Wesley opened his computer, following the news link Sloan had shared about his father's death on the rooftop of the Metropolitan Building the previous morning.
Having accepted "Mr. X" as his father, Wesley's eyes glistened with tears as he clenched his jaw and muttered bitterly, "I'll avenge you, Father."
But as the reality of his own helplessness—a broke, powerless nobody—sank in, he began sobbing softly. His fingers brushed the pixelated image of the corpse on the screen.
"How... how could you leave me with nothing but an 'X'? You didn't even have time to tell me your real name, Father," he cried.
While Wesley wallowed in grief, the following morning found William being woken by Sunday on his yacht.
"Sir, the spider robot reports that Mr. X has just woken up. Based on his route, you should prepare to leave if you don't want to arrive at the Metropolitan Building after him."
"Got it," William stretched, still groggy as he got up.
After parting ways with Wesley the previous day, William had opted for the convenience of staying on his yacht. Stripping off his sleepwear, he stepped into the shower and asked, "Has Winston found the scapegoats yet?"
"Winston has secured four U.S. Army veterans who retired within the past two years. According to plan, they infiltrated the Metropolitan Building's rooftop disguised as construction workers last night.
Additionally, Ms. Sylma's office directly faces the Metropolitan rooftop. I have also informed Cross, Mr. Carlos, to stand by."
"Good to know." After freshening up, William piloted his yacht back to the marina. As he disembarked, the Yacht Club manager, Martin Donner, drove William's car right up to the dock.
"Good morning, Mr. Devonshire. If you're in a rush, there's a quick breakfast prepared in the car."
"Thank you." Accepting the car keys, William smiled and patted Martin on the shoulder. "I heard your wife is expecting again. Congratulations, Martin."
He added, "Sunday, arrange a gift for Mr. Donner's wife."
"Of course, Sir."
Although Martin didn't know who William had instructed to prepare the gift, it wasn't surprising that a billionaire like him might have access to advanced technology. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Devonshire. I'm truly grateful."
"No problem, Martin. Ambrosio has praised your dedication and attention to detail many times. This is well-deserved. See you tonight."
"See you tonight, Sir." Martin opened the car door for William and watched him drive away, before fist-pumping and exclaiming, "Yes!"
Driving while wearing smart glasses, William had a live feed of Mr. X's movements.
To maintain constant surveillance of the Assassin Brotherhood, William had deployed over a dozen Black Hornet drone carriers across New York, particularly near the Textile Factory. These carriers kept more than 100 Black Hornet drones patrolling the skies around the clock.
As expected, Mr. X headed straight for the Metropolitan Building to find Sylma.
Half an hour later, William reached the rooftop of a building 200 meters from the Metropolitan Building. From his vantage point, he watched Mr. X park his car and walk cautiously into Sylma's office building.
"Sir," Sunday reported, "as predicted, Assassin Brotherhood members are lurking nearby. Should I deploy spider robots to eliminate them?"
William smirked, narrowing his eyes as Sunday's display highlighted the Brotherhood operatives. "Of course, they're here. Let them be, as long as they don't interfere with our plan to take out Mr. X."
"Understood, Sir."
Minutes later, Mr. X took the elevator to the 22nd floor and entered Sylma's office.
Sylma, on the phone with a client, froze in terror upon seeing Mr. X. She was too rattled to focus on the conversation.
"Relax. Your name isn't on the Loom of Fate. If it were, you'd already be meeting God," Mr. X said curtly.
Ignoring Sylma's visible anxiety, Mr. X walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the workers on the Metropolitan rooftop.
Realizing she wasn't the target, Sylma exhaled in relief. She reminded herself that if Mr. X truly intended to kill her, he wouldn't bother with small talk.
Seeing him scrutinize the workers, Sylma hung up the phone. "Don't worry. The Metropolitan Building submitted a maintenance request last week. Those workers leave by 9 a.m. every day and only start at night."
Hearing this and noting that the workers appeared to be packing up, Mr. X finally turned away. From his pocket, he retrieved a bullet and placed it on Sylma's desk.
"Analyze this bullet for me."
Without another word, Mr. X instinctively moved to a corner of the room, avoiding any potential lines of fire.
Sylma didn't comment on his caution. Picking up the bullet and a magnifying glass, she began examining it. One glance was enough to make her heart sink.
"Dammit," she muttered, her expression grim as she studied the bullet. "This rifling mark is straight."
"What does that mean?" Mr. X demanded.
"It means this bullet was fired from a smoothbore gun. And the only people in the world still using smoothbore guns as sniper rifles are the Cros—"
"Get down!" Mr. X shouted suddenly, having caught a glint of reflected light from the rooftop across the street.
But his warning came too late.
Bang! Sylma's head exploded as a sniper round struck her squarely, and her body collapsed onto the desk.
"F!" Mr. X growled, quickly peeking at the opposite building just as silenced gunfire erupted—pop pop pop.
Bullets peppered the walls near the window, forcing Mr. X to crouch low and rush out of Sylma's office.
To William's surprise, Mr. X didn't leap out of the building to eliminate the assassins like he had in William's memory. Instead, he headed for the elevator.
This deviation puzzled William, but the truth clicked almost instantly. Events were no longer following the original trajectory.
From a mere glance, Mr. X had discerned that Cross—Carlos—wasn't among the shooters on the rooftop. He wasn't naive enough to believe those men weren't bait for a larger trap.
But before the elevator could arrive at the 22nd floor, a bullet suddenly struck the wall just half a meter from Mr. X, causing him to instinctively duck.
Pop! Pop! Two more rounds hit the wall in quick succession.
"F***!"
Turning to assess the angle, Mr. X realized he no longer had a line of sight to the Metropolitan rooftop. He immediately misunderstood, assuming the shots had been fired by Cross himself.
Had he not moved in time, that final round would have undoubtedly killed him.
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