The man across the street vanished into the crowd, but his smirk lingered in Jack’s mind like a poison. The trench coat, the confident posture—it could only mean one thing. Victor Krane wasn’t sending messages anymore. He was watching. Personally. Jack turned to Lisa. “Get Sarah to the car. Don’t stop for anyone.” Lisa nodded and grabbed Sarah’s hand. “What’s going on?” Sarah asked, still shaken. “Someone pulled a trigger,” Jack said. “I don’t wait for a second shot.” They bolted for the car. Olivia’s security moved in like a trained unit, sweeping the surroundings. Jack noticed the ear pieces, the formation. Whoever trained her guards knew their business. As the Mercedes pulled away, Jack’s mind was already racing ahead. Violetcrest had been compromised. Victor’s reach had dug deeper than anyone expected. And yet… Ryan still had the nerve to talk. “You lucky bastard,” Ryan muttered behind Jack, voice bitter. “One good day doesn’t make you a king.” Jack turned,

The following morning, the tension inside Eastvale’s Central Development Hall could be sliced with a blade. Towering screens showed live updates of land value charts, ecological projections, and projected revenue models. Media cameras flashed at the back, cordoned off. The $50 billion Eastvale Ecological Project summit was in full swing—and about to spiral. On the center stage stood the Thompson family—Sarah, her father William, and their lead ecologist. Their proposal was groundbreaking: a sustainable redevelopment zone that combined green energy, luxury housing, and community spaces. Sarah had spent two years building it. Now Ryan Brooks and Brian Helix were trying to bury it. “…the numbers simply don’t add up,” Ryan said into the mic, waving a glossy dossier. “According to these findings, Thompson Industries has overstated the energy yield potential by almost forty percent. That puts the entire ecological viability in question.” Whispers erupted. Brian adjusted his cuffs

Jack closed the door slowly, the reporter’s curious gaze still lingering in the hallway. His eyes didn’t leave the black SUV parked at the end of the street.They were closing in from all sides.He turned back to his apartment—if you could still call it that. The place was trashed, glass crunched beneath his boots, blood stained the wall near the shattered window, and the stench of adrenaline still clung to the air.Then—three knocks. Soft, deliberate.He paused.Another knock, slower this time.Not an assassin’s rhythm. Not a cop’s.He opened the door cautiously.No one.But on the floor sat a narrow wooden box, no bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with rough twine. A faded wax seal marked its top, a dragon curling into itself, tail biting its own head.Jack picked it up, heart ticking faster.The seal—it wasn’t just a symbol.It was a signature.His fingers hesitated before breaking the wax.Inside, nestled among old parchment and dried herbs, was a rolled

The glass slipped from Jack’s hand, shattering on the marble floor.Sarah flinched. “Jack—what did the text say?”He didn’t answer.Instead, he pocketed the phone, his body tensing like a loaded spring. The air had shifted—thicker now, charged, suffocating.Then the boom.Glass shattered across the grand hall as a concussive blast blew out the front doors. Screams pierced the music. Guests scattered like startled birds.“Everyone down!” a guard shouted, too late.From the smoke and chaos strode Victor Krane—six-foot-four, obsidian coat, white-blonde hair falling to his collarbones like a war banner. His eyes burned with cold calculation.And in his grip, bloodied and coughing—“William!” Sarah gasped.Jack’s eyes locked on the scene. Victor had William—chairman and estate owner—by the collar, dragging him like a discarded coat.Victor’s voice cut through the panic. “Nobody move. Unless you want his throat opened like a letter.”More screams. Guards reached for weapons. Victor snapped

The press room had never felt so small.Reporters jostled in the tightly packed space, phones held high, camera lights blinding. The Wilson family crest hung awkwardly behind the podium, now more a symbol of mockery than prestige. Emily stood at the center, flanked by her parents. Patricia wore oversized sunglasses as if hiding from reality; Michael clutched a folded statement with trembling hands.Emily adjusted the mic with a sigh.She looked exhausted—lipstick perfect, but her eyes smeared from sleepless nights and desperation. The crowd quieted as she cleared her throat.“I’m here today to… acknowledge the mistakes I’ve made,” she said flatly, eyes fixed somewhere above the cameras.Sarah sat near the back, wearing a plain black blazer. Her expression unreadable.“I want to apologize to Sarah,” Emily continued, the words like glass in her throat. “My past comments and actions toward her were... inappropriate. And I regret any pain I may have caused.”A beat of silence.Jack stood