Two of the urchins reached forward to grab the belt from Nolan’s waist. He knew the value of that belt—it was worth more than anything he had left. With what little strength he had, he fought back. His body screamed in pain, but he didn’t care.One of the urchins grabbed the belt, and Nolan’s hand shot out, clutching the dirty fabric tightly.The other urchin moved in to help, but Nolan reacted quickly. He kicked him hard in the groin.“AHHH!” the urchin screamed, stumbling backward, with his hands clutching his pain.The second urchin, still holding onto the belt, froze for a moment, scared. He stepped back, looking at Nolan with fear in his eyes.“Let me go, please,” Nolan whispered weakly, his chest heaving with every breath. “If you're not here to help me, then just leave me be. Please.”The first urchin, who was still clutching his groin, laughed loudly. Then, the second one laughed. Soon, all four of them were laughing, making fun of Nolan’s pain and suffering.“You’re begging

Nolan’s eyelids fluttered.His head felt heavy… as if he had been asleep for a hundred years.He groaned softly, blinking as a strange white light stung his eyes.He expected to see broken bricks… dirt… or even the cold, stinking walls of that trash bin where he last remembered being.But when his vision cleared, Nolan found himself staring at a clean white ceiling.It wasn’t just any ceiling—it had smooth panels, with soft lights that glowed gently. It almost felt like morning sunlight was trapped inside them.He blinked again, confused.The air was fresh—too fresh.A soft hum came from one of the machines in the corner. The sheets around him were white, and warm. He wasn’t lying on the floor anymore, but on a soft hospital bed with smooth pillows under his head.He turned his head slightly.There were no syringes, no smell of disinfectant, no nurses or doctors rushing around.Instead, the place was quiet. Peaceful. Calm.But something didn’t feel right.His body stiffened.This di

Inside the room, chaos continued.The six men at the laptops were now speaking over each other.“We should freeze all trading pairs until we stabilize the token!” one man shouted.“No! That’ll make things worse. People will panic more if they can’t withdraw!”“We need to contact the cold wallet custodian. Tell him to move everything to multisig.”“I already tried—he’s not answering!”“Call Jonah! He knows the fallback code for the vault system!”“I did! His number isn’t going through!”Another man cursed loudly and slammed his palm on the desk. “We’re running out of time! We need help!”One of them picked up his phone and dialed fast. He waited, pacing back and forth.“Come on, answer... please answer,” he muttered.Another man had both hands pressed against his forehead. His eyes were red, his voice weak. “My wife just sent a message. She saw the crash on the news. She’s asking if we’ll be okay…”The pressure was heavy. Too heavy.Everyone was talking, trying, shouting, hoping.But n

The next day. The system was holding steady, but the damage had already been done.In the main recovery room of Timothy Strauss mansion, Nolan lay on the white hospital bed, his left hand was connected to a drip. The IV fluid bag hung above him, slowly feeding his exhausted body. Not to mention that his face had been swollen all this while. He was now receiving another round of medical treatment—fresh medication to ease the pain and speed up his healing.Cotton wool pressed into the deep cuts on his temple and chin. His right cheek had a fresh plaster on it—pink and puffy. Ever since he was picked up close to the trash bin, he looked like someone who had walked through hell and barely made it out alive.But the real scars weren’t the ones the eye could see.As Nolan stared at the ceiling, the world around him felt distant—muted. The faint beeping of the heart monitor beside him, the soft hiss of the oxygen tube near his nose, the gentle rhythm of the drip—all of it felt like backgr

Nolan sat up slowly on the hospital bed, wincing at the pull of pain in his side.In his hand was a small mirror. He raised it to his face.What stared back at him was the grotesque shape of his battered face.His skin was covered with brownish iodine stains. Cotton wool pads pressed gently against bruised cheekbones, held in place by white plasters. A long cut across his forehead had been stitched. One of his eyes was swollen. His lips, cracked and dry. His face… it looked like a map of pain.He looked at himself in silence, his eyes slowly filling with something deeper than pain—shame… anger… and loss.A soft knock came at the door, followed by a gentle push.A tall man in a white coat stepped in. It was Dr. Emerson—the physician in charge of his care all this while.“Mr. Rhys,” the doctor said gently. “I won’t lie to you. The injuries to your face were severe. But tomorrow, we’re going to do something about it. A cosmetic surgery. You need it… not just for how you look, but to hel