The forest was too quiet. That was the first thing Thiago noticed as they pushed through the thick brush. There were no crickets, no rustle of small animals in the leaves—just the heavy, beating sound of his own heart against his ribs. "Keep your light low," Melanie whispered. She was moving beside him, her feet making almost no sound on the damp earth. "If they have sensors out here, we’re already on a timer.""I don't care about the timer," Thiago muttered. He stepped over a rotted log, his eyes locked on the faint, crushed grass where the heavy truck tires had flattened everything in their path. "I just want to get to him. Every minute we spend sneaking around is another minute he’s scared.""I know," Melanie said, her voice softening for a split second. "But we can't save him if we're dead. Stay behind me."They crested a small ridge and stopped. Below them, tucked into a natural bowl in the land, sat a single, large medical tent. It was military-grade, tan-colored, and looked li

Bernadette felt the air leave her lungs, the oxygen in the foyer suddenly thin and freezing. She was still clutching the obsidian USB drive so hard her nails were digging into her palms, drawing tiny beads of blood. She looked from the drive to Thiago, who stood on the stairs looking like a ghost returned from the trenches—caked in mud, smelling of iron, and radiating a quiet, terrifying power. "You're lying," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and rising panic. "I saw the press. I heard the reporters. They believe me, Thiago! The world thinks I’m the Queen of Rad & Co. now. You can't just take that back with a few words and a dirty face. Perception is reality in this city, and right now, you are nothing!" Thiago took another step down, the marble groaning under his heavy boots. He didn't look like the "trash son-in-law" she had kicked for years. He looked like the man who owned the very air she was breathing. "The world believes what they are shown, Bernadette," Th

The heavy oak doors of the mansion finally clicked shut, cutting off the distant, shrill echoes of Bernadette’s screaming. The foyer felt cavernous now, the air thick with the smell of expensive floor wax and the lingering scent of rain from Thiago’s clothes.Thiago stood in the center of the room, his shoulders tight. He stared at the spot where his wife—his ex-wife—had just been broken. He felt no joy, only a grim, hollow sense of completion."It’s done," he said, his voice raspy. He didn't turn around to look at Melanie, who was standing by the shadow of the grand staircase. "The Hastings are in the dirt. Exactly where they left me."Melanie didn’t answer right away. She walked forward, her tactical boots thudding softly on the floor. She stopped a few feet behind him. "You think it's over because you took their bank accounts, Thiago? You think a man like Richard Osbourne or a rat like Henry just stops because they're poor?"Thiago turned, his silver eyes cold. "They have nothing.

The mansion had transformed from a fortress into a tomb. The air was thick with a silence so heavy it felt like it could shatter if anyone spoke too loudly. For three days, Thiago and Melanie had lived under the same roof without exchanging a single word. They moved through the halls like ghosts, their paths never crossing, their eyes never meeting. Thiago sat in the master study, the lights dimmed. The glow of a dozen monitors reflected in his silver eyes. He was hunched over the keyboard, his fingers moving with a frantic, desperate energy. He was the sole heir to the Osbourne Empire. He had the "Invisible Hand"—a network of backdoors into every server in the city. He had the power to track a single penny as it moved through the global market. But he couldn't find his son. "Stephen," Thiago croaked, his voice raw from disuse. The older man appeared in the doorway, his face etched with worry. "Yes, sir?" "I’ve hit the wall again," Thiago said, slamming his fist onto the mahogany

The sun rose and fell four times, but inside the library of the Osbourne mansion, the light never changed. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the world. The only light came from a single, flickering candle on the desk and the cold, blue glow of a tablet that had long since run out of battery. Thiago sat in a high-backed leather chair that felt more like a throne of thorns. He hadn't showered. He hadn't changed his clothes. The expensive silk of his shirt was wrinkled and stained with the tears Tamia had shed on his shoulder nights before. He held his hands out in front of him, staring at his knuckles. The scars from the prison fights were silver against his skin. He used to look at them and feel pride—the marks of a survivor. Now, they just looked like reminders of a man who knew how to destroy things, but had no idea how to save them. A soft knock came at the door. Thiago didn't move. "Go away, Stephen," he muttered. His voice was like sandpaper, dry and crac