Chapter 1
That year, our company ran out of money and got caught up in a major financial scandal.
Right before my brother Ashford Peyton was sent to jail, I vanished with the company seal, leaving no trace behind.
Twelve years later, he made a comeback and became the richest man in the country.
During a financial interview, the host asked him what drove his success.
His eyes were cold and dangerous, his whole face radiating menace.
"To catch that backstabbing brother of mine who stole the money and vanished," he said.
"I'm going to break his legs myself."
He put a 70 million dollar bounty on my head and issued a global manhunt.
Bounty hunters from all over the world swarmed out, desperate to claim the reward.
But none of them ever brought me to him alive.
All they brought back was the last letter I wrote in prison twelve years ago.
******
On the TV screen, Ashford sat on a leather sofa in the interview room, dressed in a three-piece suit. His cufflinks were platinum, and his tie clip caught the light with a cold glint.
Twelve years had passed since I last saw him, and he'd aged.
The gray at his temples was slicked back with gel, but it still showed. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deep, like they'd been carved with a knife, and his lips were pressed into a thin, hard line.
The host smiled and handed him the microphone. "Mr. Peyton, you've been the richest man in the country for three years in a row. Your businesses span real estate, finance, and new energy.
"Many people call you the legendary entrepreneur of our time. What's kept you going all these years?"
Ashford didn't smile. He cocked his head slightly, his throat working as he swallowed.
His gaze pierced the camera, as if he could see someone on the other side of the screen.
"Hatred," he said.
The host was stunned.
"I have a brother," Ashford said, his voice flat, like the hidden currents beneath a frozen lake. "Twelve years ago, our family business collapsed.
"The money ran out, and we were caught up in a major financial scandal. The night before I was about to go to prison—" He paused, his thumb pressing hard against his cufflink, his knuckles turning white.
"My brother took the company seal, stole the last 12 million dollars from the company accounts, and vanished."
The studio fell silent.
"From that day on, I told myself—living was just so I could track him down," Ashford said.
He lifted his chin, the muscles along his cheekbones tightening.
"And when I find him, I'm going to break his legs myself."
The host opened her mouth, trying to lighten the mood.
But Ashford didn't give her a chance. "From this moment on, I'm offering a 70 million dollar reward. Worldwide manhunt."
He pulled a photo from his suit pocket and slapped it onto the table. "This is Liam Peyton, my full brother. Whoever brings him to me alive gets 70 million dollars in cash, not a penny less."
The photo showed a young man in his early twenties, with clear eyes and a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he'd been cut out of a family portrait.
I locked my eyes on that face for a long time, unable to look away.
That was me, twelve years ago.
I reached out and turned off the TV.
The apartment went quiet again.
It was now monsoon season. Damp air crept in through the window that wouldn't shut all the way, and the wallpaper in the corner was blistering with moisture.
I coughed twice, sandpaper scraping my chest. My phlegm tasted metallic, like rust, but I didn't bother to check. I just crumpled the tissue and tossed it in the trash.
On the table sat a bowl of soup, gone cold, a thin film forming on top. Beside it were three boxes of meds: two for my lungs, one for my liver.
My name is Liam Pierce.
I work as a night shift security guard at an electronics factory in this city, making 1,050 dollars a month.
No one knew I was actually a Peyton.
The iron gate to the security office was rusted, and it creaked every time I pushed it open.
At two in the morning, I sat in the guardhouse, wrapped in a military coat. In front of me was an old book, its pages worn from years of use, the writing on the title page so faded it was almost illegible.
My phone buzzed.
A news notification popped up: [Billionaire Ashford Peyton Offers 70 Million Dollar Bounty for His Brother. The Internet Is Shaken.]
The comments section was packed with replies.
[Damn, that brother is savage. He ran off with the cash right when his own brother was about to go to jail?]
[Confirmed backstabber.]
[Bet he's already gone abroad. People like that never feel guilty.]
[Poor Mr. Peyton, stabbed in the back by his own brother.]
I turned off my phone and set it face down on the table.
That dull ache in my chest started up again, like someone was punching me from the inside, right against my ribs.
I knew that pain all too well.
Eight years locked up, and the third rib on my left side got broken twice from kicks. The second time, it never set properly—now it's crooked, and every time it rains or gets damp, it throbs.
I bent down and dragged a rusty metal box out from under the folding bed in the security office.
The box was covered in rust, the lock was busted, and it was twisted shut with a bit of wire.
I opened it.