Chapter 458: Press Conference
"Doctor! Someone help!"
Medical personnel swarmed forward, pushing Charles aside, but he stubbornly refused to release Emily's hand. Fiona leaned against the ambulance door, allowing a nurse to tend to the wounds on her back while her gaze remained vigilant, sweeping the perimeter. Only after confirming no pursuers had followed did she finally exhale and slowly slide to the ground.
Nathan approached. "Mr. Windsor, the lab... it's completely destroyed. Gerald's confirmed dead. Most of the viral samples were incinerated, but there may be minor contamination. We need to seal the site."
Charles didn't respond. He kept his head bowed, forehead pressed against Emily's ice-cold hand, shoulders trembling faintly. No one dared interrupt until the doctor declared she was only suffering from exhaustion and blood loss—no life-threatening injuries. Only then did Charles seem to deflate entirely, burying his face in her palm.
"Emily... you terrified me."
The ambulance roared to life, speeding toward the nearest hospital. Charles remained at her side, one hand intertwined with hers, the other gently brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.
Fiona sat across from them. After receiving basic first aid, she closed her eyes to rest. Her breathing was steady, as if the life-or-death struggle moments ago had been nothing more than routine training. But Charles knew better—one of the three shrapnel wounds on her back had come within an inch of her spine.
"Fiona. Thank you."
Fiona opened her eyes, meeting his gaze briefly before looking away, settling on Emily's pale face. "I keep my promises."
She paused, then added, "Ms. Natasha was strong too. If she hadn't triggered the sprinkler system to create chaos, by the time I broke in, she might have already..."
She left the sentence unfinished, but Charles understood. He looked down at Emily, his expression impossibly tender. Her lashes fluttered faintly in unconsciousness, as if she might wake at any moment—or was lost in some distant dream.
"I know. She's never... let me down."
The vehicle hit a rough patch of road, and Emily's brow furrowed slightly. Charles immediately leaned in, gathering her into his arms so her head rested against his shoulder.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Sleep. I'm taking you home."
After settling Emily in the VIP ward, Charles stood before the bathroom mirror, staring at the pale, bloodshot-eyed man reflected back at him. He wiped away a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth.
During the explosion, he'd inhaled toxic fumes that were now reacting inside his body. A metallic sweetness lingered in his throat.
He straightened his suit collar and dialed Ace.
"Set up a press conference. Three hours from now. I want global live coverage."
"Have you lost your mind? Your current condition—"
Charles's voice was terrifyingly calm. "Precisely because of my condition, it will carry weight. Gerald is dead, but Miguel is still lurking. I need the world to know what the Rivera family has done—and what I am."
He paused, glancing toward the hospital room where Emily slept.
"And Ace, I don't have much time left."
A long silence followed on the other end, finally broken by a heavy sigh. "...Understood."
Three hours later, the press hall at Windsor Group's Seraphim headquarters was packed with global media. Camera flashes erupted like strobe lights, bathing the podium in harsh white light. When Charles emerged from the side entrance, Nathan instinctively moved to support him, only to be stopped by a single glance.
He walked to the stage alone, his gait steady, betraying nothing. But only he knew that each step felt like walking on cotton, that a burning sensation was spreading through his chest, that snow-like static occasionally crept into the edges of his vision—early symptoms of neurological deterioration.
"Thank you all for coming."
His voice carried through the microphone across the hall. Behind him, the large screen lit up, displaying footage salvaged from the Rivera family laboratory: viral samples in cultivation chambers, experimental logs, and financial transfers between Gerald and foreign operatives.
"Three days ago, I submitted evidence to Interpol in my personal capacity. The charge: illegal development of biological weapons by the Rivera family. Codename: Aquilonia."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
"You all recognize that name. You remember how many it killed, how many nightmares it spawned. You thought it had been eradicated. It hadn't. The Rivera family continued their research—and I, Charles Windsor, became their first living test subject in its resurgence."
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing his inner forearm covered in needle marks and bruise-purple vein patterns—evidence of prolonged suppressant injections, stark and horrifying under the cold light.
"For three years, I've survived on suppressants developed by my private medical team while gathering evidence of the Rivera family's crimes."
The screen switched to Charles's medical records, each page stamped with seals from internationally renowned medical institutions.
"But according to the latest tests, the viral activity in my system has breached critical thresholds. So I will die. Soon."
Shocked gasps filled the hall. Some covered their mouths. Others' eyes reddened. Charles showed no reaction, continuing as if utterly indifferent.
"But I'm not here to solicit sympathy."
His gaze sharpened suddenly, like an unsheathed blade.
"I'm here to tell the world that the biological weapons developed over three generations by the Rivera family have been completely destroyed. My partner, Mr. Ace Austin, led an international medical team over the past seventy-two hours to comprehensively sterilize the laboratory wreckage and surrounding areas. There is zero risk of viral contamination."
The footage cut to Ace working amid the ruins in hazmat gear, institutional logos clearly visible.
"The public need not panic. The city is safe. And I, as a victim of this conspiracy, will serve as living testimony in international court against the Rivera research team."
After the press conference, Charles could barely stand in the backstage lounge. He braced himself against the wall, coughing violently, dark red blood seeping between his fingers. Nathan rushed in, only to be waved off.
Charles wiped the blood away with a handkerchief. "Keep it quiet."
"Mr. Windsor, you need immediate treatment—"
Charles smiled faintly. "It's pointless, Nathan. Make arrangements. Before I die, I'm bringing Miguel down with me."