streaks against the collar. He sat with the posture of a man who could disappear into stillness at will, legs crossed at the ankle, hand loose around the juice glass. The quiet was not peace—it was structure.
He had barely taken a sip when a figure cut through the periphery.
Sharp movements. Neutral colors. Intent folded into each step. She moved with the clipped elegance of someone who hated being perceived—lean frame hidden beneath a tailored women's suit in soft charcoal, shoulder pads just enough to suggest structure without performance. Her blonde hair was tied back in a low knot, no strands out of place. In one hand, she held a thin leather folder, gripped tightly against her ribs like a shield.
She walked fast, the way someone walks when they don't want to be interrupted.
Erwin, naturally, interrupted.
"Annie."
She stopped mid-stride. Almost a flinch. She turned with the resignation of someone who had lived in this house long enough to know: no detail here went unseen.
"Sir."
Her voice was cool, professional. A tone Vivienne herself had surely trained.
Annie Leonhart—was Madam Vivienne's personal assistant, the kind the wealthy preferred—efficient, silent, and always two steps ahead of whatever was asked. Annie handled everything entrusted to her with the kind of precision that made mistakes unthinkable and apologies unnecessary.
He gestured slightly with the rim of his glass, not bothering to stand. "What are you carrying?"
"Documents for Madam Smith," she replied. Clipped. She adjusted her grip on the folder, perhaps unconsciously shifting it further from view.
"Let me see it." Erwin's voice was firm, clear—less a request than a directive.
Annie hesitated, allowing a brief pause to soften her defiance. "I was instructed to deliver it directly," she said, eyes lowered in deference.
He smiled faintly—barely perceptible. There was no real amusement in it. Only quiet tension, stretched between them like wire.
Erwin rose, slowly. The robe shifted with him, folds heavy and regal. He took two measured steps forward, just close enough to make refusal impolite.
"Do I sound like I'm negotiating?" he asked, extending his pale, half-dried hand toward her, palm open, expectant.
Annie's mouth pressed into a line. Her silence was not hesitation—it was calculation. But she understood the rules of the house. Everyone did.
"She instructed—"
"And I'm instructing now."
The pause that followed was not long, but it was telling. She was not afraid—just bound.
Eventually, she held out the folder.
Erwin took it gently, with a murmur of thanks that wasn't quite sarcastic but didn't pretend to be sincere either.
"I'll deliver it myself," Erwin said, voice calm but resolute—undeniable in the way only power, spoken quietly, can be.
Annie held his gaze for a beat longer, then gave a small, respectful nod.
"Understood, sir."
She stepped back, bowed slightly, and took her leave without another word.
Less than half an hour later, Erwin was seated in his private office on the third floor—a space curated not for work, but for control. The room was lined with tall mahogany bookshelves, their contents arranged with surgical precision. One wall was glass, opening to a narrow terrace overlooking the eastern garden, while the others were wrapped in shadowed paneling, the air faintly scented with old paper and sandalwood. Every object had weight. Every corner, silence.
He hadn't changed out of his robe. The plush white fabric hung loose around his frame, revealing a portion of his chest—damp still at the collarbone, a slow bead of water sliding down his sternum as though time itself refused to rush.
The folder lay on his desk—a broad slab of dark walnut, polished to a muted sheen, its surface cold and immaculate. Without ceremony, he reached for the documents Annie had placed inside. His fingers moved with the kind of care that wasn't about fragility, but intent.
Inside the folder lay a set of meticulously printed documents—booking confirmations, neatly clipped and aligned. The first page detailed a four-night reservation at a five-star hotel in Shibuya, known more for its discretion than its luxury, though it had both in abundance. The suite arrangement included two Executive Prestige Rooms, complete with a seasonal breakfast tasting menu, delivered each morning to the private lounge on the thirty-fourth floor.
Beneath that, a separate voucher—complimentary tee times at a members-only golf resort near the hotel, including full access to the spa and private driver service. It reeked of opulence—curated leisure dressed up as diplomacy.
Erwin chuckled under his breath. A quiet, dry sound. Not amusement. Contempt.
He leaned back slightly in the chair, the robe slipping further across his chest, the corner of his mouth pulling into something close to a smirk.
