Hamlet

The neon skyline of Elsinor City pulsed red against the smoggy night as Hamlet pressed his hand to the bulletproof glass of the penthouse window. Below, the city lived and died on rhythm and betrayal—just like the stories whispered through the halls of the CrownCorp towers.

Hamlet Sinclair III had it all: power, privilege, and a family legacy carved from steel and secrets. But tonight, it all felt hollow.

“Your father was murdered.”

The words still echoed from the encrypted message he’d received just hours ago. Anonymous. Precise. Cruel.

He had believed the official report: heart failure. But the whisper of doubt had never quite gone silent.

And now, it screamed.


---

“Are you sure about this?” Ophelia asked, perched on the leather armchair in his office, eyes full of worry.

“No,” Hamlet admitted, pouring a drink. “But if there’s even a chance it’s true, I can’t let it go.”

“They’ll call you paranoid.”

“They already do.”

Ophelia rose and took the glass from his hand, setting it aside. “Then don’t do this alone.”

Hamlet looked at her—the only one who saw through the crown and chaos. He wanted to believe she’d still be there when it all collapsed.

“I don’t trust anyone else,” he said. “Not even my mother.”


---

His investigation began with silence.

Then came surveillance footage from the night of his father’s death—altered.

Then a financial paper trail—buried transactions between Claudius Sinclair and shadow brokers.

Claudius, his uncle. Now CEO. Now married to his mother.

Now suspect.

The betrayal tasted metallic.

Hamlet stood before the family portrait in the grand atrium, staring into his father’s painted eyes.

“I’ll make them pay,” he whispered.


---

At a shareholder gala, under the guise of toasts and tailored suits, Hamlet cornered Claudius near the private bar.

“I’ve been thinking about Father a lot lately,” Hamlet said, swirling his drink.

Claudius’s smile didn’t waver. “We all miss him.”

“Do we?”

A flicker of something passed over Claudius’s face.

Hamlet leaned in. “Funny how your fortune doubled the week after his death.”

“You sound accusatory, nephew.”

“And you sound guilty.”

A beat of silence.

Claudius smiled again. But it was colder this time. “Careful, Hamlet. Grief can make you see ghosts where there are none.”

Hamlet downed his drink, eyes locked. “And guilt buries bodies in boardrooms.”


---

Later that night, Hamlet found Ophelia waiting in his penthouse. Her hands trembled as she handed him a flash drive.

“I hacked the servers,” she said. “I didn’t want to. But you need to see this.”

On the screen: an audio file. Claudius’s voice.

“…take him out. If the old man finds out, we lose everything. Make it look natural. Heart failure. Clean.”

Hamlet sat in stunned silence. Then he stood.

“This is it. This is the truth.”

Ophelia caught his wrist. “Don’t do what I think you’re about to do.”

“He took everything from me.”

“And if you kill him, you’ll lose yourself, too.”


---

The confrontation came not with bullets or board votes, but in the family chapel, lit only by a stained-glass moon.

Claudius stood before the altar, alone.

“I know what you did,” Hamlet said, voice echoing.

Claudius turned. “Do you?”

“I have the recording. You killed him.”

Claudius stepped closer, unafraid. “What will you do with it? Expose me? Ruin the empire your father built? Or will you bury the truth, like we buried him?”

Hamlet’s hand hovered near the gun in his coat.

“You want me to pull the trigger,” Hamlet said bitterly.

“I want you to choose,” Claudius replied. “Are you a son… or a prince?”


---

He didn’t shoot.

Instead, he played the recording for the board. And the press. And the world.

Claudius was arrested. His mother left the city. The empire cracked under scandal.

Hamlet watched it all unfold from a hotel room far from Elsinor.

Ophelia called. He didn’t answer.

He’d won—but he felt empty. Like a ghost.

Because in destroying Claudius… he’d buried something of himself.

Not just a prince.

Not just a son.

But a man who believed justice could restore what revenge never could.