Chapter 200

At 5:12 AM, Charlotte got Rebecca into a private room at the Edward Group's private hospital. Rebecca was on the same floor as Michael. She was wheeled into the operating room to have the bullet removed. Charlotte stood in the hallway for a while. Michael's room door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and peeked in—Michael was curled up under a blanket, the green dots on the heart monitor beeping steadily. She closed the door.

Her phone vibrated. An encrypted email from Marcus. She opened the attachment.

The first page showed two overlaid bone scan comparisons. The left was labeled 'Demetrius - 1970 Physical Exam X-ray,' the right 'Orval - 2019 Edward Family Annual Checkup.'

Seventeen skeletal markers were highlighted in red on both images. Of those seventeen markers, sixteen matched perfectly. The only mismatch was the curve of the left cheekbone, which happened to be the most common area modified in facial plastic surgery.

The second page showed a facial reconstruction simulation Marcus had pulled. The tech team used AI algorithms to reverse-engineer Orval's current facial structure, stripping away skin sagging and aging factors, then matched the bone structure and facial proportions against Demetrius's 1968 photograph.

Match rate: 94.7 percent.

The third page had a note from Marcus: [Orval is Demetrius, extremely high probability. Recommend further DNA collection for final confirmation.]

Charlotte flipped her phone over, screen down on her knee.

Twenty years. A man had faked his own death, had plastic surgery, and returned to his own family as a servant. He served his own nephew, kept vigil, and gave him medicine. Medicine laced with hallucinogens and depression-inducing substances.

He used his butler position to access all of the Edward Group's core information. He manipulated the family doctor, Everett, to poison Charles. He exploited Brandon's ambition to disrupt the inheritance. He conducted human experiments through the Bowers Group's Genetica Synergy. He sold weapons and stolen technology to the Grey Wolves.

Every incident, every clue, every person who died, and every person who almost died. The source of it all was a face with changed skin.

Charlotte stood up and walked to the window at the end of the hallway. Dawn hadn't broken yet. The city's outline in the distance was traced in blurry edges by streetlights. She dialed Charles's number.

"The results are in," she said.

Four seconds of silence on the other end.

"Tell me."

"Orval is Demetrius. Bone comparison—sixteen out of seventeen markers are a perfect match. Facial reconstruction matched against Demetrius's 1968 photo at 94.7 percent."

She paused.

"He faked his death twenty years ago, had plastic surgery, and returned to the Edward family as a servant. He's the third-generation 'Chessboard.'"

Long silence on the other end. Charlotte heard a sound—not breathing, not a heartbeat, but teeth grinding, the fine friction of jaw muscles clenching together.

Then a thud. Something heavy hitting something hard.

"Charles."

Another thud, heavier.

"Charles!"

"It broke." Wayne's voice came from a distance, tense. "Mr. Edward punched through the car window. His hand is bleeding."

Charlotte gripped her phone. "Wayne, bring the car to the hospital."

Fifteen minutes later, the underground parking garage. Charlotte pulled open the back door of the SUV. Charles sat in the seat, right hand resting on his knee, three shards of tempered glass embedded in the back of his hand, blood dripping down between his fingers, seeping dark spots into the light gray fabric of his pants.

The window was bulletproof glass, shattered into a spiderweb pattern but not completely detached, with a fist-sized dent in the center.

Charlotte took tweezers from her first aid kit, sat down next to Charles, and pulled his right hand onto her knee. The tweezers gripped the first shard, pulled it out—blood surged—she pressed a cotton ball against it. Charles didn't make a sound. The second shard was embedded deeper. When Charlotte's tweezers went in, she felt the muscles in Charles's knee tighten for an instant. Pulled it out, pressed down. Then the third shard.

Three shards lay next to the blood-stained cotton balls. Charlotte cleaned the wound with iodine and wrapped it with gauze.

"He was by my side for twenty years." Charles's voice was low, squeezed from deep in his throat.

Charlotte didn't look up, tying a knot at the end of the bandage.

"When I was twelve, I had an episode. At 3 AM, my fever hit 104°F, and I was seizing." Charles's gaze fell on his bandaged hand. "The first person who rushed into my room was him. He picked me up off the floor, wiped my sweat, crushed pills, and dissolved them in water for me to drink."

Charlotte's fingers paused on the bandage for a second.

"What was in the medicine he gave me—I know now." Charles's voice didn't tremble, didn't explode with anger; it was just dry, like a riverbed exposed after the water's been drained.

"Every morning he heated milk for me, 176°F. He knew I didn't like it too hot. He stood guard outside the study. However late I worked, he stood there. I told him to go to sleep, but he said he wasn't comfortable leaving."

