Vicky strode through the hospital hallway, though her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. Doctors and nurses swarmed around her—tending to patients, wheeling gurneys, calling out orders—but their world dissolved into meaningless noise. Her mind had tunneled to one thing only.
Her mother.
She reached the room and stopped dead.
Through the glass window, she watched them work. Doctors pressed electric jumpers to her mother's chest. Her body convulsed. Blood, mucus, and some white by-product pooled from her mouth and nose, spreading across her pale skin like something from a nightmare.
Vicky clutched her chest. Her heart was ripping free from her ribcage. She could *feel* it jumping, pounding so loud she glanced at the nearby nurses—surely they could hear it. Surely the whole hospital could.
The doctor spotted her and walked over, pad in his hands.
"Victoria, did you come with the deposit? Magano can't wait any longer."
"What happened?" Her voice came out strangled.
"She just randomly woke. In agony." The doctor's face was grim. "Her heart is unsteady. We can't wait any longer."
"How long?" Her mind raced, scrambling, calculating—the remaining N$100,000 she still needed, the time she didn't have.
"Two weeks, give or take."
He turned to look through the window with her. A nurse gave a thumbs-up through the glass. The doctor exhaled.
"As you can see, she's stable now. But she died for seconds back there." His voice dropped. "If we keep jump-starting her like this… there will come a time when her heart completely gives up."
Vicky nodded, tears welling in her eyes. She couldn't blink. If she blinked, they'd fall.
"Get the deposit by the end of this week," the doctor added, "and we can transfer her to MediPrivate for the surgery."
---
Alexander sat behind his desk, laptop screen glowing with Catherine's face.
"So, how's your launch coming?" He swirled liquor in his glass.
"All good." Catherine's voice crackled through the speakers. "I want to use the launch to raise the money for SG."
Alexander's hand paused mid-swipe. He frowned.
"You really don't want to sell me Samuels Group? Even if you gather money, you can't gather up to two billion USD." He poured himself a drink and tossed it back.
"I can't, babe." Catherine's jaw tightened. "Paige was my sister. And she died knowing I betrayed her. So no."
Alexander studied her through the screen. A slow smile crept across his face. "Look, we can marry in-property. If that's what you want?"
He pulled a file from the docket, casual and deliberate.
"I love you. Genuinely." Catherine's voice softened, but her eyes stayed hard. "And I'm not marrying you for properties. I have enough wealth for my entire generation."
The door opened. Ruben stepped in, files clutched to his chest. Alexander shot him a glare—why are you interrupting?
"The girl is ready," Ruben said.
A grin spread across Alexander's face. Wide. Hungry. Even Catherine on the screen could see the shift in his body—the coiled excitement, the predator waking up.
"So I guess that Ambient Energy project paid off, huh?" Catherine asked.
"Yes, Catty." Alexander barely looked at her. "Let's talk at home."
He hung up before she could respond.
"Come on. Let me see." Alexander stretched out his hand. Ruben passed him the file.
He flipped through it. The smile on his face grew with every page.
"A N$100 million project. Done and dusted." He closed the file with a satisfied snap.
"Yes." Ruben straightened. "The presentation is at Carlos Resorts this evening."
"Good." Alexander leaned back. "So that's what the conference is about? The Ambient Energy?"
"Yes. Some business associates will be there." Ruben nodded. "This time is even better. Your rival is out of phase."
"Maybe." Alexander's eyes darkened. "But we can't be sure. There's a chance Paige is still alive. And if she can send me ghostly emails, she can win a bid ghostly too."
Ruben nodded slowly. "It's a good thing, though. Still."
---
The room dripped with opulence and menace.
Men of every race filled the grand space—angry, broad-shouldered, muscles straining against expensive suits. Guns holstered at hips, tucked into waistbands, resting on tables. The air was thick with cigar smoke and grievances.
"Detective Wayne is missing," one growled. "We're losing our grip on NSPD."
"This vigilante is quick and unpredictable." Another man slammed his fist on the table, spittle flying into his long braided beard. "And the King isn't doing anything about it."
The underworld's elite had gathered. And they were afraid.
"My sex club at Port Y doesn't have strong coverage yet," the first one muttered. "Not yet."
Complaints rippled through the room. Each voice more desperate than the last. Each man was more rattled than he'd ever admit.
"ENOUGH."
The roar cut through the chaos like a blade.
Silence fell. So complete you could hear a strand of hair drop.
All eyes turned to the throne.
The chair was adorned in gold, axes hanging from its ends like a twisted crucifix. And in it sat Mr. Elder. On either side of him, four armed men stood—muscular, furious, fingers resting on triggers.
"I have heard all your complaints." His voice was low now, controlled. "And believe me when I say this vigilante killer caught us off guard. " He let the words settle. "But we cannot just sit and wait for his bullet to land in our foreheads. We should look. Search. Because this is someone who hears. Someone who knows everyone of our ins and outs."
"You mean he may be one of us?" The braided-beard man—Noel—leaned forward.
"Yes, Noel. He may be one of us. He may not." Mr. Elder steepled his fingers. "Let's face it. We have all made enemies in this line of business. And someone was always coming for us. But we are not weak. Are we?"
"You are weak."
The voice came from the entrance.
The group turned as one. A tall white man stood in the doorway, his face masked, his arm bound in a sling and bandaged. He walked with a fancy walking stick, each step deliberate, unhurried.
"The Boss?" someone whispered, trembling.
"I see you're still hiding behind a mask.." Mr. Elder didn't rise from his throne. "Scared of something, moron?"
"So." The Boss's voice dripped with contempt. "You're the king of the underworld? Where is your heir?"
Mr. Elder's men raised their weapons. A dozen barrels aimed at The Boss's head.
The Boss didn't flinch. Didn't even blink at the guns trained on him.
"What do you want?"
"I'm looking for your son's girlfriend."
The Boss stepped forward. The weapons moved closer, inches from his face. He bit his inner cheek in annoyance.
"Do you think," he said slowly, "if I wanted to cause violence, I would come alone into this deadly room?"
Mr. Elder's eyes flicked to his men at the entrance. They scanned. Confirmed. Nodded.
He came alone.
Still, the guns stayed raised.
"My son doesn't have a girlfriend," Mr. Elder said.
The Boss laughed. The sound echoed off the walls, hollow and cold.
"What happened between you and Xavier? If you don't know, he has a dangerous girl—a beautiful girl with long curled hair and intense blue eyes. A girl who took down my entire army. Dozens of my men in one swift move…" He tilted his head, almost curious. "It just means you're not as close as you used to be."
Mr. Elder's eyes narrowed. "Did she do that to you?"
"Yes, Theo." The Boss's voice dropped to a whisper that filled the room. "She drove a bullet just an inch from my heart."
He stepped closer, the guns tracking his movement.
"And I need her dead." His expression twisted—fury carved into every line of his face. "Because if not, your favorite adopted son's head will roll down this throne in the next twenty-four hours."