Mia took a few more steps forward, her heels clicking faintly against the pavement, the sound crisp in the otherwise quiet stretch of road. The night air brushed against her skin, cool and steady, yet her mind was anything but calm. Then, without warning, she stopped.A memory flashed across her mind.It came sharply, like lightning cutting through darkness. Her eyes widened slightly, and she turned her head slowly, as though the night itself had whispered something into her ear. The men.The men she had overheard.The ones seated inside black cars, their windows slightly lowered, their voices low but clear enough for her to catch one name in particular—Donald.Her breathing, which had been uneven moments before, began to slow. She stood still beneath the dim glow of a streetlight, replaying that evening in her mind with deliberate focus. She forced herself to remember everything. The location. The time. The tone of their voices. The rhythm of their conversation.She squeezed her eyes

Mia cleared her throat softly.She adjusted her jacket as if gathering her thoughts. “I live around Donald’s neighborhood,” she began carefully. “Not in his compound, but close enough to notice movements.”One of the men narrowed his eyes. “You live around him?”“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Unfortunately.”“Unfortunately?” another echoed with faint amusement.Mia allowed a small scoff to escape her lips. “I hate him.”The statement caught them off guard.The men exchanged glances.She continued before they could interrupt. “Earlier today, I was passing by his house when I overheard someone inside telling him that people were coming to attack him tonight. They mentioned it clearly.”The men stiffened.“You heard that?” one asked sharply.“Yes.”“And?”“And Donald panicked,” Mia said without hesitation. “He didn’t waste time. Within hours, he made arrangements and left the house.”“Left for where?” the leader demanded.Mia shook her head. “I don’t know. But I saw his car drive out.”That

The door to Donald’s room burst inward with a violent crack, splinters flying across the polished floor like scattered shards of bone. The impact reverberated through the walls, rattling the bedside lamp and sending fragments of wood skidding across the marble tiles.Boots thundered over the threshold.For a fraction of a second, everything seemed suspended in midair—the broken wood still spinning through the air, the men’s raised weapons poised with intent, the sharp collective intake of breath before violence erupted.And then Donald moved.He didn’t shout.He didn’t hesitate.Within the twinkling of an eye, the first man lunged toward him, aiming to tackle him down before he could properly react. But Donald pivoted sharply to the side, his movements fluid and precise. His hand shot out, fingers locking around the attacker’s wrist mid-motion. With a swift twist and calculated downward force, he redirected the man’s momentum. The attacker stumbled helplessly, slamming shoulder-first

Craig’s sharp gaze swept across the room, silencing the laughter of his friends before it could rise further. Every eye turned to him as he straightened, his posture rigid, his expression hardening with a cold, dangerous precision. The wine glass in his hand trembled faintly—not from fear, but from the barely contained fury coiling inside him, like a tightly wound spring ready to explode.“The Harrington family,” Craig said, his voice deliberate, cutting through the ambient chatter with the weight of authority. “They cannot be left out of this. Donald Smith is clever, yes, and he has survived my men so far—but he fights for them. For that family. That… weak little clan that thinks they can oppose me and my family.” His words hung in the air, thick with menace, as he watched the ripple of discomfort spread across the room.One of his friends shifted uneasily in his seat. “Craig… the Harringtons? They’re well-connected. Powerful… not easy to touch.”Craig’s lips curled into a sharp, mer

The conference hall was massive, its walls lined with glass panels that reflected the city lights in fragmented patterns, turning the evening skyline into a kaleidoscope of gleaming reflections. The air was alive with conversation, the occasional clink of coffee cups, and the shuffle of papers as attendees moved from one table to another, exchanging business cards and polite greetings. A subtle hum of anticipation pervaded the space, a quiet buzz that hinted at the magnitude of the event and the influence of those gathered within the room. Donald walked calmly through the crowd, his presence composed, alert, and confident, the measured cadence of his steps drawing attention without effort. He scanned the room with careful precision, noting the diversity of those present—the sharp suits, the carefully curated accessories, the subtle but unmistakable displays of status and wealth. Each interaction he observed, every handshake and tilt of the head, provided him with information that went