MICHAEL'S POVThe morning routine at the hospital has become familiar—doctors checking my vitals, changing bandages, assessing my healing progress. I sit patiently on the edge of the bed while they work, my ribs still aching with every breath but noticeably better than yesterday.The door suddenly bursts open, and my manager stumbles in, sweating profusely and breathing like he's just run a marathon. His usually composed demeanor is completely shattered."Mr. Thompson, we have a serious—""Please wait outside," the lead doctor interrupts firmly. "We're not finished with Mr. Thompson's examination."My manager's phone rings, and he excuses himself, stepping into the hallway. Through the partially open door, we can all hear him shouting at whoever's on the other end."What do you mean it's already viral? Find out who posted it! I don't care if you have to—"His phone rings again, cutting off his tirade. He answers it with barely controlled frustration, pacing back and forth in the corri

Mr. Shen stepped out of his villa, briefcase in hand, the morning sun already beating down on the pavement. Behind him, his wife's voice echoed from the doorway."Darling, where are you going? You didn't mention any meetings this morning.""I have business to attend to," he snapped, not bothering to turn around."But why aren't you taking your car? Should I have the driver—""If I decide to take a walk, that's my choice, not yours!" His tone was sharp enough to cut glass. "Stop questioning everything I do, woman!"His wife fell silent, and he heard the door close quietly behind him. Good. He didn't need her interference today.The briefcase felt heavier than usual as he walked along the street. It had been years since he'd walked anywhere—men of his status didn't stroll like common pedestrians. The whole situation irritated him, but Isaac had insisted on discretion.As he passed a corner store, a homeless child with matted hair and torn clothes approached him, holding out a dirty hand

MICHAEL'S POVI scroll through the endless stream of comments on my tablet, each one more vicious than the last."This CEO is a fraud and a liar.""How dare he steal from sick people?""Lock him up and throw away the key."Isaac's response video plays on loop in my mind. His performance was masterful—the concerned uncle exposing his corrupt nephew, calling for justice and accountability. The man is a psychopath, but he's a convincing one.The door bursts open, and my manager rushes in, his face pale and sweaty. "Mr. Thompson, Isaac just posted his response video—"He stops when he sees me already watching it on my tablet."I'm aware," I say quietly."Have we been able to trace the source yet?""We're working on it, sir. Our tech team is doing everything they can, but Isaac's using encrypted channels and proxy servers. It won't be long before we track him down, though. I promise."I nod, though I'm not entirely convinced. "What about the original photo? Are we making progress getting i

MICHAEL'S POVThe manager drives through the gates of the safe house—a nondescript building in a quiet neighborhood that looks nothing like the fortress it actually is. He and Sarah help me out of the car and back into the wheelchair, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my ribs despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.Inside, the safe house is equipped with everything we need—computers, secure phone lines, medical equipment. I position my wheelchair near a desk and pull out my phone."It's time to start calling board members and arranging that meeting. We need to get ahead of Isaac's narrative before—"My manager's phone rings, cutting me off. He answers, his expression growing increasingly concerned as he listens."Understood. Yes, we'll handle it. Thank you for the heads up.""What now?" I ask."That was the company's lawyer. We're being served with a lawsuit—a class action suit from people who donated to the fake fundraiser. They're claiming fraud and

MICHAEL'S POVI swear, if one more person tells me to rest, I’ll throw this entire bottle of painkillers at their head. The damn things rattle in my pocket, a cruel reminder that even breathing still sends a jab through my ribs. I’m parked at the edge of the safe house living room, phone pressed tight to my ear, while Santiago barks orders at his men in the hallway and Sarah paces like a nervous cat.“Boss, the lawyer’s on hold. Says the plaintiffs’ group is gathering steam. Media’s sniffing around too,” my manager says, voice tinny through the speaker.I grunt. “And here I thought I’d finally made it as a celebrity. Tell them to get in line—the scammers, the bloodsuckers, the righteous do-gooders. I’ll autograph their lawsuits later.”He almost laughs, but the tension’s too thick. “Any word on the shooter’s confession?”I glare at Santiago, who’s just reentered, wiping blood off his knuckles. “He’s still playing the mute act,” Santiago says. “Either terrified or stupid. Or both.”“Th