Blinding camera flashes sliced through the dim backstage corridor like silver blades. Sweat, expensive perfume, and the sharp scent of aerosol hairspray hung heavy in the warm air. Halilintar Voltra stood motionless in the eye of this chaotic storm. His ruby-red eyes remained cool, scanning the frantic preparations with absolute detachment. Panic-stricken assistants scurried around him, clutching clipboards and screaming into headsets. Nodding once to his lead coordinator, Halilintar adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate black suit jacket. "Let me get that collar for you, Mr. Voltra—" A young stylist stepped forward, hands outstretched. "Don't touch me," Halilintar snapped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy quiet. Fear flared in the stylist's eyes as she quickly pulled her hands back, trembling. Apologizing profusely, she scurried away into the crowd of models. Breathing slowly, Halilintar clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Dark memories tried to claw their way to the surface of his mind. He was fifteen again, shivering in a cold, locked room after his parents' fatal accident. Those greedy, violating hands of his foster guardians had taught him a brutal lesson. Never trust anyone, especially those who smile with too many teeth. Physical contact was a threat, a weapon used to strip away his control. He had spent a decade building an empire of high-end fashion to serve as his armor. "Showtime, Mr. Voltra," the stage manager whispered, gesturing toward the heavy velvet curtains. Walking out onto the elevated platform, Halilintar let his public persona take over. Thunderous applause erupted, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling his ribs. Hundreds of expensive faces stared up at him from the dimly lit gallery. Glittering socialites smiled, their eyes hungry, superficial, and calculating. Every grin felt like a trap, every compliment a transaction waiting to happen. They loved his genius, his flawless designs, and his ethereal, cold beauty. Nobody cared about the broken boy who had bled to build this empire. Keeping his face a mask of cold perfection, he watched his lead model walk the runway. Crimson silk flowed behind her like liquid fire, cutting through the darkness. This was his masterpiece, yet a familiar, chilling emptiness hollowed out his chest. Applause washed over him in waves, but it felt as cold as winter rain. Bowing slightly, he offered the crowd a perfectly practiced, empty nod. Instantly, he turned on his heel and walked off the stage, refusing to linger. "Halilintar! Just one photo!" reporters screamed from the press pit. Ignoring the shouting voices, he walked straight past his public relations team. Security guards blocked the aggressive press, allowing him to escape into the rear hallway. Slipping into his private elevator, he finally let his tense shoulders drop. Solitude was his only true sanctuary, his only real defense against a parasitic world. Leaving the venue through a basement exit, he stepped out into the cool night. Rain began to fall, slicking the asphalt and reflecting the city lights. Driving his sleek black sports car, he pushed the engine to a loud roar. Neon signs blurred into streaks of pink and blue against the wet glass. His mind drifted back to the persistent business offers piling up on his desk. One name in particular had haunted his inbox for weeks. Taufan Beliung, the billionaire tycoon, wanted to buy a majority stake in his brand. Rumors painted Taufan as an obsessive, possessive man who always got what he wanted. "Another predator," Halilintar muttered to himself, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. No one would ever own him again, no matter how much money they offered. Reaching his high-rise penthouse, he parked in his private, secure garage. Stepping inside the quiet apartment, the silence welcomed him like an old friend. Cold marble floors stretched across the vast, open-concept living space. A soft meow echoed from the darkness near the kitchen. Bending down, Halilintar let his rigid expression soften for the first time all night. "Hello, Midnight," he murmured, petting the sleek black cat that rubbed against his ankles. Midnight purred loudly, leaning into the gentle touch of his fingers. Walking to the kitchen, Halilintar pulled a bowl of fresh strawberries from the refrigerator. Eating them slowly, he savored the sharp, sweet taste on his tongue. Strawberries were a quiet comfort, a simple pleasure that required no lies or deceit. Glass walls offered a panoramic view of the glittering skyline below. Below him, millions of people lived their superficial, noisy lives. He preferred this height, safe and completely isolated from the world. Moving toward his private studio, he unlocked the heavy oak door. Sketches, vibrant fabrics, and half-finished designs lay scattered across the tables. Sitting at his heavy mahogany desk, he pulled out a drawer with a hidden compartment. --- Inside the hidden drawer lay his oldest, most cherished sketchbook. Opening the worn leather cover, he turned the yellowed pages carefully. This drawing was completed when he was fifteen, right after his life shattered. Charcoal lines depicted a beautiful, abstract gown, drawn with trembling hands. Tears had stained the corners of the paper back then, leaving faint wrinkles. Looking closely at the charcoal figure, his breath hitched in his throat. Something caught his eye, reflecting the dim light of the desk lamp. Tracing his finger along the aged paper, his skin brushed against a strange texture. Woven directly into the coarse fibers of the drawing was a physical thread. Red silk thread, ornate and impossibly bright, looped through the charcoal lines. He gasped softly, his heart skipping a beat in the quiet room. Memory served him perfectly; he knew every single stroke of this old drawing. Touching the vibrant thread, he felt a strange warmth radiate against his fingertip. How could something so beautiful appear out of nowhere on his oldest sketch? As Halilintar finally allows himself a moment of peace, staring out at the city lights, his gaze falls upon a forgotten, ornate crimson thread woven into the very fabric of his oldest, most cherished sketch – a thread he remembers distinctly, yet knows was never part of his original design.

Chapter 1: Crimson Threads, Cold Heart