Chapter 187

Chapter 187
"Everett," Charles spoke. His voice was hoarse, but each word was clearly enunciated. "He prescribes my medication every week. Every time he changes the prescription, he says it's adjusting the treatment plan."

He turned his palm over, looking at the inside of his hand. "Those medications contained hallucinogenic components, things that worsen depression. You told me that long ago."

Charlotte nodded.

"He poisoned you, keeping you in a long-term state of mental instability." She walked back to Charles's bedside. "At the same time, he was using my brother's body to cultivate biochemical toxins in the Bowers family laboratory. The poison in Calla's needle on the cruise ship was a variant of 'Widow's Whisper' - Michael's chest cavity was the testing ground for the toxin."

Charles's medication, Michael's imprisonment, the Bowers family's cultivation of biochemical weapons - these three seemingly unrelated threads all converged on the same person.

Charles braced himself against the bed edge and sat up straight. The movement pulled at the freshly sutured wound on his left shoulder. His brow furrowed, but he didn't stop.

"Wayne."

Wayne quickly descended from the stairway.

"Contact Marcus." Charles's speech wasn't fast, but it contained no unnecessary words. "Secretly arrest Everett. Don't alert anyone, including my mother."

Wayne's footsteps paused for a beat. "Mr. Edward, Everett should currently be at—"

"I don't care where he is." Charles's gaze shifted over. Those bloodshot eyes held no anger, only something deeper.

Wayne turned and went upstairs, making the call.

Charlotte retrieved a micro camera from the inner layer of her clothing - standard Barrott intelligence equipment, smaller than a fingernail. She placed the camera on the workbench and pushed it toward Charles.

"All the data from the fifth floor of Max's Social Club. 'Chessboard's' directive files, experimental subject records, bank transfer records - everything's in there."

Charles looked at the camera, so small it was almost invisible. "You're giving me all this?"

"Yes."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Charlotte leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. Her left shoulder was still bleeding, the edges of the butterfly tape softened by sweat. "I didn't keep a backup copy. These things involve your family and your company. From today on, I won't hide anything from you anymore."

She looked at Charles. "But you don't hide anything from me either."

Charles didn't respond immediately. He picked up the camera, turning it between his fingertips.

"Your father's patent." He said.

Charlotte's fingers tightened slightly in the crook of her arm.

"Biometric identification, genetic marker verification." Charles's voice lowered. "I've seen a backup of this technical framework in the Edward Group's core technology archives."

Charlotte's breathing stopped for half a beat. "What?"

"Number PB-1187, stored in the Edward Group headquarters' top-secret archive. Access is only granted to three people - me, my grandfather, and Brandon, who's already been arrested."

Charlotte gripped the edge of the table. "You mean—"

"I mean," Charles looked up, "ten years ago, your father's patent was copied and stored in the Edward Group's classified vault. I only discovered this three years ago when reviewing the archives. At the time, I thought it was a legacy technical cooperation document from the old days and didn't investigate further."
He paused. "Now it appears it wasn't cooperation. It was theft."

Charlotte released the table edge. Her palms left two white marks.

"'Chessboard' needs my father's patent. 'Chessboard's' communication terminal is in the Edward family. 'Chessboard's' directives can mobilize the Bowers family's resources and also infiltrate Barrott." She spoke word by word. "This person is inside the Edward family."

The fluorescent lights in the basement emitted a continuous buzzing. Charles didn't deny it.

He pocketed the micro camera and closed his eyes.

Charlotte stood in place, her mind racing - all the fragments from the past few months began fitting together in this moment. Charles's medication being tampered with, Brandon's collusion, Rebecca's "resurrection," the biochemical toxin on the cruise ship, Logan's chess piece theory... All the gears were turning, all the trajectories pointing in the same direction.

She didn't want to think that answer through. But logic wouldn't let her avoid it.

A weak moan came from the hospital bed.

Charlotte turned around.

Michael was half-dreaming under the influence of medication. His eyelids trembled, his lips moved, as if trying to say something. Charlotte quickly walked over and sat on the bed's edge.

Michael's hand emerged from under the blanket. His skeletal fingers gripped Charlotte's wrist, the force light but desperately tight.

His lips moved several times. The sound squeezed out from deep in his throat, unclear, broken, as if it had surfaced after traveling through a long underwater passage.

"That doctor... when he called me... didn't call me Subject 02."

Charlotte leaned down.

"He called me... little chess piece."

Charlotte's fingers froze on Michael's wrist.

Behind her came the sound of a metal bed frame being gripped tightly. She didn't turn around, but she knew Charles had heard.

When the middle-aged military doctor removed the IV needle from Michael's hand, his whole body flinched violently, his arm instinctively pulling back. The needle brought out a drop of blood that rolled two centimeters on the pale skin before falling into the pillow's folds.

Charlotte held Michael's hand. "It's all over."

Michael's eyes were fixed on the military doctor's hands. Only when the doctor stepped back three paces did his shoulders relax.

Forty-eight hours. Two days and nights of strong antibiotic IV drips, combined with chest drainage and continuous oxygen. Michael's temperature dropped from 103.6°F to 98.9°F. The wet rales in his lungs decreased by half, and blood oxygen stabilized above ninety-four.

The female military doctor packed up the portable ventilator and gestured to Charlotte. Charlotte walked to the corner.

"The infection is under control. But the culture medium residue and pathogen fragments in his body can't be treated here." The female military doctor lowered her voice. "He must be transferred as soon as possible to a large hospital with laminar flow wards and plasma separation equipment."

"How soon?"

"The sooner the better. Every extra day, those residues cause more organ damage."

Charlotte nodded and walked back to the bed. Michael huddled in the blanket, only half his face showing. His gaze constantly followed Charlotte - when she moved left, those eyes followed left; when she moved right, the gaze followed right. Never letting go.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Wayne came down, holding a satellite phone.

"Ms. Seymour, Mr. Edward asked me to relay this. The transport plane will arrive at Emberfall City's northern airport in an hour and a half. The Air Force has coordinated the landing window. The blizzard's intermission is only forty minutes."

Charlotte unscrewed a water bottle and held it to Michael's lips. "Let's go."

The transfer process was harder than she'd anticipated. Michael wouldn't let any stranger touch him.

When Wayne reached out to help lift the stretcher, Michael's whole body jumped in fright, his back hitting the iron pipe at the head of the bed with a dull thud.

Charlotte stepped between them. "I'll do it myself."

She lifted Michael from the bed. Fifteen-year-old Michael was so thin he had almost no weight. His knees and hip bones pressed against her arms, hard as two branches. Michael's hands clutched the front of her work jacket, five fingers clenched tight, nails digging into the fabric.

Charlotte climbed the stairs step by step. With each step, the wound on her left shoulder tore again. The butterfly tape had failed, blood running down along her collarbone, soaking into the jacket fabric. She bit down on her back teeth, not making a sound.

The snow outside had lightened somewhat. The sky was overcast and gray, the wind carrying scattered snowflakes that hit their faces.

Randal's van was parked at the entrance. The engine was still running, white vapor from the exhaust pipe rapidly dispersing in the cold air.