St. Veritas International School – 7:15 AM.
The sky above the capital city was cloaked in a dull gray, the morning air stiff with a silence too solemn for any breeze to disturb. Rows of trees stood rigid like sentinels, watching over the pristine gates of the nation's most prestigious academy.
A black car pulled up to the curb, quiet and unassuming.
In this school—where luxury was the norm—no one spared it a second glance.
Until the door opened.
And he stepped out.
White dress shirt, ironed crisp.
A black tie, neatly knotted.
Thin-rimmed glasses resting upon sharp, narrow eyes.
A tall frame with an unhurried gait—every step calculated, balanced like a tightrope walker's.
Lâm Kha Vũ.
Top student of 12th grade.
A model pupil adored by teachers, admired by girls, respected by peers.
And yet—utterly unknowable.
He walked past greetings, admiring glances, whispered gossip—his expression unchanged. In his hand, a silver Zippo lighter flicked open and shut in rhythm. No cigarette. Just the sound: click—snap—click—snap… like a code only he could understand.
"Hey, did you hear? There was an explosion in Sector H last night," one boy whispered.
"Sector H? You mean the tech district? I heard it was a terrorist hit!"
"Yeah, and rumor has it… they found a blue rose symbol at the scene."
Kha Vũ paused for half a second.
Behind the glasses, his eyes remained calm—but his grip on the lighter tightened.
Blue rose.
A mark known only to those who walked in the shadows.
A symbol of a family he had buried deep six years ago—beneath a mask of books and grades.
In the high-level classroom on the fourth floor, sunlight spilled across his desk, framing him in a halo of gold.
Kha Vũ sat alone at the back, pen poised above his notebook—but his mind had slipped far away.
Back to a night six years ago.
To when his back was tattooed—inch by inch—with a thorny blue rose, each stroke seared in blood.
To when venom from a white snake bit into his right shoulder—the final rite of passage into the organization.
To when he became the heir.
He closed his eyes.
To his teachers, he was a genius.
But what they didn't know was that he could disassemble a gun in 14 seconds, bypass military-grade locks, and read someone's fatal weakness within the first 5 seconds of eye contact.
Caught between angel and devil, he chose to wear the mask of a well-behaved student—not out of desire, but out of necessity.
Because he was waiting… for the day when the last ray of light would flicker out.
"Lâm Kha Vũ, to the board."
The teacher's voice rang out.
He stood up smoothly, slipping the lighter into his pocket.
Polite. Composed. Impeccable.
Only the white snake beneath his shirt gave a slight twitch—
As if it were smirking.