Chapter 150

Chapter 150

Ethan's POV

I raised my hand slightly, and my men moved like a gale—slamming every person in the warehouse to the ground with swift, brutal efficiency.

My target was Dragon.

I strode through the swirling dust, step by step, but my gaze landed on Serena first—she was leaning against the edge of that icy metal table, wrists bound behind her back, mouth sealed with wide duct tape, eyes open, staring straight at me. Something was gathering in her eyes, a thin film of moisture catching the dim light, but she held it back. Refused to let it fall.

Just like that—holding on, stubbornly. That look in her eyes was one I knew well, something that belonged only to her. Defiance carved into her very bones.

Looking into those eyes, something in my chest seized up violently—painful and burning hot.

Dragon had nowhere left to run.

I backed him into a corner, and in that split second, I caught the movement—that massive syringe, filled with that sickly orange-purple toxin, plunging viciously toward the inside of Serena's arm.

"Serena!"

A gunshot tore through the warehouse silence.

The sniper's bullet pierced the syringe with surgical precision. The glass shattered with a brittle crack simultaneous with Dragon's scream, and the neurotoxin-laced liquid, along with razor-sharp shards, sprayed directly into his face.

"My eye! My fucking eye!"

I didn't care.

I was already in front of Serena. My blade severed the restraints binding her. The moment my fingertips touched the inside of her arm, I felt it—something small, glaring, deep red. A needle mark.

My hand froze.

My entire being felt like it had been shattered from the inside.

"Hold on," I pulled her into my arms. Her skin was burning hot, the edges of her lips already tinged with an unnatural blue-purple, "We're going to the hospital. Now."

I ripped my suit jacket off and wrapped it around her trembling body.

She smelled of blood and cheap motor oil, but I held her tighter.

I lifted her into my arms and strode toward the exit.

"Mr. Blackwood," Lucas hurried to catch up, voice low, "Dragon's right eye is destroyed. Medical gel sealed the wound. He'll live."

"Keep him alive." I didn't look back, my voice flat, like discussing a dull business transaction, "I want him conscious. I want every single word of his confession."

The car tore through the night.

The emergency light in the back seat flared on. The on-call doctor plunged the antidote into Serena's arm, voice steady but unable to hide the tension beneath: "Neurotoxin. Small dose, but spreading fast…"

The transparent liquid in the IV line rushed into the bruised veins on the back of her hand.

I gripped her gradually cooling hand like a vice, my thumb feeling that faint, weakening warmth in her palm.

My throat tightened, like someone had shoved something hard inside—something I couldn't pull out.

"Faster."

---

Manhattan General Hospital. Top-floor intensive care unit.

The blue light was cold and ghostly. The ventilator ran with mechanical regularity, each sound like a nail driven into my eardrum.

Serena lay unconscious in that soundscape, the winding blue-purple veins beneath her skin slowly, agonizingly fading under the monitor's glow.

I sat beside the bed. Didn't move.

I didn't dare let go of her hand.

The door opened softly. Lucas entered, handing me a tablet, voice barely above a whisper: "Dragon talked. The one pulling the strings is Vivian. She used Dragon to completely destroy Ms. Sterling."

I glanced down at the screen.

Surveillance footage—a blurry image of Vivian and Dragon in some corner of a Brooklyn underground fight club.

My thumb slowly traced over the tiny needle mark on the back of Serena's hand.

That small, almost invisible pinprick weighed a thousand pounds in my eyes.

A chill surged up from the depths of my chest, cold enough to make my bones tremble.

"Tell Marcus," I said, my voice as calm as the Hudson River in deep winter—cold and still, "what his precious little daughter has done to his own flesh and blood."

---

Marcus's POV

The storage room reeked of aged leather and oxidized paper.

I didn't know how long I'd been sitting here. Probably three full days, but I couldn't feel time passing.

I was curled up beside one of Grace's old leather trunks, fingertips repeatedly tracing over a yellowed photograph.

In the photo, little Serena sat on my shoulders flying a kite. Grace stood in the distance watching us, smiling with crinkled eyes, sunlight gilding her hair like gold.

For the past three days, I hadn't seen Jade.

I didn't know if it was my imagination, but my mind felt clearer and clearer—terrifyingly clear. Like I'd been trapped in a thick fog for years, and three days ago, something suddenly dispersed, letting me see what had been right in front of me all along.

"Grace…"

I spoke softly to the photograph, temples throbbing.

Those fragments of memory, buried deep by something, began floating to the surface, piece by piece—

Serena's fifteenth birthday. Jade "accidentally" smashed the hand-painted ceramic vase Grace had left behind, then cried to me that Serena was hostile toward her. Vivian cheated on a high school exam and got caught, but turned around and accused Serena of framing her. I didn't ask questions—I just tore into Serena for an entire afternoon.

And six years ago, I actually went along with Jade's filthy scheme. I sent my daughter into a stranger's hotel room.

I lost control and swept the shelf clean. Picture frames crashed down, glass shards scattering, landing on one of Grace's cherished dresses.

I dropped to my knees, grabbing at the broken glass with bare hands. My palms bled, mixing with my tears and dripping onto the silk.

I bent my head, vision blurred, and felt the fabric revealing something beneath the liquid—I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and leaned closer.

