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In that luxuriously decorated office, Drake C. Simmons hung up the last congratulatory call from the President's Office, but his face showed no joy; instead, it carried a hint of unmistakable irritation.
He walked slowly to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city lit by countless brilliant lights, his brows tightly furrowed.
All subsequent plans were completely disrupted by this sudden "Heaven's Punishment."
"Idiot," Simmons cursed under his breath.
Threatening the world with viral missiles for money? Such a crude, amateurish method, like something out of a third-rate horror movie.
True power is never obtained through threats.
Tomorrow morning, he, Drake C. Simmons, would become the national hero who turned the tide and stopped a global biohazard.
This paved the way for his return to the Peak of power, but Simmons felt a sense of emptiness.
Bestowed power is, after all, fake.
Just like everything he previously owned, stripped away mercilessly by the "Family" because of a minor error in choosing sides.
Kicked out of that circle like a dog, he could only accumulate strength in the shadows, waiting for a chance to return to the table.
This "hero" title was just a bone thrown to him by those high-and-mighty old men.
He didn't want a bone.
He wanted to be the one who decided who was qualified to eat the meat.
Morpheus' death served as a reminder.
Although that lunatic was stupid, he got one step right—he tried to truly grasp power in his own hands.
Simmons' gaze fell on the computer screen.
He was smarter than Morpheus.
He wouldn't be so foolish as to make an enemy of the whole world.
What he wanted to do was create a controlled crisis, and then step forward as a savior to provide the only "antidote."
By then, the entire world would crawl at his feet, begging for the grace of "evolution."
All he needed was a new, more obedient, and more perfect... vessel... Three days later, New York Kennedy International Airport.
Sunlight flooded the departure hall through the massive glass curtain walls; the place was bustling with people and full of vitality.
Bruce MacWeen, the top agent who had been so rebellious during the mission, now looked like a clumsy boy experiencing love for the first time, standing before Phoenix Bell and appearing completely at a loss.
"So... about that application for the position of American boyfriend..." He scratched his unruly blonde hair, his tone carrying a rare sense of seriousness and expectation.
"How long is the review process? I mean, do I need to submit any supplementary Materials, like my mission reports or medical certificates?"
Phoenix Bell looked at his facade of composure, and a rare smile appeared on her usually frost-cold face.
She took a business card from her pocket and handed it over.
"The mission is over, Agent MacWeen," her voice was still cool, but not as distant as before.
"For future contact, please use official channels. Unless..."
She paused, meeting Bruce's instantly brightening gaze, her red lips parting slightly.
"...there is an unofficial emergency that needs handling."
Bruce took the card, which bore only the BSAA logo, a name, and an encrypted email address, as if he were receiving a rare treasure.
"Understood!" He immediately straightened his back and gave a flawless military salute. "Mission guaranteed!"
Phoenix Bell nodded slightly to him and then, without any hesitation, walked toward the international boarding gate for flights to the East, her efficient-looking figure soon disappearing into the crowd.
Bruce held the salute until he could no longer see her figure, then let out a long breath, his expression a mix of excitement at getting his wish and a hint of melancholy for the long road ahead.
"Hey, buddy," Noah walked over and patted his shoulder. "Looks like you're going to be busy."
"Can't be helped," Bruce shrugged, returning to his cynical self. He turned to Noah and extended his hand.
"Thanks for this time. Next time you plan to duel some King of Lightning, give me a heads-up so I can bring a larger caliber gun... or just run further away."
"I hope there isn't a next time," Noah shook his hand firmly.
Their debriefing reports had long been completed, and everything that happened on the island was sealed at the highest level of classification.
To the outside world, they had simply succeeded in stopping a terrorist attack.
Those god-and-demon-like battles and powers beyond common sense would forever remain secrets known only to a few.
"Take care."
"You too."
After a simple farewell, Bruce headed toward his flight to Washington.
