Chapter 77
A professional coolness glinted in Lynx's eyes. "Yes. The toxin is codenamed 'Silence.' It takes effect gradually within forty-eight hours of injection. Initial symptoms include a burning sensation and hallucinations, culminating in the complete and irreversible paralysis and fibrosis of the vocal cords. It requires a specific trigger to activate, making it nearly undetectable when mixed into food or beverages."
"Excellent." Elizabeth leaned back against the plush upholstery, her gaze fixed on the city skyline blurring past the window. "Vivian requires special care, doesn't she? Have our people deliver this particular brand of 'care' when they handle her meals. Let's schedule it for tomorrow evening. Charles just had my lawyer killed; he must be in quite a good mood. This gift for his daughter should help him cool down."
"Understood," Lynx confirmed, noting the directive. "Do we need Vivian to know it came from us?"
"Not explicitly," Elizabeth said, her voice a low murmur. "But I want her to feel the connection, to sense that this is linked to her father's recent activities. Some things don't need to be spelled out. When events like these happen in succession, she'll connect the dots herself." She intended to plant a seed of suspicion and fear, letting it sprout and fester between the father and daughter.
The car glided smoothly toward the Stellar Training Center.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, but the image that bloomed in the darkness of her mind was vivid: Vivian, her mouth agape in terror, able to produce nothing but a desperate, hoarse gasp.
An eye for an eye. Charles had someone's tongue cut; his daughter would lose her voice forever.
Elizabeth even felt a perverse sense of fairness in it. After all, the other person had lost their life. Vivian was only losing her ability to speak.
Stellar Training Center, Private Training Floor, Sub-level Three.
Elizabeth had changed into a black athletic tank top and form-fitting leggings, her long hair pulled back into a severe, practical ponytail. She was relentlessly pummeling a heavy bag, each punch a contained explosion of her suppressed fury.
The muffled thuds echoed in the cavernous space, a rhythm of barely controlled rage.
Mr. Miller's lifeless eyes, the crimson warning scrawled in blood on the table, Charles's triumphant, insidious smirk—the images collided in her head, channeling themselves into the raw power that erupted from her arms.
Sweat traced lines down her temples and the nape of her neck, darkening the fabric of her top.
Her gaze was sharp, her movements swift, and while they may have lacked refined technique, they were imbued with a reckless, desperate ferocity.
"New here? You're really going at it?" A flippant voice drifted from the entrance.
Elizabeth didn't pause, didn't even turn her head. She unleashed another vicious swing, and the heavy bag groaned under the impact as if protesting the abuse.
The newcomer, apparently feeling ignored, drew closer, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the polished concrete.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth registered a group of young men clad in flashy, expensive sportswear. The one in the lead wore a smirk he clearly thought was charming, but his eyes were a greasy slick, sliding over the curves of her body, which were accentuated by the sheen of her sweat.
He looked vaguely familiar.
She finally stopped, grabbing a nearby towel to wipe her face and neck. Her breathing was slightly ragged, her chest rising and falling with the exertion.
"Hey, beautiful. It's no fun training alone, is it? How about I teach you a few practical moves?" The leader purred, stepping closer still. The cloying scent of his cheap cologne was an assault on the senses. Behind him, his companions snickered amongst themselves.
Elizabeth remembered. It was the rich kid from the masquerade ball, the one she had thrown up on before Pacquiao's men dragged him away.
She'd heard someone call him Darren. Clearly, the lesson from that night hadn't stuck, and without her mask, he didn't recognize her.
"Get out of my way," Elizabeth said, her voice ice. She had no time to waste on someone like him.
"Feisty, aren't we?" Instead of moving, Darren closed the remaining distance, his invasive cologne now almost suffocating.
"You know whose territory this is? Spar with me, and I'll make sure you're taken care of around here." He reached out, his hand aiming for her shoulder.
The instant his fingertips were about to brush against the damp fabric of her tank top, Elizabeth moved.
She didn't use her hands, didn't even glance at his outstretched arm. Her right leg whipped out like a lash, a lightning-fast kick that struck the nerve cluster on the outside of Darren's calf with brutal precision.