His Adam's apple bobbed. "Twenty years. I treated him as..."

The sentence broke off in the middle.

Charlotte looked at him. She didn't say "it's okay," didn't say "I understand," didn't say any comforting words. Those words were useless. She reached out and gripped Charles's bandaged right hand.

"You didn't lose to him. You're alive today. Your company is still standing, Michael was found, Rebecca was rescued." She tightened her grip on his fingers. "The initiative is in our hands now."

The car was quiet for a long time. Charles's breathing shifted from rapid to deep and steady. He leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. Thirty seconds later, he opened them. The bloodshot veins were still there, but his gaze had changed. Water had refilled the riverbed. Ice-cold water.

"Marcus."

Marcus turned around from the front seat.

"Operation codename: 'Closing the Net.'" Charles's voice returned to its usual cold hardness, each word crisp. "Target—Demetrius. Capture plan due by 6 PM today. All evidence chains are packaged and submitted to the prosecutor simultaneously."

He turned to Charlotte. "On Felix's end—everything Rebecca brought out from the underground level of the Bowers Villa and the data from the hard drives, cross-reference it all with the intelligence from Max's Social Club, fifth floor. I want a complete network topology map. From 'Chessboard' to The Grey Wolves to the Bowers family to the Edward family—every node, every dollar, every command flow."

Charlotte nodded.

"Wayne."

Wayne turned from the driver's seat.

"Demetrius. Where is he now?"

Wayne pulled out his phone and scrolled for a few seconds. "The Edward Manor. At 4 AM, he returned from the Bowers Villa to the Edward Manor. He's currently in the butler's room on the first floor."

Fresh blood seeped through Charles's bandage. He didn't look down. "Watch him closely, but don't tip him off."

Wayne nodded.

Charlotte pulled out her phone from her pocket. A new message from Felix. She scanned it, her finger freezing on the screen.

"What is it?" Charles looked over.

Charlotte handed him the phone. On the screen was an internal communication Felix had intercepted, sourced from the Bowers Villa's encrypted channel. It was a list—the confirmed attendance list for tomorrow night's Bowers Group "New Energy Cooperation Launch Event". Orval's name is on the list.

"He only attends one outside event each year." Charlotte's voice dropped. "This Bowers Group launch. He goes as a butler accompanying William. But William isn't going tomorrow night—he declined last week. Demetrius is going alone."

Charles stared at the name on the screen.

"Tomorrow night is the only window to grab him."

Charles and Charlotte locked eyes. Charles's gaze moved from the phone; he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes briefly.

The Bowers Group launch venue was at the Emerald City Eastern Suburbs International Conference Center.

At six in the evening, as Charles got out of the car, Marcus's voice came through his earpiece: "All sixteen sniper positions located. Demetrius's vehicle entered the underground parking garage three minutes ago."

Charles straightened his suit collar. The bandage on his left shoulder created an outline under his shirt. Eddy came out from the lobby to greet him, all smiles, extending his hand. The two walked into the banquet hall side by side.

Felix's voice came through the earpiece: "Kitchen passage secured. I'm heading to the underground garage."

Underground level two, section B. Felix moved along the support columns, silenced pistol held at chest level. Twenty meters ahead, a black Mercedes still had its engine running. The driver's window was halfway down, revealing a square face—Everett. In the passenger seat sat a man in a dark suit, spine straight. Demetrius.

As Felix raised his gun, Eddy's phone rang in the banquet hall. He answered, listened for two seconds, and his expression changed drastically, his gaze shooting toward Charles.

Charles had already drawn his gun from inside his suit.

The gunshot rang out as the glass from the first sniper position on the second floor shattered. Armor-piercing rounds from Marcus's pre-positioned counter-snipers. The banquet hall instantly descended into chaos. Eddy was surrounded by bodyguards retreating backward. Charles's bullet hit the floor in front of him, marble fragments flying.

"Everyone get down!"

In the underground garage, Felix pulled open the Mercedes door. Demetrius sat in the passenger seat, hands folded on his knees, his posture identical to when he served coffee in the Edward Manor dining room.

"Orval." Felix's gun pressed against his temple. "Or should I say, Mr. Demetrius Edward. You're under arrest."

The corner of Demetrius's mouth twitched. No fear, no anger, not even surprise. He slowly turned his head, looking at Felix.

"Young man," his voice was calm as still water, "do you know how many years I've been playing this game?"

"Forty years." Felix pulled him from the car and cuffed his hands behind his back. "Long enough."

