"Take it," the voice whispered. The voice no longer belonged to Eduardo. It was a vibration crawling out of dead vocal cords, a frequency understood only by the darkness trapped inside his skull. [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: FINAL TRANSACTION ACCEPTED] [TRADING CATEGORY: CORE IDENTITY - "EDUARDO"] [STATUS: DELETING ALL PERSONAL MEMORIES, EMOTIONAL BONDS, AND SELF-AWARENESS] [ADMINISTRATOR ACCESS: GRANTED] [TIME LIMIT: 60 SECONDS] [COUNTDOWN INITIATED: 00:59...] The world in the Reaper's eyes froze. Raindrops that had been hammering the earth now hung motionless in the air like suspended crystals. Dust from the explosion stopped halfway through its flight. The smell of sulfur, blood, and gunpowder vanished, replaced by a silence so dense it could rupture an ordinary person's eardrums. The black aura that had enveloped Eduardo was sucked back into the pores of his skin. No steam rose from him anymore. Instead, his entire body began radiating a solid

The blades of the stolen Black Hawk helicopter roared wildly, slicing through the haze of smoke that blanketed the crater where Vladimir’s villa once stood. Inside the cramped cabin that reeked of machine oil, the atmosphere felt far more suffocating than the battlefield below. Gord gripped the handle of his machine gun so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his eyes locked on the man kneeling silently on the cabin floor. Eduardo, or whatever remained of him, said nothing. The shredded black suit had already been removed by Freya, leaving him in a white dress shirt now stained gray with concrete dust and black blood. He did not move. He did not complain. He simply stared at the palm of his own hand with a furrowed brow, as if he were looking at an object that did not belong to him. “Ed? Eduardo? You hear me, asshole?” Gord shouted over the engine noise, his voice rough with restrained emotion. Eduardo slowly looked up. His clear gray eyes met Gord’s. There was

The concrete floor of the medical corridor in Sector Five trembled, not from explosions outside, but from the raw tension radiating off the two women standing face to face in front of Eduardo’s room. The air suddenly felt thin, as if even oxygen refused to be trapped between them. Freya stood tall, feet planted wide in a stable combat stance despite the weakness still lingering in her body. Her hands no longer trembled. The barrel of her Glock 17 pointed straight between Emily’s eyes. “One more step and I’ll make your brains part of the floor decoration, Emily,” Freya hissed. Her voice was as low as a wolf growling over its cub. Emily, dressed in an immaculate white silk suit and a fur coat that looked absurdly luxurious inside the grim bunker, merely raised an eyebrow. She didn’t back away. Instead, she adjusted her oversized sunglasses with graceful indifference, as though the gun aimed at her were nothing more than an annoying fly. “Put your toy down, sweetheart.

The rooftop hanging garden atop Sark Tower had been transformed into a nauseating labyrinth of luxury. Emily was no longer satisfied with Dutch tulips alone. This time, she had ordered decorators to build fountains flowing with Château Margaux wine and rows of ice sculptures shaped like kneeling wolves, a visual insult aimed at the remaining Vladimir loyalists. Orchestral music drifted softly through the air, blending with the clinking of crystal glasses and the artificial laughter of the city's elites, people who had returned to licking the feet of Eduardo's family once again. In the middle of the crowd, Eduardo stood motionless like a stone monument. He wore a striking ivory suit, his white hair gleaming beneath the garden lights. "Smile, Ed. Look at the camera at your ten o'clock," Emily whispered while tightly holding onto Eduardo's arm. Her own smile was flawless, the kind that only came from thousands of hours practicing in front of a mirror. Eduardo didn't r

The crystal chandelier in the east wing bedroom swayed gently, casting reflections across Emily's arrogant figure standing in the doorway. In her hand, the champagne glass was still half full, while on her face rested a smile sharp enough to make an ordinary man's courage crumble. Behind her stood two broad-shouldered men in fresh tactical uniforms, not Eduardo's old people, but mercenaries Emily had hired through a private security firm using company accounts. "Freya, Freya... you really don't know when to stop, do you?" Emily sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on the barrel of the Glock in Freya's hand. "You think running away with Eduardo makes you some kind of hero? He's an asset, sweetheart. And assets don't get stolen by employees who've already been fired." "I don't work for you, Emily," Freya hissed, her hands steady even as pain twisted violently through her stomach. "I work for Eduardo. And the man you've turned into a puppet needs protection from you." "Protec