Chapter 479: The Real Donovan

Chapter 479: The Real Donovan

Her phone buzzed. The Windsor Manor's number flashed across the screen.

Anouk stared at it until the display dimmed to black. Then she drew a long breath and pressed the callback button.

"Ms. Montgomery? Mr. Windsor's condition has deteriorated. Please come immediately!"

She gazed out the window. The city lights stretched into a sea of stars against the night sky, while she stood in the shadow of this building, throat constricted as if by invisible hands.

Charles.

"I'm on my way," she heard herself say.

The lab's ventilation system emitted a low hum, like some massive creature breathing slowly in the darkness. Marcus Graham, still operating under Donovan's identity, sat at the workbench.

He was waiting.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—light, yet carrying a deliberate composure. Marcus didn't look up until the door swung open, revealing a tall figure in the doorway.

"Sebastian. Long time no see. You're looking well."

"As are you, Marcus. Or should I say, Dr. Donovan Diaz?"

Marcus finally straightened, peeling off his gloves to reveal hands that looked far too vigorous for his aged face. He poured two glasses of whiskey with methodical precision, sliding one toward the man at the door.

"Sit."

Sebastian didn't move. His gaze swept every corner of the laboratory—the precision instruments, the neatly arranged blood samples in refrigerated units, the viral genome sequence charts plastering the walls. Finally, his eyes settled on Marcus's face, something complex flickering in their sharp depths.

"Miguel's people came looking for you." Not a question.

"They visited Imperial City. Searched my lab, went through my student roster, accidentally knocked over two centrifuges in the process." Sebastian's tone was as casual as if discussing the weather.

Marcus chuckled low, bringing his glass to his lips. "So here you are."

"Here I am."

Sebastian finally stepped into the lab, his cane striking the floor with rhythmic echoes in the cavernous space. He took the seat opposite Marcus but left the whiskey untouched. "You knew I'd come. You knew Miguel would force my hand. You orchestrated all of this."

"How long have we known each other, Sebastian?"

"Forty-seven years."

"Forty-seven years." Marcus repeated, his gaze dropping to the amber liquid in his glass. "Forty-seven years ago, we studied under the same mentor. You said you'd conquer cancer. I said I'd break the limits of human life. We were so young then, believing science could solve everything."

"Then you began those experiments. Human cloning. Embryonic gene editing. Organ farms. What did you think people were—bacteria in a petri dish?"

Marcus slammed his glass down, liquid sloshing over the rim and leaving dark stains on the metal surface. "I treated them as hope! Sebastian, look at this world—people dying every day from cancer, viruses, aging. These aren't natural laws. They're diseases! Diseases that can be cured!"

"At the cost of innocent lives?"

"Progress demands sacrifice. When our mentor lay dying, he entrusted the immortality project to me—not to abandon it halfway. I've succeeded, Sebastian. I've found ways to delay aging. Just one more step, just a little more—"

"You don't need to go any further."

Sebastian cut him off, producing a small metallic cryo-box from his coat and placing it on the table between them. The container was compact but radiated faint wisps of cold. "Because I've already done it."

Marcus's pupils contracted violently.

"The real antibody to cure Charles. Not delay, not control—complete eradication."

Marcus stared at the cryo-box, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Give it to me."

"No."

"Sebastian!"

"I'll administer it myself. I'll monitor every indicator, pull him back from the brink of immune collapse. This isn't something you can do, Marcus. You fooled everyone else, but not me. You're not a real clinician—you're just a deranged theorist."

Marcus's expression shifted through several shades before settling into a cold laugh. "So you'd rather destroy forty-seven years of my life's work?"

Sebastian rose, returning the cryo-box to his coat. "Your lab should have been destroyed years ago. I didn't come here to help you. I came to tell you Charles will survive. And when this is over, I'm submitting your complete records to the International Medical Ethics Committee. Marcus, your game ends here."

He turned toward the door, his cane resuming its metronomic beat—one strike, then another, like a countdown.

"You'll regret this, Sebastian. You think Miguel is your only problem? Do you have any idea what's hidden in the Rivera family labs? The failed subjects, the experimental bodies modified by viruses then discarded—they're not dead. They're underground, in the city sewers, in—"

"Those are your sins, not mine. You'll clean up your own mess."

Sebastian didn't look back.

The door closed behind him with a dull thud.

Marcus stood alone at the workbench. After a long moment, he laughed—a sound laced with madness, resignation, and the satisfaction of a hunter watching prey finally step into the trap.

"You're right, Sebastian. My game should indeed come to an end."

 

Anouk pressed herself against the wall outside, nails digging crescents into her palms.

She didn't know how she'd left the Windsor Manor.

The image of Charles unconscious still swam before her eyes—Ollie's frantic calls, Nathan's hurried footsteps, the doctors' hushed discussions of "immune system collapse" and "neurological infiltration." Those words were like dull blades, sawing repeatedly through her heart.

This was beyond her capabilities now. She needed her mentor to intervene.

But rushing back here, she'd witnessed this scene instead.

Sebastian—the master of Hell's Angels—was the real Donovan.

He possessed the antibody that could cure Charles.

She closed her eyes, Charles's smile in the car surfacing in her mind.

She had to keep him alive.

She never wanted Charles to suffer!

Anouk's eyes snapped open, fixing on the elevator at the corridor's end. Sebastian's figure had vanished, but that cryo-box—the container holding their only hope—was still in his hands.

She couldn't do this alone.

Sebastian commanded Hell's Angels, undoubtedly surrounded by security. She needed help, power, she needed—

Prince Miguel.

The moment that name crystallized in her mind, Anouk shuddered. She knew what it meant. Miguel wanted political leverage, victory for the cameras, a controllable Charles. What she wanted was Charles alive—even if only for one more day, one hour, one minute.