Ivan hesitated, his voice tight with suspicion. “Who is it?”“Room service!” came a muffled voice from the other side.Ivan froze. There hadn’t been any room service when he checked in — there never was.A jolt of alarm shot through him. He rushed to the window and leaned out.From this height, a jump was suicide. No fire escape, no awning, not even a pile of trash to cushion the fall.He pursed his lips, paralyzed by indecision. He’d already answered, so it was too late to pretend he wasn’t there.Just as he made up his mind to confront whoever it was, the door exploded inward with a violent crash. Rubem stormed in, gun drawn.“Who the hell are you?” Ivan tried to keep his voice steady, feigning bravado.“You really think I’m gonna tell you that?” Rubem replied, cold and unimpressed.Ivan clenched his fists, brows furrowed. Was it time to make a move?“Don’t move a muscle!” Rubem barked, stepping closer. “Here’s the deal, dumbass: I don’t wanna waste you. If you cooperate, you might

Mark sat at his desk in the Glamour offices that afternoon, scrutinizing the pilot script for the sitcom It Had to Be You. The room was quiet, save for the rustle of pages — until his phone rang, slicing through the silence.He glanced at the screen. The name Vargas flashed on the display. A subtle smile curled on Mark’s lips as he answered.“Everything ready?”Meanwhile, in the same eerie warehouse where Briana had once been held and where Anthony Curtis met his end, Vargas stood near a shattered window.Inside, Ivan sat on a metal chair — unbound, but clearly too terrified to move. Rubem and the driver of the black car flanked him like silent sentinels.“All ready, sir,” Vargas replied curtly.“Perfect. I’m on my way,” said Mark, before ending the call.Vargas lowered the phone and turned toward Ivan with disgust.“I did everything you people told me to!” Ivan pleaded, voice trembling. “I deserve to know who’s really behind this!”“Shut up, you worm,” Vargas snapped.“This is a huma

Inside the sinister warehouse bathed in the harsh light of late afternoon, Ivan winced in pain, clutching the side of his face but not daring to retaliate or flee. The punch he had just received from Mark Ferro left a clear mark — both physically and psychologically.“Ouch... what was that?” Ivan grumbled, still stunned. “You punch like one of those Eastern fighters.”Mark’s icy gaze fell on him with undisguised contempt. To Mark, learning martial arts was as natural as learning to cook — just another skill one ought to master.But for those who knew better — like Vargas and Rubem — there was no mistaking the truth: the training Mark had endured wasn’t ordinary. In fact, they estimated he had used barely twenty percent of his strength, and still, the damage to Ivan's face was proof of his exceptional prowess.Mark’s voice dropped to a glacial register. “Are you the manager of Red House?”Ivan’s eyes went wide. So that was what this was about.“I... I don’t have the freedom to discuss

As evening settled over Karl and Luana’s apartment, the soft hum of a running shower echoed faintly from the bathroom — Luana was finally taking the long-awaited bath.In the living room, Briana sat on the couch, tense and contemplative. Karl approached her with a cup of coffee in hand. He was at least dressed now — boxers, shorts, and a sleeveless shirt — though still barefoot.Briana took the cup from him, her voice calm but disapproving. “This whole situation is very irregular. You know that, right?”Karl didn’t flinch. “Brie, I love my girlfriend.”“You two already live like you're married,” she said, sipping her coffee. “When’s the engagement, then?”“We’re still thinking about it,” Karl admitted.Before Briana could press further, her phone began to ring. The sound pierced the air, but she ignored it, eyes fixed ahead. Her focus was elsewhere.“Karl,” she said, her tone shifting to business, “I’m probably going to have to start taking these calls soon. But before I do, here’s wh

Inside the dimly lit operations center of Braspolis General Hospital, a heavy silence loomed — broken only by the steady beeping of Gilson's heart rate on the multiparameter monitor. He lay motionless on the operating table, his body eerily still beneath the sterile lights.A nurse gently opened his hospital gown, exposing his chest in preparation for surgery. Another nurse efficiently laid out the surgical tools, arranging them exactly as the cardiac surgeon would require.The same doctor who had earlier spoken with Sandro now stood fully prepped, masked, gowned, and gloved. He paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath as he regarded the man whose life was now in his hands.“And may God help us,” he murmured under his breath.He stepped forward, extending a hand toward the nurse at his side to receive the first instrument.Back in the hospital lounge, a storm hung thick in the air. Sandro and Nadir both recoiled at Claudia’s accusatory tone.Despite the tears streaking her cheeks