CHAPTER 178: FIVE FINGERS RULE!!

Miles pressed the accelerator a little too hard on the last turn, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the black sedan slid into the Pearl Villa driveway. The gate guards straightened the moment they saw him.

He stepped out, expression calm but eyes sharper than usual.

"Did you find him?"

The head security guard shook his head. "He’s hiding somewhere inside the grounds, sir. We’ve called his name but he isn’t responding. The house staff said he was very angry when he walked out. We just started checking the security feed."

Miles exhaled quietly. "No need. I’ll get him."

He tossed his car key into the guard’s hands and walked across the garden path — not towards the house, but toward the small maple grove behind it.

The forest whispered with evening wind, leaves swaying softly. Miles didn’t hurry now — he knew Asher. The boy felt deeply, hid in quiet places when upset, and trusted only a few corners of the world.

And one of those corners was here.

A little deeper in the trees stood a small playhouse — four wooden posts, soft white curtains tied with ribbons, string lights hanging like little stars. Inside were cushions, a tiny wooden table, toys, and colored pencils scattered like memories of laughter.

Miles slowed his steps, letting the hush settle. He could hear it — soft breathing, shaky and stubborn.

He gently slid one curtain aside and crouched in. Asher sat curled up in a corner, knees hugged tight, his face marked with tears and little fists pressed against his eyes.

Miles lowered himself beside him with quiet ease.

"What happened to my little brother," he whispered.

The moment he heard the voice, Asher’s head jerked up — and then he lunged forward, arms thrown around Miles’ neck, shaking with little sobs.

"Big broo... big broooo..."

Miles held him, one hand on the back of his head, the other patting his small trembling back. "Hey... hey... I’m here. It’s okay. Breathe."

Asher buried his face into Miles’ shoulder, crying until the tightness in his chest loosened. Only then did he slowly pull away, wiping his nose with his sleeve, trying to be brave again.

Miles waited, patient. No pressure.

Finally, Asher sat properly and sniffled hard.

"We... we had a fight," his small voice wavered.

Miles nodded gently. "Did you two fight?"

Miles let the quiet breathe between them first.

Not rushing him.

Not brushing it off like adults often did when it came to "kid fights."

Asher’s chin stayed glued to his chest, shoulders tense.

His voice came small but heavy:

"Hope’s mean. She’s supposed to be my twin, not my enemy."

Miles leaned his back against the playhouse frame, knees bent, his tone soft like he was talking to an equal, not a child.

"Yeah. That kind of thing hurts different. When it’s your twin, it hits right in the heart."

Asher sniffed. "It was the Midnight Blue."

His fists clenched again. "The only one that makes the sky look real. She snatched it. And she said my drawing was silly."

The last word shook like it had teeth.

Miles didn’t laugh, didn’t dismiss. He nodded, serious.

"That wasn’t just a crayon she took. That was your favorite color, your idea. Your sky. And calling your drawing silly? That felt like someone stomping on something brave you made."

Asher’s eyes watered again but he didn’t look away this time.

His voice trembled, defensive and wounded. "It isn’t silly."

Miles shook his head. "Not even close. You see things in your head and bring them out here. That’s what artists do. And artists... they get misunderstood a lot. Happens to grown ups too," he added quietly, almost to himself.

He brought his eyes back to Asher, bright and warm.

"But listen," Miles went on. "Hope... her emotions are like a big puppy running too fast. They bump into stuff. They don’t always look where they’re going. She wasn’t trying to hurt you. She just wanted the color for her picture and forgot that your heart was attached to that crayon."

Asher’s anger wavered, turning into confusion. Then guilt. Then sadness.

Miles put a hand gently on his back. "I know it felt personal. And it’s okay to feel angry. But you know what’s stronger than that anger?"

Asher blinked up at him. "What?"

"Being able to put the fire down before it burns you from the inside."

He lifted his hand, palm out like a silent oath.

"The Five-Finger Pause. Remember?"

Asher actually huffed — a tiny half-laugh, half-cry.

"The secret agent move."

Miles mirrored the little smile. "Exactly. Finger one — breathe. Finger two — think. Finger three — choose. Finger four — speak. Finger five — forgive."

Asher slowly raised his shaky hand too, copying him.

Miles continued softly, "And if you ever forget, you can always come here. Hide. Yell quietly. And I’ll always find you. Then we walk back together."

Asher’s voice cracked, whispering, "Even if I get really mad again?"

Miles placed a hand on his head, messing his hair gently. "Especially then. Anger doesn’t make you bad. It means you care. But caring means learning how to protect yourself and the people you love."

Asher looked down at his crumpled drawing — fighter jet lines bent but still fierce, still full of dreams.

Miles tapped it with two fingers. "Come on. Let’s fix this masterpiece. I’ll lend you something."

Asher’s head snapped up. "What, big bro?"

Miles nodded. "The special dark blue. Better than Midnight Blue."

Asher stood, wiping his face with his sleeve. "You promise it’s better?"

Miles smirked. "I don’t share my pencils with just anyone, do I?"

For the first time since the fight, Asher grinned — wobbly but real.

His little hand reached out.

Miles took it, strong and gentle — not leading him, but walking with him.

"We’ll patch up the jet," Miles said as they stepped out of the playhouse.

"Then we go inside. You talk to Hope. Five-Finger Pause first. Then the truth."

"And she apologizes too?" Asher whispered.

Miles squeezed his hand. "You’re not the only one learning. She will."

