The warehouse was deathly quiet in the aftermath of the pursuit, save for the steady drip of rainwater echoing through the cavernous space.
Arora held the photograph in her gloved hand, staring at the sunlit garden captured twenty years ago. The smiling woman was undeniably her mother—a rare sight even in her oldest memories—standing in front of an unfamiliar stone building with no address, no markings, and no context. It was an intentional trap, a deliberate breadcrumb left by an enemy who knew exactly which wound to pick at.
"Leader!" Nick's voice cut through her thoughts. "There!"
Near a row of rusted machinery, a shadow bolted.
Arora moved before her brain even finished registering the sight. Her tactical boots slammed against the wet concrete as she gave chase. The figure moved with surprising agility for his age, weaving through broken equipment, but panic made him reckless. He glanced back once—and that single split-second mistake was all Arora needed.
Closing the distance instantly, she grabbed the back of his coat and slammed him against a concrete support pillar hard enough to rattle dust from the rafters. Before he could recover, her fist crashed into his jaw.
The man slumped against the floor, clutching his face and coughing blood. He looked to be in his fifties, with weathered skin, stubborn graying hair, and eyes wide with fear.
Arora crouched over him, her voice lethal. "Who sent you?"
The man spat blood onto the floor and remained stubbornly silent.
Nick and the Knight Squad unit caught up, weapons drawn. "Friend of yours?" Nick asked.
"No," Arora stood up, stepping back. "Make him talk."
Ten minutes of brutal interrogation yielded nothing. Threats, pressure, and physical force were met with the same stone-faced defiance.
Nick wiped his bloodied knuckles, frowning. "Guy's either loyal to a fault or suicidal."
The prisoner let out a weak, raspy laugh. Arora stared down at him, her pulse cold. "Take him back to headquarters. Lock him in the sub-basement holding cells."
"You think he'll break later?" Nick asked.
"No," Arora said, her fingers tightening around the old photograph in her pocket. "I just want him where I can see him."
By the time the convoy pulled back into the Black Rose courtyard, faint streaks of dawn were painting the Chicago sky in pale gray and violet. Arora was operating on pure adrenaline and sheer fatigue. She needed coffee, a quiet room, and answers—preferably in that order.
Stepping into the main floor lounge, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Kelvin was sprawled across one leather couch, snoring softly. Jack was passed out on the adjacent sofa, looking ridiculously relaxed. An empty bottle of top-shelf scotch sat abandoned on the coffee table between them.
Arora turned a slow, menacing glare toward Edwin, who was standing by the door.
Edwin immediately put his hands up. "It wasn't my fault."
"Is that so?"
"It was Kelvin's idea," Edwin insisted quickly.
Beside him, Miso nodded in deadpan solidarity. "Definitely Kelvin."
Arora pinched the bridge of her nose. Her brother was a brilliant, respected surgeon, yet he consistently regressed into an irresponsible college student when left unsupervised. "Idiots, the both of them."
Sighing, she grabbed two plush throw blankets from the storage closet. She draped the first over Kelvin, who merely snored louder in response.
She moved over to Jack. He was sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos he caused simply by existing in her orbit. His golden hair had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline. Asleep, he looked almost harmless.
Almost.
Arora shook her head, unfolding the heavy blanket to lay it over his shoulders.
Then, disaster struck.
Jack shifted in his sleep, rolling onto his side. His arm swept outward, snagging the heavy hem of the blanket. Taken off balance, Arora's foot caught the edge of the coffee table.
"Oh, for—"
She pitched forward, falling directly on top of him.
BONK.
Pain exploded across her lower face as their heads collided. Their lips brushed for a fraction of a millisecond before their front teeth clacked together with agonizing force.
"OW!"
Arora yanked herself backward instantly, dropping to her knees on the rug and clutching her mouth. The pain was immediate, sharp, and intensely humiliating. Tears of sheer annoyance stung her eyes.
She glared up at Jack in utter disbelief.
Jack hadn't even woken up. In fact, as he settled back into the cushions, a soft, contented smile spread across his face, and he let out a quiet, peaceful sigh.
Arora touched her lower lip. A throb was already setting in, and a split was definitely forming on the inside of her lip.
She stared at his smiling, unconscious face. "You absolute menace."
Jack merely snored, looking completely innocent.
Arora dragged the blanket over him with unnecessary force, pulled herself up, and adjusted her coat. For a brief second, she remembered every cinematic romance she'd ever seen where an accidental fall led to a dramatic, magical kiss.
Liars. Every single one of them. Cinematic falls didn't bring magic—they brought blunt force trauma and a swollen lip.
"Ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, turning on her heel and marching toward her executive office.
The photograph was waiting on her desk, and unlike a certain sleeping idiot, it might actually give her something useful.
Behind her in the quiet lounge, two drunk fools slept on—completely unaware that one of them had just earned a very dangerous spot on the leader's hit list.
To Be Continued...