The slitted eyes blazed.

For a moment, the air around him thickened. The glass beneath his palm groaned, hairline fractures spidering outward from the pressure of fingers that were on the verge of changing into claws.

"Wait until I wake up completely..." ’Grayson’s voice trailed off.

The fire in those slitted eyes dimmed, flickered, and went out like a candle smothered under a glass.

’Grayson’ swayed once, then his body went limp against the window frame, head lolling forward.

Silence.

○●○●

When Grayson came to, his head was pounding like a hangover when he hadn’t drunk any alcohol.

His mouth tasted like copper. His nape throbbed with a dull, residual heat, the black mole still tender but no longer burning.

Grayson quickly checked the time.

Not much had passed.

The relief that washed through him was thin and bitter, because ’not much time’ still meant there was time that had been lost and forgotten.

Grayson pressed his fingers to his nape and inhaled sharply through his teeth. The skin was hot to the touch, but there were no visible changes. No signs that anyone outside this room would notice.

Grayson exhaled.

He needed to message Thiago as soon as he had some free time.

It was getting worse.

This thing really needed to be cured, fast.

Grayson pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the walk-in closet, and changed.

Dark coat. Reinforced boots.

He left the penthouse without looking back at the cracked glass of the window.

○●○●

The hovercar cut through the Xylos night sky in near-silence. Grayson piloted manually since private hover cars don’t allow automated locating devices near any highly protected facilities.

The Mecha Research Institute came into view below, and the sight of it made Grayson realize the extent of the situation.

The building—or what remained of it—was a charcoal skeleton against the moonlit sky. The pale light of the twin moons of Xylos illuminated the place, highlighting the area.

The explosion had done more than damage the structure; it had partially liquefied it.

Reinforced walls, rated to withstand orbital bombardment, had melted and resolidified into grotesque, organic shapes drooping like candle wax, frozen mid-drip.

Structural beams jutted out at angles, their ends glowing a faint, dying orange where the heat hadn’t fully dissipated.

The air above the wreckage shimmered with residual thermal distortion, making the moonlight wavy and uncertain.

Emergency floodlights had been set up in a perimeter, their harsh white beams cutting through the haze and casting everything into clear view.

It highlighted every crack in the foundation, every blackened piece of rubble, every scorch mark that radiated outward from the epicenter.

Whatever had caused this, it was no ordinary explosive. The heat signature alone suggested military-grade ordnance, the kind of thing you couldn’t purchase on the black market—requisitioned straight from an armory.

Grayson set the hovercar down in the cleared zone north of the main entrance and killed the engine.

He could already see from here Pete Rowan waiting from afar.

Pete Rowan stood near the entrance checkpoint, flanked by military personnel in full tactical gear.

Even from a distance, he could see that Pete Rowan’s lab coat was dusted with ash. His usually calm demeanor was gone, having a meaningless verbal fight with the personnel guarding the gate.

The military men beside him stood as they were trained. Exerting authority through posture alone—backs straight, hands at their sides, eyes forward, weapons holstered but visible. Their expressions were carefully blank as they argued back with Pete Rowan.

Grayson stepped out of the hovercar, and the night air hit him.

But he smelled something wrong alongside it. There was the burnt metal, ozone, and underneath it was the faint, sickly, and unmistakable scent of charred flesh.

As soon as Grayson smelled it, his eyes changed to those of the military men.

Pete Rowan broke away from the guards and hurried over, falling into step beside Grayson. His voice was low, rapid, pitched for Grayson’s ears alone.

"Three more bodies identified since we spoke. That brings the confirmed count to fourteen. The ones that were blown clear of the building during the initial explosion were identifiable from dental records and gene chips. But the ones still inside—" Pete Rowan paused, something flickering behind his eyes. "The fire damage is extensive. The recovery teams are still working."

Grayson said nothing, letting Pete Rowan fill the silence.

