Chapter 203: Without My Permission, You Can't Even Think About Dying

Tara's POV

A sense of unease hung over me as Peter scrolled through the hospital's surveillance footage on his laptop.

We had been working through the night, desperately searching for any clues about Finn's whereabouts. The cold fluorescent lights of the hospital conference room cast harsh shadows across Peter's exhausted face as he paused on a particular frame.

"Look here," he zoomed in on a woman in the bottom right corner. She was dressed in scrubs, moving with purpose, most of her face concealed behind a surgical mask. "This woman appears in footage from several different cameras, always disappearing just before she can be clearly captured. Look at how she moves—she knows exactly where the blind spots are."

I leaned forward to study her posture and movements. Something about her triggered a vague memory.

"Wait," I said suddenly. "Go back to the previous angle."

Peter rewound the footage. I watched as the woman crossed the hallway, her gaze briefly turning toward the camera. Though the mask obscured most of her face, I caught a glimpse of her eyes.

"Stop right there." My voice sharpened. "I know her. That's Karen. She was part of Finn's old gang."

"So your theory was right," Peter said, pointing to the timestamp. "This confirms Finn's disappearance is connected to people from his past. This hospital is miles from their usual territory, yet she happens to be here exactly when Finn is at his most vulnerable."

My fingers drummed against the table as my thoughts raced. "It's more than that, Peter. I think whoever has been targeting Finn may have been around him all along."

Peter frowned. "Around him? You mean Finn becoming the leader of the Dragon gang three years ago wasn't coincidental, but arranged?"

I let out a cold laugh. "Think about it. An amnesiac man, through supposedly 'fortunate circumstances,' gains control of an entire criminal organization. How likely does that sound?"

"Not very," Peter admitted. "Especially for someone barely out of his teens. So someone deliberately positioned Finn as the head of that gang. But why? What would they gain?"

My gaze hardened. "That's the question we'll be asking whoever's been pulling the strings once we find them."

I dispatched several agents to track Karen, but to maintain a reasonable distance. What I wanted was surveillance, not intervention—at least not yet.

"Don't approach her," I instructed Blair over a secure line. "Just monitor her movements. If she leads us to Finn, I want to know immediately, but don't take any action without my explicit authorization."

"Understood," Blair responded. "What if she attempts to contact suspicious individuals?"

"Document everything, but don't intercept. We can't risk spooking her or her associates." I paused, considering. "They've already proven they're willing to take extreme measures. If they feel cornered, they might decide Finn is a liability rather than an asset."

After ending the call, I stared out the window. An unsettling thought had been forming in my mind, growing stronger with each new piece of information.

For three years, Finn had lived as Dragon, leading a criminal organization without apparent issues. Only after reconnecting with me did his troubles begin. The timing couldn't be coincidental.

A suffocating realization hit me: what if Finn wasn't the primary target at all? What if I was? And Finn was merely being used as leverage against me?

If that were true, then everything that had happened to him—his amnesia, his role in the gang, even his current abduction—might ultimately be because of me. The thought sat like a stone in my chest, making each breath a struggle.

Peter's voice broke through my thoughts. "Boss, are you alright?"

I quickly regained my composure. "I'm fine. Let's focus on finding Finn."

---

The days passed with excruciating slowness. Karen's movements showed nothing suspicious—just regular trips between her relative's home and the hospital. On the fifth day, Peter entered my office with a troubled expression.

"Karen has made multiple trips to the hospital," he reported, placing a folder on my desk. "I got suspicious, so I had our contact there pull her medical records."

I opened the folder, scanning the documents inside. "Cancer?"

Peter nodded grimly. "Terminal. According to her oncologist, she doesn't have much time left. That's why she's been at the hospital—for treatment."

I closed the folder, my movements betraying skepticism. "You believe this?"

"Her medical records look legitimate. The doctor confirmed her diagnosis, and she's been receiving appropriate treatment. I'm starting to think her presence at the hospital during Finn's disappearance might just be coincidental."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really, Peter? After working with me for so long, you still accept things at face value so quickly?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I just—"

"It's too early to draw any conclusions," I cut him off. "I'll verify her condition myself tonight."

