The helicopter hovered at the foot of the mountain, the sun shining brightly, and the breeze just right. Isidore squinted, lifted his gaze, and waved his hand, signaling the people behind him not to follow. He bent down and entered a black, long limousine alone.
Inside the car, the space was dim, bathed in colorful lights, spacious like a moving little room. A silver-white trolley was filled with champagne and fruit, and several young women, fair of face and gentle of demeanor, wore matching cool camisole skirts. The air seemed to flow with the scent of "luxury and decadence."
As he sat down, a woman kneeled in front of Isidore, attempting to serve him. He wasn't surprised, but his expression turned to distaste. With a slight wave, he dismissed her: "No need." The woman looked a little aggrieved. "If you won't let me touch you, my boss will throw me off the car." Isidore smiled coldly. "If you touch me, I'll throw your boss off the car."
The man in the white suit laughed. "We haven't seen each other in years, and you're still as temperamental as ever." He dismissed the young woman and then enjoyed another woman's service himself. Isidore's face remained calm, but behind his sunglasses, his eyes slightly rolled upward, as if stung.
This man was Milo, recently released from prison, now indulging even more in his degenerate nature. "My father says I'm too reckless and told me to treat you well, to apologize for my behavior." Isidore replied indifferently, "If this is how you intend to treat me, there's no need." Milo chuckled. "Be content. It's already a blessing that I didn't greet you with a bullet."
Isidore knew Milo was speaking from the heart. Were it not for the fear of angering his father, Mr. Ravenscroft, and losing his inheritance, Milo would have surely killed him a thousand times over.
He showed no restraint before Isidore. He openly displayed his debauched side, indulging with the woman beneath him, wantonly exuding his raw masculinity. The other women looked on without surprise. Milo waved his hand, and they joined in as well.
Isidore gazed out the window, but his peripheral vision couldn't help but catch the entangled figures, and his ears couldn't block out the sounds.His brow furrowed slightly, not a trace of desire stirred within him; instead, a nauseous churn began in his stomach. Having been indifferent to such things for so many years was truly thanks to Milo.
During the years spent around Milo, such scenes were a daily occurrence, and even more outrageous ones he had witnessed. He never participated, nor did he offer his opinions. He couldn't understand the pleasure of such animalistic coupling—base, degenerate, filthy. It wasn't until he met Eloise, a girl as pure as a pink peach, that he felt the comfort in holding her, kissing her, pressing close, and merging their bodies.
He rolled down the window, inhaling a breath of fresh air, a faint sense of longing for the subtle fruity sweetness that lingered on her skin. The car pulled up to Mr. Ravenscroft's estate, where Mr. Ravenscroft lay in bed, his complexion pale, even thinner than before. A large device, taller than a man, was beside him, with a long tube inserted into his nostrils. It seemed his illness had indeed worsened, to the point where it could almost be called the twilight of his life.
"Dad!" Milo knelt beside his father's bed, his eyes brimming with tears, more filial than the most devoted son in the world, as if the man who had just indulged in debauchery in the car was someone entirely different. "Milo," Mr. Ravenscroft gently stroked his head, his gaze devoid of the sharpness it once held, now nothing more than that of a father, a father who cherished his son. Isidore quietly sat on the side sofa, watching the scene of filial piety and fatherly affection.
"Isel, you're back." Mr. Ravenscroft shifted his gaze to Isidore. The decline of a once great man truly tugs at the heart. Isidore nodded. Mr. Ravenscroft let out a soft sigh, not bothering to explain why he had gone against his original promise and taken Milo out of prison on his own accord. Isidore had no right to question him. After all, they were father and son. What was there to criticize about a father wanting to see his beloved son before his death?
Unable to bear it, Isidore stood up. "Please rest, I'll come see you later." Before dinner, he was called to Mr. Ravenscroft's room, but Milo was not there. "I sent him away," Mr. Ravenscroft spoke with some difficulty, urging Isidore to sit by the bedside. "I'm old now, with such a large burden. It's time to think about how to pass it on to those who remain." Isidore remained silent, his voice heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Mr. Ravenscroft's face showed a trace of hesitation. "Milo... After so many years in that kind of environment, his temperament has changed quite a bit—" Isidore lowered his head, the corners of his lips curling coldly, a visible, gruesome scar marking his neck. "I think... I should leave him a few properties. It's the least I can do for his mother, who passed so early."
