The Kohler estate in the Swiss countryside was breathtaking — nestled between mist-covered hills, flanked by groves of old sycamores and white-stone cottages. But to Silvana, it felt more like a recovery ward with secrets sewn into every brick. She stood by the balcony, the early sun soft on her skin. Below, a caretaker trimmed the roses lining the marble path, and birdsong filled the air. For the first time in weeks, the pain in her abdomen had dulled into near silence. The scars still marked her side, but the ache had faded at a speed that baffled even the physician her grandfather had hired. “It’s... not impossible,” the man had said during her last checkup, squinting over the charts. “But the speed at which your tissue is regenerating — it’s uncommonly rapid.” Silvana had said nothing. She knew better than to believe in miracles. She was three months into her pregnancy, and although she should have still been relying on medication and bed rest, she was walking on her own, s

The fire crackled softly in the corner of the stone-walled study. Heavy bookshelves lined the room, floor to ceiling, filled with medical journals, confidential reports, and relics of a time when science blurred with survival. A thick storm brewed outside the estate windows, lightning flickering like old ghosts waking in the dark. Lorenzo Romanov entered without ceremony, his coat damp with rain and eyes sharper than they had been in years. Grandfather Kohler sat behind his desk, holding a leather-bound journal in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other. He didn’t rise. Instead, he looked up calmly. “I was wondering when you’d finally show up, Lorenzo.” Lorenzo stepped forward, dripping water onto the polished floors. “You could’ve warned me,” he said. “About Silvana. About the inheritance she’s carrying in her blood.” Kohler closed the journal. “I assumed you already knew. After all, your son married my daughter — it wasn’t hard to guess that Zain would take interest in our

The Romanov private estate glistened beneath the morning sun, its glass windows reflecting grandeur and legacy — but Zain Romanov wasn’t looking at the view. He stood in the darkened study of his second property outside the city — a quiet, nondescript house tucked into the outskirts of Crescent Bay. On the oak desk before him lay a spread of legal files, old Romanov wills, and confidential shareholder documents. A single envelope sat in the middle, sealed with red wax. Aiden Romanov’s name was engraved in gold across it. Zain stared at it like it was poison. “Everything goes to him,” he muttered. “Even after all I’ve done…” He lit a cigar, the smoke curling upward like a crown of bitterness. His reflection stared back from the glass bookcase — graying temples, creased eyes, and an empire once thriving now threatened by a bastard-turned-heir he once thought expendable. He turned toward the table behind him, where a new folder lay — this one bearing the insignia of Crescent Bay Hol

The morning in Zurich was cold and silver, mist rolling across the Kohler estate gardens like breath from some ancient god. But the chill didn’t bother Silvana. She stormed through the marble corridor of her grandfather’s study, one hand instinctively resting on her belly, the other clenched at her side. Kohler looked up from his antique ledger as she burst in. “You lied,” she said, shutting the door behind her with quiet finality. “Or you told me just enough truth to keep me docile.” Kohler straightened his back. “I never lied to you, Silvana.” “Then tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning. No more fragments. No more phrases like ‘Even lions fall asleep.’ I want to know what Project Obsidian really was.” He gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing. Kohler sighed. “It started over four decades ago. A secret research initiative funded by a coalition of military-intelligence families — Romanov, Lancaster, Kohler. We weren’t trying to create monsters. We were t

The cold sea breeze swept through the moonlit alleyway just off Pier 9, where rusted shipping containers lined the docks like forgotten bones. The rhythmic sound of water lapping against concrete was broken only by the faint hum of engines pulling away into the night.Detective Harper sat in an unmarked sedan, watching.His eyes were fixed on a man — hood up, tall, muscular, walking fast but controlled.Braise.Harper narrowed his gaze. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen Braise in this sector. It was the third. Each time unannounced. Each time within twenty minutes of some suspicious incident — a tampered traffic cam, a vehicle reroute, an encrypted message spike.And this time, Harper had backup.He adjusted the radio on his vest. “This is Hawk-3. Subject is moving southeast along Dockline 4. Confirm interception path.”A voice crackled through. “Confirmed. Unit 2 approaching from south tunnel.”Harper stepped out of the vehicle, moving silently along the edge of the shadows, hand