---

At midnight, I slipped silently into the modest apartment Karen shared with a relative. The building's security system was laughably easy to bypass. Her relative—a middle-aged woman who appeared to be her cousin—slept soundly in one bedroom, the sleeping pill I had dissolved in her evening tea hours earlier having done its work.

Karen's room was at the end of the hallway. I entered noiselessly, noting the medical equipment beside her bed—an oxygen concentrator, an IV stand, a medication dispenser filled with prescription bottles. Everything consistent with what you'd expect for a terminal cancer patient.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake as I approached, even as I examined her closely, checking vital signs and observing physical symptoms. Her skin did have the pallor common to cancer patients, her pulse was irregular, her breathing shallow.

To an untrained eye, she presented a convincing picture of terminal illness. But I wasn't untrained.

I prepared a syringe and drew a blood sample, watching her face for any reaction. She remained deeply asleep, either genuinely exhausted or very good at pretending. Either way, it served my purpose.

Before leaving, I injected her with a mild sedative, ensuring she wouldn't wake too early and discover the almost invisible needle mark from the blood draw.

Back in my laboratory, I put the blood sample through comprehensive testing. The preliminary results seemed to confirm her diagnosis—elevated white blood cell count, anemia, abnormal liver function. All consistent with advanced cancer and the side effects of chemotherapy.

But something felt off. I trusted my instincts enough to dig deeper.

I subjected the sample to more specialized analysis, the kind that could detect subtle chemical markers indicating artificially induced symptoms. It was a technique I had developed myself, capable of identifying complex compounds that standard medical tests couldn't detect.

Hours later, as dawn broke, the final results appeared on my screen. A grim smile of satisfaction spread across my face.

"I knew you couldn't be innocent," I murmured to the empty lab.

The blood contained traces of a complex drug cocktail specifically designed to mimic cancer symptoms—from the pallor of the skin to the irregular heartbeat to the abnormal blood tests. It was a sophisticated deception, one that would fool most medical professionals.

But not me.

"Karen," I said to the empty room, "let's see who's pulling your strings."

---

The following evening, I returned to Karen's apartment, determined to confront her. This time, I didn't bother concealing my presence. I had questions that needed answers, and I had waited long enough.

As I approached her door, I heard distressed sounds from within—rapid breathing, a choked sob, followed by the clatter of something metallic.

I pressed my ear to the door, focusing my hearing. Something wasn't right.

Through the small gap beneath the door, I caught a glimpse of movement—Karen kneeling on the floor, a long knife poised above her chest, both hands gripping the handle.

I didn't hesitate. One powerful kick, and the wood around the lock splintered, the door swinging open with a bang.

Karen's head snapped up at the sound, her eyes filled with shock and desperation. But she didn't stop—if anything, she moved faster, driving the knife toward her heart.

"I don't think so," I said coldly, already in motion. "You don't get to die without my permission."

I grabbed a heavy crystal paperweight from a nearby shelf and threw it with precision. It struck Karen's wrist, sending the knife clattering to the floor.

She immediately lunged for the weapon, desperation making her movements frantic. I was faster, stepping forward and firmly planting my foot on the blade just as her fingers brushed against it.

"I said," I pressed down harder, making her wince in pain, "you don't get to die without my permission."

Karen looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and defiance. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Who do you think you are?"

"Forgotten already?" I grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at me. My eyes narrowed dangerously. "Karen, it's been a while!"

Panic flashed across her face, but she quickly composed herself. "Oh, you're that girl they gave to Dragon! That wasn't my idea. I was just following orders. If you want revenge, don't come after me—go after him!"

I patted her cheek lightly, the gesture more insulting than painful. "How clever. But Karen, I'm not here to watch you perform. You know perfectly well why I'm here, so let's skip the unnecessary dialogue. I don't have the time or patience."

She continued her innocent act. "If you're not here for revenge, then what? That incident is the only connection between us!"

"You enjoy playing dumb, don't you?" I nodded slowly. "Fine. Since you're so fond of performances, let's put on a show. I believe your husband and son would make an excellent audience."