Faint dark marks appeared on the fabric. Handwriting.

"Daddy, I love you!"

Childish, crooked letters, written in lipstick. Red, long since oxidized to dark brown, but you could still see the force and care in every stroke.

My hand stopped.

Next to it was another line, in my handwriting—"Serena, Daddy loves you too."

I remembered.

This was when Serena had just learned to write. Grace was already very sick. Little Serena had found this dress somewhere, sprawled over it, and used lipstick from Grace's vanity to write this, stroke by stroke, saying she wanted to encourage me.

I wrote back to her the next day.

She couldn't even read yet.

I used to love Serena the most.

I clutched the dress, curling up in that pile of broken glass. I couldn't describe what I felt—my chest felt like something had been carved out alive, then filled with molten iron, burning so hot I couldn't even cry out.

But later… why did I become that kind of monster?

My phone vibrated in my shirt pocket.

A message from Ethan.

I opened it. Felt like I'd been struck by lightning.

The first surveillance clip: a dim, abandoned warehouse. A hulking man held a syringe, advancing on a bound Serena. The needle gleamed with cold menace under the night-vision camera's green glow.

The second photo: a hospital emergency room. Serena's hand was riddled with tubes, her skin crawling with eerie blue-purple veins, like something was corroding her from the inside.

The third file: Vivian laughing at some party, wearing the sapphire necklace—Grace's necklace, the only thing she'd left for Serena. The only heirloom in the world.

Ethan had attached a few lines of text, detailing how Vivian had impersonated Serena, used the Rivera family to frame her, and orchestrated her destruction.

I stared at those words, at those photos. The phone screen blurred in my vision.

Then, like a rabid animal, I stormed into Vivian's bedroom and kicked open the locked walk-in closet.

"Dad?"

She was tucking the necklace into a jewelry box. At the sound, she jerked her head up—and I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out.

I pried open her fingers and ripped the sapphire necklace from her hand. The metal clasp's sharp edges cut into my palm, a stab of pain. Blood seeped out. I felt nothing.

"Grace's heirloom—you dared to touch it?" I heard my own voice, hoarse, broken, "Talk! What else have you and your mother done to Serena behind my back!"

Vivian was frightened by something in my eyes. Her voice trembled: "Dad, you know everything now?"

"I'm asking you!"

She fell silent for a moment.

Then, slowly, she lifted her eyes. A chilling calm settled over her face, and her voice carried a near-cruel coldness, "Since you already know, I have nothing to say. But one thing, Dad—you've already wronged Serena beyond repair. Trying to wash your hands of it now—"

She paused, a smile tugging at her lips, "It's too late, isn't it?"

I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.

She was right.

I had already broken Serena's heart. Done unspeakable things. And now I wanted to use "I was deceived" as an excuse—but what right did I have?

What right?

Serena would never forgive me.

What right did I have to beg for her forgiveness?

But just because I was wrong—does that mean I should keep being wrong?

"Get out."

I kicked Vivian aside, clutching the blood-stained sapphire necklace, and bolted toward the garage.

I had to find Serena.

But where was Serena?

I didn't even know which hospital she was in.

I fumbled to start the car, mind in chaos. I called Ethan. No answer. Lucas. No answer. They wouldn't tell me where Serena was. I had to find her myself.

First private hospital.

The ER nurse looked at me and said softly, "No admission record for a Serena."

I stumbled back to the parking lot, started the car, and drove to the next one.

Second hospital. Third. Fourth…

Every "no" was a punch to the chest, each one heavier than the last.

The November night wind was biting. My shirt was soaked through with cold sweat. The metal edges of the necklace cut deeper and deeper into my palm, but I felt no pain.

I just kept thinking—I remembered when Serena had a high fever, I stayed up all night by her bedside, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth over and over. I remembered when she fell off her bike and broke her arm, I carried her on my back and waited outside the ER for five hours straight, didn't even answer work calls. I remembered her seventh birthday, when I personally clasped Grace's sapphire necklace around her neck. She threw herself into my arms, called me "Daddy," her voice soft as cotton.

Back then, I truly loved her.

But later, later… how did I…

When I stood outside the eighth hospital, my legs nearly gave out. I had to lean against the doorframe to stay upright. A security guard approached, frowning with concern: "Sir, are you alright?"

I heard my own voice, hoarse beyond recognition: "I'm looking for my daughter. She's hurt. Badly. I don't know where she is."

My throat burned. The next words barely squeezed through my teeth: "It's all my fault. I'm the one who hurt her."

I slowly slid down the wall, covering my face.

The guard was silent for a moment, then said gently, "Sir, don't panic. Take your time. You'll find her."

I looked up, eyes burning, something lodged in my throat that wouldn't go up or down.

"You don't understand." My voice sounded like it was coming from something shattered, "I may never see her again. I hurt her too deeply. She hates me. Hates me to the core. The only thing her mother left her—I let someone else steal it."

I lowered my head, staring at the sapphire in my palm, finally reclaimed. The bloodstains had dyed the gold setting a dark crimson.

"I couldn't even protect her mother's heirloom."

The late autumn night wind swept in from behind, cold to the bone.

"What kind of father am I?"