Noah also turned and walked toward the direction of home.
Only one thought remained in his heart.
Go home.
He wanted to properly accompany his pregnant wife, that brave and gentle woman.
And that mischievous and cute Sherry, who had now grown into a young lady.
The moment Noah opened the door to his villa with his fingerprint, the fatigue of the journey and the grimness of the mission were instantly swept away by the warm atmosphere.
The lights weren't on in the living room; only the afterglow of the sunset filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading a layer of warm gold on the floor.
A familiar figure stood quietly by the window.
"Claire," Noah called out softly.
Claire turned around, and the moment she saw Noah, uncontrollable joy and relief flooded her sapphire-like eyes.
She didn't speak, but quickly walked over and hugged him tightly.
Noah could clearly feel that her curves were a bit fuller and softer than half a month ago, a softness belonging to a mother.
"I'm back," he whispered in her ear.
This embrace was worth more than a thousand words.
"Hmph! So you still know how to come back!" a voice filled with a bit of pouty dissatisfaction came from the stairs.
Sherry, wearing casual home clothes, ran down from upstairs. She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Noah with feigned anger.
"You said you'd be back soon, but you made us worry for so long! And look at you, you've gotten yourself covered in injuries again!"
Her gaze fell on Noah's right arm, which was still wrapped in bandages.
Looking at the girl who had already grown into a young lady, Noah smiled and opened his other arm.
The "anger" on Sherry's face vanished instantly, and she gave a cheer, throwing herself into Noah's arms like a young swallow returning to the forest.
"Welcome home, Brother Noah!"
Claire let go and walked to Noah's side, gently helping him take off his coat. Her fingertips inadvertently brushed over the thick bandages on his arm, a flash of heartache in her eyes.
"I'm fine," Noah held her hand, conveying reassurance through his eyes.
Sherry brought a cup of steaming lemon tea from the kitchen, and the Family sat around the soft sofa.
They didn't talk about the dangers of the mission or ask about the details of his absence; they just chatted about the most ordinary household chores.
Noah leaned back on the sofa, feeling the warmth of Claire's body on his left and seeing Sherry's bright smile on his right. Listening to their crisp laughter, he felt an unprecedented sense of stability and peace.
This was the world he was willing to give everything to protect... Meanwhile, in a minimalist office.
Trant sat behind his desk, quietly looking at the black computer screen in front of him.
There were no images on the screen, only rows of cold data streams refreshing at high speed.
Suddenly, a communication request of the highest encryption level popped up.
Trant pressed the connect button.
A new line of text appeared in the center of the screen.
[Target: Kandy Muller.]
[Location: Republic of Edonia, border town.]
[Status: Struggling to survive with target's son, Jake Muller (10 years old).]
Below the text, a new file window popped up.
It was a piece of rough-quality video secretly filmed with a telephoto lens.
The background of the video was a dusty, dilapidated neighborhood in Edonia.
A thin boy who looked to be only about ten years old, with short blonde hair, was surrounded by three adult men much taller than him.
One of the men impatiently pushed the boy.
In the next second, the boy moved.
His movement was so fast it was almost a blur; it was just a simple punch.
The burly man, who weighed at least over two hundred pounds, was thrown back like a discarded rag doll, screaming as he crashed through an earthen wall and was knocked unconscious on the spot.
The other two men were terrified into a daze by this horrific scene.
The video ended there.
[Preliminary Assessment: Target's son Jake Muller has displayed physical fitness and strength far beyond ordinary people; highly active unknown mutation factors exist in his genes.]
Trant looked at the video expressionlessly, his finger subconsciously rubbing his ring.
He slowly typed a command on the keyboard.
[Initiate Contact Protocol.]
A response appeared on the screen immediately.
[Protocol initiated.]
[Personnel dispatched: 'Nyx', in position.]
Trant closed the communication.
The black screen reflected only his face, which was as undisturbed as an ancient well.
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