The Laurent Estate didn't look like a fortress anymore. It looked like a tomb.
In the wake of the "Red Protocol" explosion at the docks, every security detail, every armored SUV, and every drone had been diverted to the harbor to fish for bodies. The grand iron gates stood slightly ajar, the golden "L" monogram flickering under a dying streetlight.
The silence was heavier than the noise.
Ren stepped out of the shadows of the tree line, his clothes clinging to his skin, dripping river water onto the manicured gravel. Beside him, Jace moved with a limp, his jaw set in a hard line, his hand never leaving the grip of the revolver tucked into his damp waistband.
"It's too quiet, Ren," Jace whispered, his breath hitching. "Even for a distraction, this feels like a trap."
"He thinks he's won, Jace," Ren said, his voice as hollow as the mansion's foyer. "He thinks he's watching the news of our 'tragic' death on every channel. He's not waiting for an attack. He's celebrating a funeral."
They didn't go through the front. Ren led them to the rose garden, to a small, ivy-covered servant's entrance that had been painted over years ago. He pressed his thumb against a hidden biometric pad—one his father had forgotten to de-authorize because he assumed Ren was too "refined" to ever use the service tunnels.
Click.
The door groaned open.
Inside, the mansion smelled of floor wax and expensive Scotch. The red emergency lights were still spinning, casting long, bloody shadows across the marble floors.
They moved through the kitchen, through the grand dining hall where Ren had spent a thousand lonely dinners, and up the spiral staircase. Every step was a heartbeat. Every shadow was a ghost.
They reached the double doors of the Master Study.
Inside, the sound of a cello was playing—a recording of Ren's mother. It was beautiful, haunting, and completely disconnected from the violence of the night.
Ren pushed the doors open.
Arthur Laurent was sitting in his leather wingback chair, his back to the door. He had a glass of 50-year-old Macallan in one hand and a remote control in the other. On the massive wall of monitors, the news was showing the burning radio tower.
"...authorities have yet to recover the bodies of billionaire heir Ren Laurent and his captor..." the news anchor was saying.
"It's a shame, really," Arthur said to the empty room, his voice thick with the satisfaction of a man who had just balanced his books. "You were such a beautiful investment, Ren. But even the best stocks have to be sold when they become a liability."
"I was never an investment, Arthur," Ren said, his voice cutting through the cello music like a blade.
The glass in Arthur's hand shattered against the floor.
The chair spun around. Arthur's face went from triumph to a grey, sickly mask of terror in a fraction of a second. He looked at Ren—at the black hair, the wet clothes, and the cold, dead eyes—and let out a strangled gasp.
"You..." Arthur stammered, his hands clawing at the armrests. "You're dead. I saw the explosion. I saw the fall!"
"You saw what I wanted you to see," Ren said, stepping into the room.
Jace followed, his revolver raised, the barrel leveled directly at Arthur's chest. "The 'kidnapper' says hello, Mr. Laurent."
"Get out!" Arthur shrieked, reaching for the panic button on his desk. "Security! Miller! Someone!"
"They're at the docks, Arthur," Ren said, walking to the desk and calmly placing his hand over the panic button. "Looking for a boy who doesn't exist anymore. You're alone."
Ren leaned over the desk, his face inches from his father's. "I didn't come here to kill you, Arthur. That would be too easy. That would be a mercy."
Ren pulled a small, water-damaged USB drive from his pocket—the one Sophie had handed him before the jump.
"The 'Red Protocol' gave me access to your private server for exactly three minutes while you were tracking my location," Ren whispered. "I don't just have the 'Ghost of Berlin' fund records. I have the offshore accounts. The bribes. The names of every politician you've bought for the last two decades."
Arthur's eyes darted to the USB. "You wouldn't... the scandal would destroy the name. You'd be a beggar, Ren! You'd have nothing!"
"I already have nothing," Ren said, a terrifyingly calm smile spreading across his face. "And that's why I'm the most dangerous person in this room."
A soft beep came from the computer on the desk.
"Ren," Jace said, looking at the monitors. "We have company. But it's not the guards."
On the security cameras, three black sedans with government plates were pulling into the driveway. Not contractors. Internal Affairs.
"They saw the livestream, Arthur," Ren said, stepping back from the desk. "And they didn't like what they saw. You have thirty seconds to decide: do you want to be arrested by the men you pay, or the men you can't?"
Arthur looked at the gun, then at the USB, then at the blue and red lights flashing against the mansion's windows.
He reached for the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Ren, move!" Jace yelled.