The salt‑heavy night air at Dorado Container Port vibrated with distant machinery and the hollow clang of steel crates. Rows of towering cargo stacks created canyons of darkness, broken only by sporadic floodlights that swung slowly from tall iron masts. Hugo walked alone down the service lane between two walls of rust‑red containers, his boots crunching on gravel. A single duffel bag—stuffed with unmarked vials and vacuum‑sealed packets—hung from his shoulder. He was unarmed, per Vargas’s explicit order.Prove yourself, the cartel boss had said, smirking in that reptilian way.Go alone. Hand the goods over, collect payment. We’ll be watching from afar. If you’re worth the ink on your skin, you’ll come back.Hugo hadn’t argued. He understood perfectly well: this was a test, and possibly a death sentence.Twenty meters ahead, under a flickering lamp, three buyers waited—hard‑eyed men i

Fireworks lit up the dusky sky above the cartel’s compound, exploding in waves of gold and red that bathed the rooftops in flickering light. Music blared from massive speakers as men and women raised their glasses in celebration. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, cigars, dan expensive liquor—everything reeked of indulgence and bloodstained money.In the center of it all, Hugo stood in a clean black shirt, the fresh tattoos across his chest and back still raw and tender. He didn’t wince, didn’t show pain. He simply accepted the glass handed to him and nodded at the men who toasted him.“To the Ghost of Dorado Port!” someone shouted.“To the man who outpaced death!”“To our brother!” they roared in unison.Hugo drank, the burn of liquor barely registering compared to the sting on his skin. His gaze swept across the crowd—men who would kill for coin, women who sharpened

The silence in Calvin’s office hung like a fragile thread, stretched taut between two people who hadn’t spoken in years. Christina’s presence was both familiar and foreign. She hadn’t changed much—her eyes still held that quiet depth, and her voice, though calmer now, still carried the same warmth that used to wrap around his chest like a memory he couldn’t forget.“I’m sorry,” Calvin said again, softer this time. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. That night… when you invited me to dinner… I really wanted to go. I planned to go.”Christina watched him closely, but didn’t interrupt.“There was a case,” he continued. “One of those emergencies that spiral out of control. It took everything I had just to stabilize the patient. By the time I looked at my phone, it was too late. And after that… I didn’t know how to fix it. I thought maybe you’d moved on.”Her eyes softened. “You could’ve said something. Anything.”“I didn’t know how,” Calvin admitted. “Because if I talked to you… I would’ve had

The nation of Han Xin was unraveling at the seams.President Lee, once regarded as a firm but strategic leader, had become a man consumed by paranoia and rage. The bounty he placed on Hugo’s head had grown into a national obsession—an endless black hole swallowing the country’s resources, dignity, and international standing.“He’s out there!” President Lee snarled, slamming his fist on the polished surface of the war room table during a late-night emergency council. His voice cracked the tense silence like thunder. “How hard can it be to find one man?!”His generals exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked down at their notes. Others adjusted their uniforms. None dared to meet his eyes.“You’ve given me satellite feeds, facial scans, city-wide checkpoints—every possible tool—and still nothing?” he barked. “I’ve burned through billions! And what do I have to show for it? A damn poster!”“We believe he may have changed his appearance, sir,” one intelligence officer offered hesitantly. “The

Kevin Lang stood on the opposite rooftop, watching the clinic beneath him with manic intensity. The makeshift sprayer in his hands—rigged from a stolen pressure canister and hose—spewed gasoline in heavy arcs across the roof of Calvin’s clinic. The sharp, choking fumes filled the air around him, but he didn’t flinch."This is justice," he whispered.With trembling fingers, he reached into his coat and pulled out a cloth-wrapped pouch. Inside—powdered mesiu, homemade, unstable, and highly combustible. He scattered it across the soaked rooftop, then struck a match with his thumb and lit the gas lighter in his other hand.“For everything you took from me,” he growled, and hurled both onto the roof.The explosion wasn't a loud roar but a wicked whoosh of flames. In an instant, the fire leapt up like a living thing, hungry and fast, dancing across the structure like it had been waiting for this moment. Smoke surged upward into the night sky.From inside, screams began.Kevin watched for an