He hadn't seen it coming. A cry of agony tore from his throat as a jolt of pain and numbness shot up his leg, forcing him to drop to one knee.
His friends were stunned into inaction, their smirks frozen on their faces.
Elizabeth's motion was fluid, continuous. She pivoted on the ball of her foot, her left elbow ramming into the stomach of another man who had started to lunge forward.
He let out a choked grunt and doubled over, clutching his midsection.
A third man threw a clumsy punch, which Elizabeth easily ducked under before driving the blade of her right hand into the side of his neck.
The force was controlled, not enough to cause serious injury, but sufficient to make his vision spot with black as he staggered backward.
The entire exchange lasted no more than six seconds.
Darren was still on the floor, cradling his leg and whimpering in pain. One of his friends was curled up on the ground, the other leaning against a wall, dry-heaving.
The few other patrons in the training area had long since stopped their own workouts, their mouths hanging open as they stared at the scene.
Elizabeth stood her ground, her breathing now calmer and more even than it had been while she was hitting the bag.
She looked down at the kneeling Darren, her expression a blank slate of cold indifference.
"You hit me?!" Darren stammered, his face a mottled shade of purple from a cocktail of pain and fury. "Do you have any idea who I am? My uncle is a shareholder here!"
Elizabeth's eyebrow arched slightly. She bent down, picked up her towel, and began slowly wiping her hands. "Then have your uncle come find me."
"You just wait! I'm calling him right now! And the Smith family! You're dead!" Darren blustered, fumbling for his phone with a bravado he clearly didn't feel.
Just then, the facility manager, a trim middle-aged man, came rushing over with two security guards in tow. His eyes took in the scene—Darren on the floor, Elizabeth standing over him—and his face paled instantly.
"What happened?" The manager asked, hurrying to help Darren up before casting a nervous glance at Elizabeth. "Madam, are you alright?"
"Madam?" Darren, now on his feet, blinked in confusion before his anger surged anew. "Mr. Davis, what did you call her? She ambushed me! Arrest her!"
Mr. Davis broke into a cold sweat, mentally cursing Darren for his idiocy. It was one thing for the boy to throw his weight around because of his family's minor stake in the center, but to pick a fight with this particular person was monumental stupidity.
"You misunderstand!" The manager hissed, lowering his voice urgently. "This is Ms. Windsor. Mr. Smith himself gave instructions that she is to be treated as a priority guest!"
"Mr. Smith?" Darren repeated, his mind slow to catch up. "Which Mr. Smith?"
The manager looked as if he wanted to physically clamp a hand over the boy's mouth. He practically ground the name out through his teeth. "Jacob. Mr. Smith."
"Jacob?!" The color drained from Darren's face as if a plug had been pulled. The arrogant bluster vanished without a trace, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated terror.
He stared at Elizabeth in disbelief, his eyes finally taking in her features properly.
The sharp line of her jaw from the masquerade—the woman who had both intrigued and utterly humiliated him—slowly merged with the sweat-slicked, defined face before him.
It was her. The woman Pacquiao had personally defended. The woman Jacob had left with.
He had been hustled away so quickly that night and later warned by his family to never speak of the incident again, so he never learned her identity. He had just assumed she was some nobody who had managed to catch a big fish. He never could have imagined…
Thinking of Jacob's chilling reputation, Darren's legs went weak, and he nearly collapsed to his knees again.
Elizabeth paid no mind to his rapidly shifting expressions. She tossed her towel into a nearby receptacle and addressed Mr. Davis directly. "The facility is nice," she said calmly, "but it seems some trash needs to be cleaned out occasionally."
Mr. Davis bowed immediately. "Yes, Madam. I understand completely. I am so sorry for the disturbance you experienced today. We will strengthen our management protocols to ensure nothing like this ever happens again."
Elizabeth gave a curt nod. Without another glance at the ashen-faced Darren or his two petrified friends, she turned and walked toward the showers.
Behind her, she could hear Mr. Davis's stern, hushed reprimand, punctuated by Darren's incoherent excuses and pathetic pleas.