The black van, monstrous and relentless, gave chase immediately, its front grill dented but very much operational. It was clear now — they weren’t interested in following him or intimidating him. They wanted him captured or worse. One hand on the wheel, Klaus grabbed his phone and quickly dialed the emergency number. His voice was steady despite the pounding of his heart. “I'm being chased," he said curtly as he took a sharp left turn, tires squealing. "Black van, license plate—" he glanced in his rearview mirror, barely catching the numbers through the blur, "—partial plate 67P5. I’m headed toward Eastbrook Avenue. Requesting immediate assistance." He ended the call without waiting for a response. He couldn’t afford to split his attention any further. Right now, every ounce of focus was needed to stay alive. The city around him turned into a maze of obstacles — honking cars, confused pedestrians, flickering neon signs. Klaus dodged in and out of lanes, slipping between a deli

Klaus sat frozen, staring at the final message, the words blurring on the screen. His breath came shallow and sharp, fists balled so tightly his knuckles paled. That maybe Duncan had preyed on her loneliness, twisted her heart when she was weak. But the evidence screamed otherwise. The affair hadn’t started after he was arrested. It had begun long before — when Klaus still believed the world was something he could build, when he still looked at Allison and saw a partner instead of a liar. He had been a fool. A blind, trusting fool. The rage boiled up inside him, white-hot and blinding. He wanted to smash the laptop. To scream until his throat gave out. To punch the cheap hotel walls until his bones split open. But he sat there instead, breathing heavily, a storm raging under the surface, fists trembling with barely restrained fury. He saw her face in his mind — the soft smile, the worried eyes she wore when he was stressed — and all he could feel was sickened. Every kiss

The naive, trusting fool who believed that loyalty meant safety—that if he gave his best to the world, it would not bite him back—was long gone. That man had been scorched, seared down to bone and breath by betrayal. His innocence had been bartered for silence. His trust, shattered beneath the boots of false allies and smiling traitors. What rose from those ashes wasn’t merely a man. It was a force. An inevitability. A presence carved from sharpened purpose and bound by unbreakable will. Klaus Whitlock had been reborn through fire and suffering, and now he stood—silent and cold as granite—ready to rewrite the rules that once caged him. He would finish what they started. He would reclaim what was his. He would make every last one of them bleed for it. The Thornes. Duncan. Allison. Reginald. Every sycophant and snake who had twisted a blade into his back, all while smiling sweetly to his face. They didn’t know what they had created. They didn’t understand that the

Klaus Whitlock lifted his hands slowly—deliberately—as if surrender were a kind of art form. His eyes glinted with a dangerous calm, and the corners of his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a dare than a plea. The black-clad agents surrounding him hesitated for just a breath, caught in the tension of the moment, then surged forward like starving dogs unleashed upon prey. Let them tackle him. Let them beat him down. His smirk never wavered. Not even once. Boots slammed brutally into his ribs. A baton cracked hard across his shoulder. Someone drove a knee forcefully into the back of his neck. Klaus groaned—a sound that was pure performance. Beneath the chaotic blur of limbs, shouts, and violence, his fingers moved with elegant precision, dancing in the shadows. He slipped a phone from one of the men—a sleek, cutting-edge model, no doubt encrypted and easily traceable. But Klaus didn’t care about the data. Not now. What mattered at this moment—was the mi

Klaus immediately twisted his fingers mid-air, activating his aura manipulation. A sudden gust of invisible force slammed against the pistol in Reginald's hand, launching it out of his grip. The gun clattered across the tiled floor like a fallen idol. Before Reginald could blink, Klaus was already in motion—he surged forward, slammed his boot into Reginald’s stomach, and sent him hurtling across the room. The older man crashed back-first into the wall with a sickening thud, dislodging a dusty portrait that fell and shattered on the floor beside him. "You will pay for everything you’ve done," Klaus growled, his voice like thunder churning in the clouds. "This ends now." Reginald wheezed and coughed, laughing through the pain. “You think this ends just because you say so?” he hissed. “You arrogant brat.” Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he pulled himself up to a half-sitting position. “So what if you expose me? You should have just stayed dead. You were a ghost. You w