"A few employees who had stepped out for a break outside the facility came back and found the building already engulfed in flames. The explosions were sequential, not simultaneous. First the lower levels, then the mains, then the upper floors. Whoever planned this wanted maximum structural collapse. Wanted the building to fold in on itself." Pete Rowan glanced sideways at Grayson. "Designed to kill everyone inside before anyone could reach an exit."

"Sequential detonation," Grayson said quietly. "Pre-placed charges."

"That’s what the preliminary blast analysis suggests. Which means someone had infiltrated the building and mapped out the building’s interior long before today."

"They don’t fear authorities, given how they decided to enact their plan in broad daylight," Grayson said and then asked. "What about the bodies that were cut?"

"That’s the part that doesn’t fit the bombing narrative. After learning that a woman in the basement was missing, it was concluded to be an abduction gone wrong, resorting to bombing one of the mechas, which resulted in chain bombing."

Grayson raised an eyebrow.

Pete Rowan pursed his lips, "I know it didn’t make sense at all."

"But it was ultimately trash in the end because of the new evidence at hand."

Pete Rowan’s expression tightened.

"Several of the recovered remains—hands, a head, partial limbs—were severed too cleanly and not torn by the blast, and not crushed by debris. Cut. A clean cut of something sharp, precise, and very fast. If you compared them to the blast victims around, the difference became immediately obvious."

"Someone killed them before the explosion."

"Someone killed them and planted the bombs, using the explosion to remove any remaining traces." Pete corrected grimly. "The blast damage on the severed pieces suggests they were exposed to the initial detonation after their corpse stiffened up, but not completely. Which means whoever did the cutting was still in the building before the explosion happened—and left after taking their objective."

Whoever had breached the facility had been skilled enough to move through a building that was literally exploding around them, kill people with something like a blade.

They knew where Lilianna was exactly located, took Lilianna out, and escaped—all without leaving so much as a blood trail of their own or at least Lilianna’s blood since she hadn’t healed from her wounds.

Grayson and Pete’s footsteps crunched over shattered debris as they moved further from the entrance checkpoint. The emergency floodlights turned the scene into a harsh white and deep black. Just ahead of them was the ruined building. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Then they stopped on their tracks.

Not because they had reached another checkpoint. But because, not too far ahead from them and slightly to the left of the main cordon, two figures were standing in a conversation.

One was a man looking like he was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, standing with the particular kind of posture of a nobility.

It was Baron Geron Gringer—Lilianna’s father.

His face was ashen beneath the floodlights, the deep lines around his mouth carved deeper by grief and fury and the cold understanding that his daughter had been taken away.

The other was younger, taller, and carried himself with the loose-limbed ease. His golden hair had dimmed to brass under the artificial light. His golden eyes that caught the light glinted more sharply.

It was General Xavier Hunter.

Xavier’s posture was deceptively relaxed—weight on one leg, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he listened to the Baron speak.

Pete Rowan stopped beside him. "This is going to be unpleasant."

"Worse," Grayson said.

Baron Gringer stopped mid-sentence; his voice was loud in a way that made people naturally listen to them. His tone was the desperate terror of a father whose child had vanished.

Xavier, to his credit, appeared to be listening with his utmost attention.

His golden eyes took a quick glance at Grayson’s direction the moment Grayson and Pete came close, all without breaking eye contact with the Baron. Xavier had probably already heard that Grayson had arrived from his subordinates.

Pete Rowan cleared his throat and asked quietly. "How do you want to handle this?"

Grayson straightened his coat. Rolled his neck once. Felt the residual ache of the black mole on his nape, still tender, still warm.

"Let’s go," he said.

And walked toward them.

Xavier’s golden eyes followed them, and Baron Gringer naturally noticed.

Baron Gringer turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, and the expression that crossed his face was exactly what Grayson had expected—recognition, rage, and a white-knuckled restraint.

Baron Gringer was currently holding himself back from hitting Grayson right now.

"CEO Maxwell," Xavier spoke first and greeted him with his warm voice. "Appreciate you coming out at this hour."

"General Hunter." Grayson matched his tone—calm, cordial, and unhurried.

Then, he turned to Baron Gringer. "Baron Gringer."