“What have you found out?” Leon asked without looking up at first, his voice calm, his posture deceptively relaxed before finally meeting their gaze. One of the guards stepped forward. “Very late last night, we followed the Mercers into a rundown part of the city… They met with a man… he was hooded, cloaked, and waiting in what appeared to be an abandoned building.” Leon’s brow lifted with intrigue. “It felt… off,” the other guard added, exchanging an uncertain glance with his partner. “The air around that place, there was something wrong with it. Hard to explain. It um… felt… tainted. We’re sorry if this isn’t the sort of information you were expecting.” Leon grew visibly more curious. “A hooded figure and tainted air,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Is there anything else… anything stranger… that might further spark my interest?” The guards glanced at each other again. “We couldn’t really hear their conversations but the Mercer couple, they were clearly afraid,” One of the guards fi

Leon’s silver eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to the bed, his gaze locked onto the child’s frail form. His skin was pale as candlewax, lips tinged with blue, and each breath he took sounded like it cost his body more than it could give. He could feel the boy struggling. Leon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he studied the child, his silver eyes glowing for a moment, and he finally understood the boy’s condition. “Ahh,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I see now. His heart does not beat as it should. It’s as though it turned to wood inside his chest.” Dante nodded. “Yeah. Normally, he would need a transplant, but there's just no match available for him. In all honesty, the boy should die, but… with what I've seen you do, I believe you can do something about it. Can you save him?” Leon looked at Dante. “He’s not dead… yet,” he said with certainty. “And acupuncture opens the body’s deepest channels, those you mortals never dare touch and luckily I've had the

Roger stood frozen, staring at the screen as Azrael’s words echoed again. “Anyone affiliated with the Marstons will be cut off from me… forever.” His secretary, still near the television, hesitated before speaking. “Sir… there’s more.” Roger turned slowly to face her, face pale with confusion, his fear rising and his chest heaving. She took a breath before speaking, “We just received notice — Lexton & Miles have terminated their partnership with us. Effective immediately.” “What?” he asked, voice quieter now. She held up her tablet. “They’ve withdrawn their capital. And… Sir, Arkon Tech just pulled their entire investment portfolio.” Roger’s jaw tightened. “That’s ridiculous. They’ve been with us for years.” “I know, but…” She glanced at her screen again. “It’s not just them. Westridge Media is cutting all advertising contracts, our legal team in Halden & Crew just dropped us, and there’s word that several key shareholders are preparing to exit.” Roger stumbled back into his c

The next day, in his private office, Jarvis sat behind his desk, meticulously reviewing a series of reports when he heard a soft knock on the door. “Enter,” he said without looking up. His executive secretary stepped inside with a digital tablet in hand. “Sir, you should be made aware that the Governor of Avenport has just confirmed a private meeting with the President.” Jarvis’s pen stopped mid-signature. He slowly looked up. “When?” he asked. “This afternoon,” she replied. “The meeting will take place at the Governor’s residence under high security. No official agenda has been disclosed, but internal chatter indicates it’s centered around recent events involving Azrael.” He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “So the state and the federal seat are finally paying attention.” “Yes, sir,” the female secretary continued. “President Vorn is expected to arrive in Brookdale within the next few hours. The Ministry of Health, the National Security Council, and several de

The Marston household was in chaos. Phones rang nonstop, unanswered calls piling up, and the once-grand mansion now felt suffocating and cold. Victor Marston sat hunched on the edge of the living room couch, his elbows on his knees, scrolling through message after message. “Pullout. Termination. Frozen accounts…” he murmured under his breath, eyes widened in disbelief, and his hands trembled slightly. “I didn’t think it would spiral this badly.” Roger stood stiffly by the window, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched as another call came through. He didn’t pick up because he already knew what it was about. His wife, Jenna, entered the room in a silk robe and messy bun, a tablet clutched in her hand. “The private club just revoked our membership,” she said in a low voice. “They said it’s nothing personal, but they can’t be associated with the ‘stigma’ around the family name.” Victor let out a bitter scoff. “They don’t care about the stigma. They’re just afraid of being blacklisted by