Chapter 201

Chapter 201

It wasn't the kind of stiffness that came from being interrupted—it was a total freeze that started from within, spreading from muscle to nerve. His eyes suddenly bulged outward, pupils contracting at a visible speed, as if something inside his body had violently clenched tight.

His mouth remained open, frozen in the shape of his last word, but no sound could escape. Only a muffled, choking gurgle came from his throat, as though something was blocking it.

Then blood began seeping from his nostrils—two dark red trails running down the groove above his lip, dripping onto the collar of his trench coat and blooming into dark stains.

"Dad?" Dylan was the first to notice something was wrong. He released his grip on Jennifer and stepped forward. "Dad, what's happening?"

Michael didn't respond. His body began to shake, muscles spasming uncontrollably. He swayed violently like a great tree hollowed out from within, trembling twice in the night wind before toppling straight backward.

Dylan lunged forward to catch him, but the moment his hand touched Michael's arm, his own steps faltered. A sickly-sweet taste surged up from deep in his throat, and he suddenly spewed a mouthful of black blood. It splattered on the ground, gleaming an eerie dark purple under the car's headlights.

"What the hell is happening?" Dylan realized something and jerked his head toward his younger brother Colin. Sure enough, Colin looked even worse—his lips had already turned blue-purple.

Colin's mouth hung open as he continuously vomited black blood. He tried to speak, but only a dull whimper escaped his throat before he pitched forward, his forehead slamming hard against the alley floor with a heavy thud.

Then came Jennifer. The jewelry box slipped from her hands and crashed to the ground, jade and diamonds scattering everywhere, glinting cold and lifeless under the white headlights.

Her eyes were still open, but her pupils had already dilated. Dark red blood seeped simultaneously from her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. Her body curled into an extremely twisted position on the ground—her death was horrific.

In less than twenty seconds, all four family members lay scattered across the alley floor. Angela was the only one still standing, barely.

Angela clutched her stomach, her back pressed against the door of the Mercedes van, legs trembling violently. A cold liquid trickled down from her nasal passages. She raised her hand to touch it—her fingertips came away dark red. Her expression shifted from terror to despair, then from despair to that peculiar calm and irony unique to the dying.

She suddenly started laughing—a sound that began as a low whimper and gradually rose in pitch, becoming hysterical, soul-rending laughter. Tears mixed with blood streamed down her face, transforming her delicate features into a horrifying mask. "You men are all so ruthless. Why does everyone treat me this way?"

"William," her voice was hoarse and weak, her body sliding slowly down the car door.

She looked at William, her eyes holding neither hatred nor plea—only the hollow emptiness of someone utterly destroyed. "I won't tell you who Damian's son is. You think you've won? You're just as much a pawn being manipulated. You won't escape either."

The corners of her mouth lifted in an extremely faint curve—it could have been a smile or a sob. Then her body slid completely down the car door, collapsing to the ground, her chin dropping to her chest. Silent.

It all happened too fast. So fast that no one had time to react before all five were down.

Victoria rushed forward, crouching to lift Michael's eyelid and check his pupils. Her expression turned gravely dark. "They've been poisoned—same toxin as those assassins."

"Something's wrong." Victoria quickly returned to William's side, her voice low but rapid, her gaze sweeping alertly across both ends of the alley. "The timing is too synchronized. This couldn't have been administered just now. Someone poisoned them long ago and calculated exactly when it would take effect. He knew we'd be here tonight—or he deliberately lured us here."

William said nothing, only slowly raised his head, his gaze traveling past the five bodies on the ground toward the far end of the alley.

"He's already here."

Applause began. The rhythm was slow, each clap separated by exactly three seconds—like someone sitting in a theater box, elegantly and leisurely appreciating the final act of a tragedy.

The applause was accompanied by footsteps from the end of the alley, dress shoes striking the floor at an unhurried pace, each step landing on the same beat.

Then a group of men quickly closed in, surrounding William's people.

The human wall parted to create a passage, and a figure emerged.

Graham wore a tailored charcoal-gray suit beneath a matching cashmere overcoat, his hair immaculately groomed—he looked like a distinguished gentleman fresh from some high-end gala.

He was smiling.

Not a vicious smile, not a triumphant smile, but a gentle, courteous, almost refined smile. That expression would have been perfectly appropriate in any other setting—except here, with the still-warm blood of the Clifford family pooling at his feet, it was unsettlingly grotesque.

"Mr. Howard, Ms. Getty, good evening." Graham stopped about thirty feet away, hands casually tucked in his coat pockets, his posture relaxed and easy, as if greeting old friends.

Then his gaze fell on the five bodies of the Clifford family. He pulled out a handkerchief and raised it to his nose with distaste. "You arrived a bit later than I calculated. I prefer a clean shot—I rarely use poison to kill. Didn't quite get the dosage right, made it a bit slow. Sorry to keep you waiting those extra few minutes."

William looked at him, his gaze as still as deep water. "It's you. You're Damian's son."