Deadmoo.The most dangerous prison on Earth — and no one had designed it that way on purpose.There were no blueprints, no architect's signature, no sketch that anyone had approved. Just jagged rock walls sealing off the worst of humanity: heartless killers, drug lords, corrupt politicians, contract assassins, and men who had done things too bloody to make the headlines.They weren't called prisoners here.They were called Doomers.Because no one in Deadmoo's history had ever walked out alive.Until today.The iron door of Cell 0001 groaned open. The Warden stepped back, and the two officers behind him — men trained not to flinch — flinched anyway. Their hands hovered over the weapons at their belts, more out of habit than hope. They already knew: no weapon on Earth stopped a man like Killian Dante.The creak of the door cut through the silence like a blade."He's coming," someone whispered.Then, nothing. The kind of silence that only exists right before something powerful walks into

Killian's blood froze.Inside the room, Cassandra was there but she wasn't alone, not organized either and the room felt entirely wrong and stale with the mix of sweat, cologne and the smell of something that shouldn't belong to the office.She leaned back against the swivel chair without any discomfort like she'd done this before, her legs spread wide in the air, a man was in between, diving in and out of her possessively like a drugged mutt. The swivel spring squealed in protest under their weight.And Cassandra's voice was a rush of disorganized beats born of dopamine and excitement."Ah....oh..Jack..right there. Right there.."Her moaning cut through Killian's chest like a blade.The reality crashed through him like a shattering glass; Sawyer West's hostile appearance, the divorce paper, and then this.. that totally shifted the earlier confusion. The woman he submitted his life for, his innocence, to save her empire was cheating on him."Cassandra." Killian called. His voice wasn'

Cassandra's jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide with something between disbelief and horror.The five-million-dollar check sat forgotten in her hand — worthless now, though she hadn't caught up to that yet. Jack was still staring at the bloody thumbprint on the divorce papers like it might rearrange itself into something less final.Killian had walked out and taken her pride with him. She'd braced for a fight, for him to beg or rage or grovel. His calm had been worse than any of it.Her manicured nails dug crescents into her palm."After everything my family did for him," she hissed. "The ingrate."Jack threaded his belt back through its loop, unbothered, and stepped closer. "I told you — men like him only stick around to milk you dry. Then they walk the second it stops working for them."He buttoned his shirt without hurrying. "You sure he won't try anything?" The question came out casual, though he didn't care either way. Sounding concerned kept Cassandra pliable, kept her thinking they

Upper floor of the private hospital, at the premium care unit where many people couldn't afford because survival and comfort there cost more than most rich people expensive cars, Mrs. Whitmore heels clacked frantically on the marble, her appearance disheveled— suit pressed smooth that morning for business arranged business meetings that suddenly changed hospital visit had wrinkled, dust clung to her knee, a reminder of her encounter with Killian that morning. Security guards flanked the corridors. She stopped pacing, looked through the door with palm pressed against the transparent glass door. Inside, doctors moved around a bed where a young girl lay unconscious, seemingly dead surrounded by machines that swallowed her small frame, doing their damn best to recover her with every method they'd used before. "Oh, god—" Mrs. Whitmore gasped, palm pressed on her mouth. Tears spilled down gently seeing her daughter's in bad shape. "— wake up baby. Please." She yanked Dr. Marcus William'

Searching for a man you didn't register his face but his appearance equalized looking for gnat in a pile of sand. The afternoon sun burned differently, sweats poured down from her temple profusely. She moved from retail containers to the next, describing a man she didn't really look at earlier because appearance was justification for importance. "I can't get your description, woman." One woman shook her head. "I haven't seen someone like that passing this place." Another said. "You said he looks like a beggar?" "Oh..no I mean..not a beggar. He's someone important but... forget it.." she walked to another place again, each response dragging her towards exhaustion and frustration and a career placed on deadline before it crumbled or saved in real-time. By the time she moved from terminal to terminal, taxi ranks to the next, drop-off zone to the docking area, her legs were already shaking with exhaustion, her badge out of place on uniform that looked like it survived through a stor