They walked toward the house, leaves brushing above like applause from the maple trees.

Asher tugged his hand once, hopeful.

"Big bro?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for finding me."

Miles smiled — quiet, warm, overflowing.

"I’ll always find you. That’s my job."

And they walked home — fighter jet and dark blue dreams ready for repair, brotherhood stronger than crayons and hurt feelings, step by step back toward the light.

Sunlight spilled through the villa’s front windows, soft and golden, stretching across the polished floor like a warm welcome.

Inside, the atmosphere was tight and worried.

Hope sat on the couch, tiny knees to her chest, face blotchy and red from crying.

A house staff member knelt in front of her, rubbing her small back, murmuring gentle words.

"It’s okay, little Miss. Your brother will come out. He just needed a moment—"

"No," Hope sobbed, shaking her head hard, "he left b-because of me. I was bad. I was so bad."

Her tears fell like raindrops on her dress.

"He hates me now."

Before the staff could answer, the door clicked.

Footsteps entered.

Hope’s breath stopped.

She looked up—

and there they were.

Miles walked in first. Calm, steady.

And beside him, holding his hand, came Asher — eyes still puffy, but calmer, breathing steady.

For one heartbeat, Hope froze.

Then her little body launched forward like a tiny rocket.

"ASHER!"

She collided into him, arms flinging around his neck, almost knocking him off balance.

Asher blinked in surprise — then hugged her back, a little awkward at first, then tight.

"I thought you hate me," she cried into his shoulder.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it — you are not silly, I was just mad because I couldn’t make the ocean look right and— and— I’m sorry!"

Asher’s small voice wobbled but held steady.

"I was mad too. But you’re still my favorite twin."

Hope sniffed, pulling back just enough to see his face, her little hands gripping his cheeks.

"You promise?"

Asher nodded hard.

"I promise."

Hope hiccupped, relief flooding through her whole body.

Then she turned to Miles, wide-eyed, tears still clinging to her lashes.

"Big bro... I’m sorry. I made him sad. I won’t do it again. I promise I’ll share every crayon forever. Even the glitter ones."

Miles crouched down to their level, one hand on each tiny head, smoothing hair gently.

"You’re both learning," he said softly.

"And sometimes learning has bumps. I’m proud of you for fixing it."

Hope clung to Miles’ arm, still crying a little but calmer now.

Asher tugged on his sister’s sleeve.

"Come on," he whispered, "we still have to finish my fighter jet. And you can use the special dark blue too."

Hope’s eyes widened.

"Special dark blue?"

Asher nodded with the seriousness of a knight giving permission to touch holy treasure.

Hope gasped.

"It must be... super dark."

Miles chuckled. "The darkest."

The twins grabbed each other’s hands and hurried toward the playroom, their little feet pattering like excited birds, their argument forgotten in the spark of imagination again.

Before following, Asher paused and looked back at Miles — eyes shining, full of gratitude that didn’t need words.

Miles winked.

And just like that — laughter returned to the villa.

The air felt brighter.

Whole again.

The staff exhaled in relief.

Miles watched the twins disappear around the corner, shaking his head with a soft, helpless smile.

This.

This peace — this warmth —

was worth more than empires or bloodlines or old ghosts.

He whispered to himself,

"As long as they laugh like this... everything else can burn."

And then he followed his siblings, steps light, heart full.

Midnight settled heavy over the villa.

Silver light pooled across the floor, quiet and calm.

Miles sat by the window, elbows on his knees, eyes steady on the night outside as if it might answer him back.

When the clock gently touched twelve, he lifted his phone and dialed.

It barely rang once.

Ray picked up with a sigh, almost annoyed, almost impressed.

"You didn’t even wait one second."

Miles’ tone was calm, sharp.

"Tell me."

Ray hesitated only a heartbeat.

"We found him. Clown."

Miles didn’t flinch, but something cold shifted behind his eyes.

"I thought he died in that last brokerage mess."

"We all did," Ray replied. "But he didn’t. He surfaced in Silverline last year."

Miles sat back a little, the name—"Silverline?"—drawing his attention.

"Yes," Ray said. "We traced the Old Commander’s trail backwards. Pulled one of his old informants. He cracked. Said Clown handled something big there. A broker job. Just like always."

Miles was silent for a moment, calculating.

"The President believes he’s dead. Keep it that way. If the government smells this, they’ll choke the whole forest to catch one snake."

"Already quiet," Ray answered. "No noise on our end."

"Good. And I want every name in Silverline tied to him. Anyone he worked with, anyone who even shook his hand."

Ray sounded surprised.

"Names?"

"Silverline has threads to my past too," Miles said. "I can’t see through it from here. I’ll send what I know."

"Understood," Ray replied. "One more thing." A short breath. "Did you donate to the Graveyard Family Welfare Fund?"

Miles didn’t hesitate.

"What if I did?"

"A million dollars, Miles. You trying to play charity king now?"

Miles’ voice lowered, steady and warm in a way only a soldier could understand.

"I returned to one family. That doesn’t mean I forget the other."

Ray was quiet for a beat, then exhaled a soft laugh.

"That’s a lot of money."

"I have enough," Miles replied. "And I know who bled for me when I didn’t even know my own name."

Ray’s tone shifted — proud, amused, a little emotional in the way hard men hide.

"You’re growing up."

Miles looked down the hallway, where earlier laughter still lingered like a soft echo.

"Seems so."

The line ended.

Miles set the phone down, leaning back in the quiet.

Outside, the world slept.