Chapter 1: The Inheritance of a Parasite

The sleek black sedan pulled up to the wrought iron gates with a whisper of expensive engineering. Kaelen Vance stepped out, his sharp eyes taking in the sprawling Victorian mansion that would be his sanctuary—or so he hoped. The building stood like a forgotten monument to better times, its weathered stone facade and overgrown gardens telling stories of neglect and lost grandeur.

"Home," he murmured, though the word felt foreign on his tongue after years of sterile corporate towers and glass penthouses overseas.

His three companions emerged from the vehicle with practiced ease: Rex, the German Shepherd with intelligent amber eyes; Titan, the imposing Doberman whose sleek coat gleamed in the afternoon sun; and Bear, the massive Rottweiler whose gentle nature belied his intimidating size. They flanked him naturally, a testament to years of training and unwavering loyalty.

At twenty-eight, Kaelen had conquered Silicon Valley's cutthroat world, amassing a fortune that most could only dream of. But success had come with a price—endless corporate warfare, backstabbing partners, and the constant pressure of maintaining an empire built on innovation and ruthless efficiency. He'd grown tired of the game, yearning for something his wealth couldn't simply purchase: peace.

The mansion's heavy oak door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing dust motes dancing in shafts of golden light. The interior was a study in faded elegance—marble floors dulled by time, crystal chandeliers draped in cobwebs, and walls that had once hosted society's elite now peeling with age. But beneath the decay, Kaelen could see the bones of something magnificent.

"What do you think, boys?" he asked, his voice echoing in the cavernous foyer. The dogs padded through the space with curious sniffs, their tags jingling softly in the silence.

This was exactly what he needed—a project that would occupy his hands while his mind found the stillness it craved. No board meetings, no hostile takeovers, no corporate espionage. Just him, his dogs, and the patient work of restoration.

He spent the first few hours exploring every room, taking mental notes of what needed immediate attention versus what could wait. The master suite on the second floor would be his temporary base of operations while contractors worked on the rest. His belongings—minimal but carefully chosen—would arrive tomorrow, along with the specialized equipment he'd need to turn this place into the high-tech fortress it was destined to become.

By evening, Kaelen had settled into a routine that felt surprisingly natural. He prepared a simple meal in the mansion's outdated but functional kitchen while his dogs claimed their respective territories throughout the house. The silence was profound, broken only by the settling of old timbers and the distant hum of the city he'd left behind.

It was during his first shower in the mansion's antiquated bathroom that he noticed it—a subtle but unmistakable drop in water pressure. The powerful spray he'd initially enjoyed dwindled to a disappointing trickle, barely adequate for rinsing soap from his hair.

Kaelen frowned, stepping out of the shower with water still dripping from his athletic frame. In his world of tech solutions and systematic problem-solving, such inefficiencies were more than minor annoyances—they were puzzles demanding resolution.

The next morning brought the same issue. As he stood at the kitchen sink, attempting to fill a large pot for his dogs' water bowls, the flow reduced to an anemic stream. He tested every faucet in the house, documenting the pressure patterns with the methodical precision that had made him millions.

The problem wasn't random. It followed a schedule.

Every morning between seven and nine, the pressure dropped significantly. Again in the evening from six to eight. The timing was too consistent to be coincidental, too regular to be a municipal issue affecting just his property.

Kaelen's analytical mind, honed by years of detecting corporate sabotage and competitive intelligence gathering, immediately recognized the pattern of systematic theft.

Someone was stealing his water.

He stood at the mansion's front window, his gray eyes scanning the neighboring properties with new interest. To his left stood a modest two-story house that had seen better decades. Paint peeled from its siding like diseased skin, and the small yard was a tangle of weeds and neglect. But it was the furtive movements he glimpsed through the grimy windows that caught his attention.

An elderly man with a perpetual scowl moved about the property with the proprietorial air of someone who believed the world owed him something. Kaelen had encountered his type before in the business world—parasites who survived by taking what others had built, offering nothing of value in return.

The discovery should have prompted a simple conversation, perhaps a polite request to check the shared water line for issues. Most people would have knocked on the neighbor's door, introduced themselves, and resolved the matter with basic human courtesy.

But Kaelen Vance was not most people.

Years of navigating corporate warfare had taught him that direct confrontation often revealed your hand before you understood the full scope of your opponent's weaknesses. In his experience, thieves—whether they stole intellectual property or municipal water—rarely limited themselves to a single transgression.

As he watched the scowling man emerge from his house in a stained undershirt, something cold and calculating settled in Kaelen's chest. The feeling was familiar, honed through countless business battles where mercy was weakness and half-measures were failures.

This wasn't just about water pressure.

This was about principle. About the right to sanctuary. About the fundamental rule that had governed his success: no one takes what belongs to you without consequences.

Rex padded over and sat beside him, the dog's intelligent eyes following his master's gaze toward the neighboring property. The German Shepherd sensed the shift in Kaelen's mood—the subtle tension that preceded action, the stillness that came before calculated strikes.

"Looks like we have a problem to solve," Kaelen murmured, his voice carrying the same tone he'd once used when discussing the destruction of particularly troublesome competitors.

The mansion suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a fortress preparing for war. But this wouldn't be the brutal, public warfare of the corporate world. This would be something far more elegant, far more devastating.

As the sun set behind the Victorian's ornate silhouette, Kaelen began to plan. The tech mogul who had conquered Silicon Valley was about to teach a petty thief the difference between taking from the defenseless and stealing from someone with the resources and will to respond.

The water theft had ignited something in him he'd thought left behind with his corporate life—the cold fury of the truly powerful when crossed by those who should have known better.

His neighbor had no idea what he'd just awakened.