Inside her luxurious, dimly lit bedroom, Tina stood by the edge of the mattress, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at her father, Gerald Colton, who sat beside her with an air of absolute authority and unyielding power. Tina swallowed the hard lump in her throat. The terrifying image of Clara standing in the rain, catching Jax’s fist with her bare hands and tossing him like a rag doll, was burned permanently into her mind. How could a woman who looked like a middle-aged bank teller possess such terrifying, inhuman strength? Was she some kind of elite martial arts master? How could a female be that powerful? "Dad..." Tina began softly, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to hide it. "By any chance... do you have any idea what kind of work... Nancy’s mother actually does?" Gerald frowned slightly, tilting his head in confusion. "Nancy's mother? That woman from the principal's office yesterday?" Tina nodded nervously, clutching h

The junior officer blinked in utter disbelief, tapping the screen frantically. "Uh... Superior? There's something wrong here, sir..."The Superior stepped up, frowning as he looked down at the flashing red device. "What do you mean, something's wrong? What does it say?""Sir... look," the junior officer stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. "It says access denied. It says viewing her identity requires Level-9 Black Site Military Authorization. What the hell...?"The Superior stared at the screen, a cold wave of shock washing over his face. You had to be a top-tier general, a black-ops commander, or an internationally feared rogue operative to trigger a Level-9 lockout on a standard police scanner.He looked at Clara. Despite her violent rampage at the organ house, she looked like an entirely ordinary, middle-aged bank teller. Was it a system glitch? A hardware error?RING... RING... RING...Before the Superior could process what was happening, a quiet ringing sound ech

A squad of eight heavily armored tactical operators surged into the wooden hall, their assault rifles raised, their laser sights sweeping across the polished bamboo floor.Leading the strike team was Commander Phyna. She wore a dark, heavy tactical vest, her combat boots thudding against the floor, her scarred face twisted into a fierce, arrogant smirk.Dorian stood calmly in the middle of the room, still wearing his white uniform, his hands resting relaxed at his sides. He didn't flinch as the red laser dots settled across his chest."How can I help you, Commander?" Dorian asked quietly, his voice perfectly even.Phyna stopped five feet away, her eyes scanning the empty wooden rafters above. "Hand over your friend, Dorian. I know she's here, and I know you know where she is."In the back hallway, Clara stood motionless behind a rice-paper sliding door, listening silently to every single word.Phyna’s team was armed to the teeth, tactical body armor, flashbangs, high-caliber assault r

The heavy diesel engine of the matte-black armored truck roared like a wounded beast as it tore down the wet asphalt of the city’s outer ring road.Clara gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel with knuckles so tight they turned bone-white. Rain lashed against the reinforced windshield, the wipers beating a rapid, rhythmic drum pattern against the glass. Her crimson eyes had faded, but her gaze remained as hard and sharp as tempered steel.In the spacious, metal-paneled back cabin of the truck, Dorian sat crouched before a wall of glowing blue monitors. The hum of satellite transceivers and cooling fans filled the air as his calloused fingers flew across a mechanical keyboard, navigating through encrypted military networks, dark-web relay nodes, and regional cell-tower logs.Clara glanced into the overhead rearview mirror, her voice low and tight over the intercom. "Dorian. Any updates?"Dorian didn't look up from his screens. "Not yet, Clara. The signal that hit your phone earlier

Inside a dark, opulent office lined with dark mahogany shelves, a man stood before a massive portrait hanging on the wall.The portrait depicted an older, stern criminal lord—Alberto. Below the painting sat a small silver urn containing his ashes.The man standing before the portrait was Nicholas—Alberto’s son.Years ago, during Clara’s brutal purge of the syndicate, Alberto had been driven into a corner by Clara and her team, eventually taking his own life to escape torture. Nicholas had barely escaped the slaughter with his life. He had fled to Oakwood, rebuilt his empire from the ground up, and spent every single day dreaming of vengeance.The heavy double doors of the office opened, and a scar-faced henchman bowed his head as he entered.Nicholas didn't turn around. He stared at his father's picture, swirling a glass of scotch in his hand."Have you found anything on her?" Nicholas asked, his voice low and laced with cold hatred."No, boss," the henchman replied hesitantly. "Her p