As Demetrius was escorted out of the parking garage, he looked up at the sky. Dusk was falling, the last trace of sunset disappearing.

In the banquet hall, Eddy was pressed to the floor. All sixteen sniper positions were cleared in forty-seven seconds. Charles walked up to Eddy and crouched down.

"Your grandfather fought with my grandfather their whole lives. Your father fought with my father their whole lives. By our generation, it should end."

Eddy's face pressed against the cold marble floor, his mouth twitching as if to say something, but ultimately no sound came out.

Charlotte's voice came through the earpiece, "Underground garage secured. Demetrius captured."

Charles stood up, surveying the wrecked banquet hall. The crystal chandelier still shone overhead, illuminating the shattered glass covering the floor. He thought of that night, waking up in the basement at age twelve, thought of the hot milk every morning, thought of the pills Everett handed him, thought of Michael curled up in that iron cage.

"It's over," he said into the earpiece.

Charlotte walked out of the underground garage. The vehicle transporting Demetrius had just driven away. The late spring breeze carried the scent of some distant flowers.

Her phone rang—a video from the nurse. Michael sat on the hospital bed, a bowl of chicken soup in front of him. He held a spoon, feeding himself, movements slow, hands still shaking a bit, but each spoonful made it steadily to his mouth.

The second was a video from Harper. She sat in a wicker chair in the art studio, a drawing board on her knees. The brush moved slowly across the paper, drawing two figures—one large, one small, holding hands.

Charlotte pressed the phone to her chest. She looked up and saw Charles walking out the conference center side door. His suit had lost a button in the chaos, his tie was crooked, and fresh blood seeped through the bandage on his right hand. But his gait was steady, shoulders and back straight, as if he'd set something down.

He walked up to her and stopped.

"Wayne just sent word. The prosecutor's office has accepted all the evidence. Demetrius, Eddy, Everett, and everyone involved with Genetica Synergy—simultaneous arrests tonight."

Charlotte nodded. She wanted to say something, but her throat felt blocked.

Charles looked at her for two seconds, then reached out and removed the tiny camera pinned to her chest pocket—the camera that had captured ten years of evidence on Max's Social Club's fifth floor. He held the camera, turning it over to look at it.

"This is the last time you'll use it. You won't need it anymore."

In the distance, Emerald City's lights came on one by one, like pieces on a chessboard, but the rules of this game had been rewritten.

The car left the conference center, merging into rush hour traffic. Charlotte leaned against the seat and closed her eyes. What flashed through her mind wasn't tonight's gunfire and arrests, but the smiley face in Hayden's notebook: "Charlotte learned to say daddy today."

When she opened her eyes, the car had already entered the hospital parking lot.

The lights in the eighth-floor hallway were set to warm tones. Michael's room door was slightly ajar, soft light from the bedside lamp spilling out. Michael was already asleep, the soup bowl empty. He lay on his side, blanket pulled to his chin, breathing evenly, no furrow between his brows. The heart monitor's light blinked steadily in the darkness—stable, strong.

Charlotte sat down in the chair beside the bed, brushing a strand of hair from Michael's forehead. When her fingers touched his forehead, he didn't startle awake—instead, he nuzzled into her palm.

Very light footsteps sounded in the hallway. Charles stood in the doorway, carrying two paper cups. He placed one on the bedside table, kept the other, and leaned against the doorframe.

"Felix sent word. Demetrius talked during transport. He said he'd been playing this game for forty years, never expected it would be broken by a fifteen-year-old kid. That iron door's passcode—if Michael hadn't memorized the last four digits by sound, you never could have figured it out in sixty seconds."

Charlotte looked down at Michael. His eyelashes fluttered lightly in sleep, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket, the same way he gripped her sleeve when awake.

"He's not a chess piece." Charlotte's voice was soft. "Never was."

Charles didn't speak. He walked over and sat in the chair next to Charlotte. The two sat shoulder to shoulder, watching over that small figure in the bed. The heart monitor continued its steady beeping—not a countdown, but counting up.

Outside the window, Emerald City sank into the night. Fireworks rose in the distance—someone celebrating something. The points of light climbed to their peak, burst open, illuminating half the sky. The fireworks' glow reflected in Charlotte's eyes, flickering.

"Tomorrow I'm picking up Grandma from the hospital," she said.

"I'll go with you."

"Then to the cemetery, to see my parents."

"Okay."

The fireworks burst again. Michael turned over in his sleep, his hand emerging from the blanket to rest on the bed's edge. Charlotte grasped his fingers, tucking his hand into her palm. His hand was small, much smaller than hers. But his palm was warm.

From now on, it would always be warm.