Season 1 chapter 10
The Anderson Homecoming
Kniya Anderson aggressively kicked open the heavy oak doors of his family estate, not caring if the loud crash echoed through the mansion.
He looked like an absolute wreck. His expensive school blazer was torn at the shoulder, the white shirt beneath it heavily stained with the grey sludge of the Naurkov sewers and flecks of dried blood from the general's guards. He was completely exhausted, his body aching from the two-story jump and the desperate sprint through the city.
The massive foyer was entirely cold. His father stood rigidly by the tall windows, his silhouette blocking the morning sun. His mother sat perfectly upright on the velvet sofa, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a silk handkerchief.
"Kniya," his father stated, his voice a low, incredibly dangerous rumble. "Do you have any actual idea what you've done? You shot a military peace officer. You led the vanguard army directly to my gates. You turned the Anderson name into a criminal headline for the evening news."
"Father, listen to me, we just successfully extorted a General—"
"I do not care for your excuses!" his father roared, spinning around. His face was a terrifying mask of pure aristocratic fury. "We are a family of status, of historical power. You acted like a common slum delinquent. You broke the one, fundamental rule we have in this house: Never become a public target."
Kniya stared at them, the heavy adrenaline of the night finally crashing down on his bruised shoulders. He expected some relief, some tiny sign that they actually cared he was alive after being hunted by thirty thousand troops. But in this house, reputation was infinitely more valuable than blood.
His mother stood up, her face completely tight. There was a brief flicker of emotion in her eyes—a split second of maternal instinct—but she violently suppressed it with a cold, sharp breath.
"Go upstairs, Kniya," she ordered, her voice completely brittle. "Strip out of that... that filth. Burn that uniform. Take a bath and scrub the stench of the gutter off your skin. You are completely grounded until further notice. Do not speak to us. Do not even look at us. You have brought a shame to this house that will take years to wash away."
Kniya didn't argue. He just scoffed, popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth, and climbed the grand stairs. The silence of the mansion felt heavier and much colder than the chemical sewers he had just crawled out of.
The Bulwadi Exile
Malesh reached the wrought-iron Bulwadi gates. His school uniform—the one he usually wore with such strict professional pride—was a total disaster. The tie was missing, the trousers were caked in dried mud, and the jacket was heavily scorched from the oil fire.
He walked directly into his father's executive study. Both his parents were waiting. His father didn't look angry; he looked completely finished.
"Malesh," his father started, mechanically tapping a rhythm on the mahogany desk. "The Bulwadi protocol is incredibly simple. We remain completely invisible so we can remain entirely powerful. By shooting that officer, by leading a military manhunt to our front door, you have shattered that protocol. You have become a liability that our firm cannot afford."
"It is completely fixed now, isn't it?" Malesh asked, his voice steady but hollow. "The military is gone. The criminal charges are officially dropped. The business model survives."
"It doesn't matter," his mother whispered, staring blankly at a spot on the wall behind him. "The trust is gone. The neighbors saw the tanks, Malesh. The board of directors saw the posters. You are a massive stain on the professional image we spent twenty years building."
His father pushed a small, expensive leather suitcase across the desk. It was packed with a few changes of clothes and a stack of cash.
"There is a small apartment in the West District. It is in my name, not yours," his father stated flatly. "You will go there. Now."
Malesh blinked. The pure logic in his brain aggressively struggled to process the data. "You are... you are kicking me out? For a mistake? I am eleven years old!"
"You chose to act like a man of the world, Malesh," his father said, standing up and walking toward the window without looking back. "Now you can live like one. You are no longer welcome in this house. The servants have been explicitly told to bar the door behind you."
The silence that followed was deafening. Malesh looked at his mother, but she turned her back to him completely. He realized right then that their "professionalism" wasn't just a corporate suit—it was a heavy shield they used to protect themselves from feeling absolutely anything, even for their own son.
A strange sound began to bubble up from Malesh's throat.
He started to laugh.
It was a jagged, completely broken sound. He clutched his stomach, his head tilted back as he cackled loudly at the ceiling. It was the unhinged laugh of a boy who had successfully outsmarted a corrupt General, only to be entirely defeated by his own parents. He laughed at the sheer absurdity of the "Bulwadi Protocol." He laughed because if he didn't, he would start screaming.
"Perfect," Malesh choked out, his eyes wide and completely vacant. "The protocol remains perfectly intact. Cut the rot before it spreads to the balance sheet, right? You guys really are the best CEOs I know."
Without another word, and without shedding a single tear, Malesh aggressively grabbed the suitcase. He turned and walked out of the house he grew up in. As his boots hit the gravel driveway, the laughter continued—a haunting, echoing sound that drifted through the quiet morning air of the elite district. He was abandoned, filthy, and entirely broken, but as he walked toward the gates, his grip on the suitcase tightened.
The Run
Malesh didn't walk away from the estate; he sprinted. He hauled that heavy leather suitcase down the pristine gravel driveway, his lungs burning, his eyes blurred with a toxic mix of sweat and the sheer, stinging rage of rejection. He didn't look back at the marble pillars. As far as he was concerned, that house was a tomb, and he had just successfully escaped being buried alive.
He reached the end of the elite district, his breath coming in jagged, painful stabs. He stopped under a dying streetlamp, leaning his head against a brick wall and sliding down until his ruined school trousers hit the damp pavement.
"Fucked," Malesh whispered, his monotone voice trembling. "Totally and completely fucked."
He looked at the leather suitcase. "The General was actively trying to put a bullet in us... and now my own fucking parents? My own blood? They didn't even look at me. Not one goddamn look."
He violently slammed his fist against the brick wall. "Reputation. That is all it is to them. I am not a son; I am just a fucking line item on a balance sheet. And the moment I became a liability, they just... deleted me. You bruised, heartless cunts."
The Calculation
He tried to think. His brain, usually a highly sharp, professional machine, was completely misfiring.
"I have the 80,000 credits coming," he muttered, wiping his dirty face with his sleeve. "I can afford the rent. I can buy a goddamn building if I want to. But that fat piece of shit Klove isn't going to get that passbook delivered today. This isn't some automated bullshit system. It is going to take days of back-channeling and couriers."
He looked at his hands. They were violently shaking.
"I cannot go to the apartment my father bought. If I go there, I am still on his corporate leash. I am still a 'Bulwadi asset.' Fuck that. I would rather sleep in a gutter than take a single cent of his charity."
He stood up, his deadpan gaze turning toward the dark, jagged line of the horizon where the city ended and the wilderness began.
Back to the Dirt
He gripped the handle of the suitcase so hard his knuckles turned completely white.
"The forest," he said, a dark, manic grin creeping back onto his face. "The secret base. It is the only place that isn't owned by a General or a fucking CEO. Let the high-society pricks have their silk sheets and their corporate protocols. I will sleep in the mud."
He started walking, his pace picking up rapidly as he left the paved roads of the wealthy behind.
"Fuck the government," he hissed into the wind. "Fuck the army. Fuck everyone. And especially... fuck the Bulwadis. You think you abandoned me? I abandoned you the exact moment I realized you were cowards."
He began to run again, heading straight for the shadows of the trees. He wasn't the "professional" anymore. He was a ghost with a suitcase and a massive grudge that was going to burn the whole city down before he was through.