The city had moved on.
News channels called it unfortunate.
A man who made mistakes.
A man who left.
At school, they called him something else.
Ronin didn’t care about whispers.
He cared about patterns.
At sixteen, he was known for two things.
He ranked near the top of his class in technology and systems analysis. Teachers relied on him to fix network errors. Students copied his code during lab sessions.
And when he lost control, he lost it completely.
The fight happened during lunch.
“Maybe he ran off with that assistant,” one boy laughed.
Ronin froze.
“Yeah. Guess some men just get bored.”
The punch landed without warning.
A second boy tried to intervene. Ronin shoved him hard enough to send him into a desk. Someone grabbed his shirt. He twisted free.
The room exploded into shouting.
A teacher pulled him back before it went further.
He didn’t defend himself in the principal’s office.
He didn’t need to.
He walked home in silence.
His mother was already informed.
“You’re smarter than this,” she said calmly.
“They were talking about him,” Ronin replied.
Her expression hardened slightly.
“People talk.”
“Were they wrong?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“He made choices,” she said at last. “And we live with them.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She stood up from the table.
“Let it go.”
That was the end of the conversation.
But not the end of the thought.
Twice a week, Ronin trained at Super V Club.
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The gym smelled of leather and metal. Gloves thudded against heavy bags in steady rhythm. The coach believed in discipline over aggression.
“Boxing isn’t about anger,” the coach often said. “It’s about control.”
Ronin trained harder than most.
Not because he loved fighting.
Because when he focused on footwork and breath timing, the noise in his head quieted.
His father used to watch him train.
Not many times.
But enough that Ronin remembered the look — quiet pride, never loud applause.
That memory didn’t match the version of a man who abandoned his family.
After training, he didn’t go straight home.
He went underground.
Beneath an abandoned construction tunnel near the edge of the district, a small setup hummed softly.
Two second-hand monitors.
Wires taped along concrete walls.
A salvaged battery system.
An old fan fighting against the stale air.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was functional.
Max was already there, scrolling through something meaningless on one of the screens.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Max said casually.
“Not today,” Ronin replied.
They had built the base years ago out of boredom and curiosity. It became a place to experiment, code, and explore without questions.
It also became a place where Ronin could think.
That night, he couldn’t stop replaying the words.
Assistant.
Left with her.
Disappeared.
The next afternoon, while his mother was at work, Ronin entered his father’s old room.
Most things had been cleared. Some drawers remained.
He searched slowly.
Employment papers.
Project summaries.
Old ID copies.
And then—
RageBuilder Infrastructure.
The company logo was printed across multiple documents.
He had seen that name before. Everyone had. Rising fast. Politically connected. Clean public image.
He continued searching.
Another name appeared repeatedly in internal schedules.
Kayla M. – Executive Assistant.
He checked for anything personal.
Messages. Notes. Hidden prints.
Nothing.
Everything looked strictly professional.
Her employment termination date caught his eye.
She left the same week his father disappeared.
Coincidence.
Maybe.
But it didn’t sit right.
Back in the tunnel, Ronin spread the files across the crate table.
Max leaned over.
“So… you think your dad ran away with her?”
Ronin stared at the papers.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
And that was the problem.
He searched public records. Archived directories. Employment traces tied to Kayla’s name.
An old address surfaced.
Inactive.
No new listings.
No social presence.
“Either she really wanted a fresh start,” Max said, “or she disappeared quietly.”
They decided to visit.
Kayla’s old neighborhood was modest and quiet.
They knocked on a nearby door.
An elderly man answered.
“Yes, she lived next door,” he confirmed. “Worked long hours.”
“With a man named Albert?” Ronin asked.
“Yeah. Saw them come and go sometimes. He seemed decent.”
“Did she leave because of him?”
The man frowned.
“No. Her grandfather passed away. She packed up soon after. Didn’t stay much longer.”
“When was that?”
The man thought.
“Same week that office fellow died. Albert, right?”
Ronin went silent.
They thanked him and walked away.
“So not an affair,” Max said carefully.
Ronin didn’t respond.
He wasn’t relieved.
He was unsettled.
If his father hadn’t left for someone else…
Then he hadn’t left by choice.
That evening, the television played softly.
Kim appeared on screen, announcing his candidacy for mayor.
Confident. Polished.
Behind him, sponsors were mentioned.
RageBuilder’s logo flashed briefly during the segment.
Ronin watched silently.
His father had worked there.
Kayla had worked there.
Both gone the same week.
Later, his mother found the documents on the kitchen table.
“You went through his things,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
She inhaled slowly.
“You don’t need to reopen this.”
“I don’t think he left,” Ronin said.
Her jaw tightened.
“You were a child. You don’t know everything.”
“I know him.”
Silence filled the room.
“If he wasn’t with her,” she said finally, “then what was he doing?”
“I’m going to find out.”
Her voice softened — not angry, but afraid.
“Be careful with what you chase.”
That night, inside the tunnel, Ronin stared at the RageBuilder logo glowing faintly on his monitor.
This wasn’t about proving his mother wrong.
It wasn’t about fighting school rumors.
It was about something that didn’t add up.
If the truth existed—
It was inside that company.
And for the first time, Ronin wasn’t reacting.
He was deciding.
He would start there.
End of Chapter 2.
Thank you for reading.
Chapter 3 will move things forward.
What do you think Albert was really involved in at RageBuilder?
