THE CAGE - LINGORM

I

The sleek, minimalist bedroom was very different to the opulent, cluttered study she'd only ever glimpsed in her dreams. Lingling, nestled in her plush bed, felt a cold sweat prickle her skin as the dream returned. She is 29, a woman trapped in a gilded cage, a world of black and gray that mirrored her own conflicted emotions.

It was the day she told him she wanted to be a doctor, not a mafioso. His eyes, usually filled with a fierce pride, had hardened into a mask of disappointment. "You think you can escape this life, Lingling?" he had thundered, his voice a low growl that shook the room. "This is our blood, our legacy. You were born into it, and you will live it."

His words were followed by a stinging slap across her face, a blow that echoed in her memory even now. She had stood there, tears stinging her eyes, feeling the weight of his disappointment crushing her dreams. Her father had never been one for sentimentality, but the anger in his eyes had been raw, a fear of losing control.

The dream shifted. She was standing before a towering mahogany desk, the weight of her father's legacy pressing down on her. "You're ready," he had said. "This is yours now." He had handed her a document, his signature bold and black. It was a transfer of ownership, a testament to his power and her inheritance. He had given her everything: the money, the influence, the empire. But it was a poisoned chalice, a gilded cage. He had become more confident after her mother passed away, a void that he had filled with the unshakable belief that he could dictate her, her dreams, her life.

Lingling woke with a gasp, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like a shroud. She looked around the room, the sleek black and gray furnishings reflecting the city lights that glittered outside her expansive windows. It was a world of luxury and isolation, the chaotic vibrant life she had once envisioned. She is Lingling Kwong, the daughter of a Mafia Kingpin, and there was no escaping her destiny.

Lingling opened the heavy metal door, and the sound boomed through the large room. It smelled strongly of guns and metal, a familiar smell that always made her feel strangely peaceful. This is the Weapons Room, a place that showed how powerful her father is. It is like a temple of destruction, filled with rows of shotguns, their barrels shining dangerously, alongside a collection of very expensive sniper rifles and a wall of gleaming knives.

She walked towards the back of the room, her footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor. Her eyes fell on a sleek, black Beretta 92FS, its lines as sharp as the memories that haunted her. She picked it up, the weight of the metal reassuringly familiar.

The shooting range, a concrete bunker at the far end of the room, is bathed in an eerie blue light. She loaded the magazine, the click of the rounds a sharp counterpoint to the silence. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the bunker, the cold air hitting her face. She raised the gun, her finger tightening on the trigger. The first shot echoed through the room, a sharp crack that reverberated through her bones. She fired again, and again, each shot a release of tension, a cathartic burst of power.

She was so caught up in the shooting that she didn't hear the door open quietly behind her. She stopped shooting and her senses were still alert to what was around her. It wasn't unusual for someone to enter the Weapons Room when she was inside, especially someone she knew. She'd grown accustomed to the subtle shifts in the air, the way the silence changed when a familiar presence entered.

"Good evening, boss. Hope you're not getting too stressed out. Maybe you should take a break from the bullets and have some real food." Jak said with a grin, settling into the leather couch.

Jakarin Puribhat, her childhood friend and someone she once considered a brother, is now a constant presence by her side, a detail her father had insisted on, turning their friendship into a duty.