These words carried almost a hint of plea. Isidore raised his head. "No," he replied firmly. He stared directly into Mr. Ravenscroft's flickering, murky eyes. "Have you forgotten what he's done? Have you forgotten what you once said to me? That he's a soulless beast, that you couldn't bear to deal with him yourself and asked me to lock him in a cage, to kill him if necessary?" Mr. Ravenscroft's emaciated frame, reduced to little more than bones, trembled slightly.
"He must not have any assets to wield," Isidore continued coldly. "Otherwise, all the efforts you've made over the years to cleanse the foundation will be in vain." Mr. Ravenscroft knew he spoke the truth. Milo was incapable of accomplishing anything of value, but when it came to colluding in wrongdoing, he was quite skilled. With even a small portion of assets, he could commit ten times the harm. He sighed. "Isel, you don't understand. As a man who's half-dead, my greatest concern now is what I'll say to Milo's mother when I see her in the afterlife."
Isidore said nothing. As he reached the door, he turned back. "All these years, I never thought about what I would do if I were to die by accident and meet my father in the afterlife." Mr. Ravenscroft closed his eyes, his chest rising with a deep sigh. "I'll think about it some more. You can go out now." Under the guidance of the staff, Isidore went to a side room to have dinner. Halfway through the meal, Milo burst through the door, enraged, and stormed in. "Isidore, what did you tell my father?"
Milo pulled out a gun and pointed it at Isidore. The people around them were shocked, but no one dared to intervene. Isidore continued chewing his food calmly, his expression unchanging, not even sparing him a glance. Milo waved the gun in his hand. "Do you think you can hide anything from me? You actually incited my father, telling him to leave nothing to me!"
Isidore's silence only fueled Milo's fury. "What right do you have to speak such nonsense to my father? You're nothing but a dog in my family! A dog that's forgotten its loyalty! Have I ever wronged you in any way? Don't think I don't know — before the verdict, you subtly urged the judge to sentence me to death!" Isidore gave a faint smile, turning his head to look at him. "Shouldn't you be the one to die?"
The muzzle of the gun was pressed against Isidore's forehead, and Milo's eyes gleamed with coldness. "What did you say?" "Just because that kindergarten teacher rejected your advances, you killed her—and the seven children left in the classroom!" Isidore said, each word deliberate. "You're a beast. You should have died long ago." Milo took two steps back, incredulous. "That was so long ago, and you're still hung up on it? I was drunk, acting on impulse. Besides, killing one person is killing, and killing seven is still killing!"
Isidore finished the food on his plate and stood up to leave. Milo laughed from behind, his mood shifting unpredictably, sending a chill down the spine. "Hah, you're only proud now. My father's things—if they aren't for me, do you think they'll go to an outsider? Do you even know what family bonds are? That's something you can't incite! Oh, you wouldn't know, your father's long gone, because you're finished. If you're smart, you'll kneel and beg me right now!" Isidore endured as Milo trampled recklessly on his wounds, his back stiff with tension.
Beg him? That was impossible, for a lifetime. Milo sneered. "When my father's things become mine, I'll take everything he gave you over the years, one by one. I'll make you experience what it feels like to be a beast of burden for years, only to end up with nothing and no place to be buried!"
It was said that Milo stayed by Mr. Ravenscroft's bedside for the entire night, and throughout, cries of distress echoed from the room, so sorrowful it was almost unbearable. Isidore could only marvel at Milo's excellent acting. The next day, Isidore requested to see Mr. Ravenscroft, but was turned away due to his poor health. Isidore understood; it reflected his attitude—he still couldn't bring himself to be harsh with Milo. He made no further attempts to see him and left without hesitation. As he departed, Milo stood on the hillside, his gaze both triumphant and like that of a reaper.
The few routine tasks he had been handling were transferred to others within just a few days. Isidore found himself with nothing to do and nowhere to go. That night, Cyrus brought a bowl of soup to his study, sighed, and said, "Isidore, don't be sad." He was thoughtful enough, but sadly too naive, not understanding who he should be currying favor with right now. Isidore took a sip of the soup. "I'm not sad. You should be the one who's sad." Cyrus tilted his small head in confusion.
Isidore patiently analyzed, "Once Milo takes power, the first person he'll kill is definitely me, but the second one will be you. Has the little girl you like confessed to her yet?" Seeing the little brat's face turn pale with fear, Isidore felt a lot better. Cyrus sat on a small stool, resting his cheek on his hand. "What about you, Isidore? If you were really going to die, what would you want to do before you die?"
Isidore finished the soup, his index finger tracing the smooth white edge of the bowl. "I want to see someone." Cyrus said, "Oh." He didn't need to think to know who it was.