"Of course she would," he murmured, as if speaking to the silence. This was exactly the kind of escape Vivienne Smith would orchestrate—a calculated getaway under the veil of legitimacy, dressed in civility and indulgence.
He turned the page. And paused. Two business-class boarding passes. Tokyo-bound.
Passenger 1; Mrs. Vivienne Smith. As he expected.
Passenger 2; Mr. Levi Ackerman. The unfamiliar name.
But the name landed like a stone dropped into still water.
He stared at it longer than necessary, his fingers resting motionless against the edge of the page. A strange current stirred in his chest—not shock, not quite. Recognition.
His mind returned—unprompted, uninvited—to the night before. To the man who had opened the door with that quiet, coiled poise. The way he had stood—back straight, hands precise, gaze impassive. Compact but honed, like a weapon meant to be unnoticed until it was already too late.
The silence in the office had thickened—not in discomfort, but in density. Like velvet pressed too long into the same shape.
Erwin remained still for a moment, his eyes lingering on the printed itinerary, as though rereading the name would coax out something it hadn't already offered. The room around him, wrapped in the morning's angled light, felt suspended. And then, with the same clarity he brought to all decisions once made, he leaned forward and reached for the office telephone—a dark, analog piece that hummed with an old-world presence, wired into the house's private network, untouched by the noise of modern distraction.
His fingers moved with familiar precision as he keyed in a direct line—no hesitation, no wasted movement. He pressed the handset to his ear, resting it just beneath the edge of his still-damp hair.
It rang only once before the voice answered.
"Yes, sir."
The voice belonged to Reiner Braun—his primary security contact, and when necessary, his shadow. Reiner wasn't a butler, nor a guard in the traditional sense. He was the kind of man whose size alone drew attention, yet whose discipline rendered him nearly invisible. Built like something engineered, Reiner had the frame of a soldier and the restraint of a monk. Blond hair cropped close, eyes alert even in stillness. Where others braced to react, Reiner observed, calculated, waited. It was what made him useful—and trustworthy.
"Reiner," Erwin said evenly. "I'm sending you a scanned copy of a document. I need a complete analysis—background on the reservation, financial trail, and any names attached. I want to know who booked it, when, and under what pretenses."
There was no softening in his tone, no gesture toward courtesy. Erwin's formality wasn't for show; it was structure, the kind that expected others to meet it on equal footing or fall away entirely.
Reiner's voice didn't waver. "Yes, sir. I'll get started right away."
Erwin leaned back slightly, the receiver balanced between shoulder and jaw. His eyes returned to the itinerary, sliding along the columns of text, though he no longer needed to read them. He was memorizing shape now—details, spacing, the way certain choices had been made.
"I want the same arrangements." he said after a moment. "Same accommodations, same flight. Mirror everything."
A pause crackled faintly over the line, subtle but there.
"Should I book it under your name, sir?" Reiner asked, his tone professionally neutral, though Erwin could sense the implied layer beneath it—a question about visibility, not logistics.
"No," Erwin said, without missing a beat. "Use your name. For one passenger. I want confirmation in hand before midday tomorrow."
"Understood."
There was a soft sound as Erwin's fingers brushed against the edge of the desk. He was about to return the handset to its cradle when his hand slowed—not abruptly, but with purpose. His mind had shifted lanes.
Something lingered from earlier. Something left unaddressed. He raised the receiver again.
"One more thing," he said, voice quiet but entirely composed. A beat passed, as if he were measuring the weight of the name before he spoke it aloud. "Look into a man named Levi Ackerman. Everything you can find. Don't leave gaps."
Then Reiner's answer, clean as steel drawn from a sheath. "Yes, sir."
Erwin set the phone down gently, the receiver clicking into place with a soft finality.
He sat back in his chair, the robe shifting along his chest, the morning light now climbing higher across the room's paneled walls. The office, for all its opulence, felt quieter than it had ten minutes earlier—not emptier, but altered, slightly reframed.
There was no visible reaction on his face—no furrow of suspicion, no flicker of jealousy. Just a tightening of focus. The kind of mental narrowing a man experiences not when he is threatened, but when something unexpected enters his field of control.
The name still hung in the air. Levi Ackerman.
And Erwin Smith had never been the kind of man who let a name live in ambiguity for long.
***