Mohamad is already on his feet.
Dr. Fleming rushes in. "I heard—"
"Come."
The attending surgeon disappears with her into the operating room.
The doors shut.
Silence. Mohamad doesn't move. His gaze stays fixed on the red light above the door. Unblinking.
Jason watches him. Searches his face. He wants to ask— Are you sure? But the words don't come.
Because there's nothing left in Mohamad's expression to answer them.
So Jason sits. Pulls out his laptop. Opens a blank document.
Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care.
Effective immediately.
The cursor blinks. Jason exhales slowly. It begins. The first line—crossed.
"Kidney."
The word breaks the silence.
Jason looks up.
Mohamad hasn't moved. But something in his voice— hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. "Do it." The words don't sound like him. Too quiet.
Jason still.
Because he understands exactly what that means. And that—
that shouldn't be possible. Not for him. The black market. Organ harvesting. Everything they built—was meant to destroy it. His father's world.
MM Corp—was the answer to that.
Jason's gaze drops for a second. To memory. It didn't start as an empire.
It started as precision. A single compound. Then another. Then a system.
Mohamad didn't just create drugs. He created outcomes. Targeted. Controlled. Predictable. Nothing outsourced.
Nothing left to chance.
Jason had helped it grow. Not fast. Not reckless. Deliberate.
Hospitals—first for testing. Then for control. Patient intake. Treatment protocols. Data flow. A closed loop.
Real estate—not for profit. For placement. Clinics. Labs. Recovery centers... exactly where they needed to be.
Banking—the final layer. Because money was the only variable they didn't own. After that—they did. From the outside, it looked like expansion. Strategy. Vision.
It wasn't. Every piece. Every system. Every acquisition—built toward one thing. Leverage. A machine large enough—quiet enough—to one day turn on the man who taught him what power really was.
Jason exhales slowly. Because this—this is what it was all for. To eliminate desperation.
To make sure no one ever had to buy a life—at the cost of another. That was the point.
And now—Jason looks back up. Mohamad stands there. Still. Unmoved. Do it.
Jason's chest tightens. For the first time—Mohamad isn't using the system he built. He's bypassing it.
Breaking it. For her. Another line—crossed.
###
"D." Footsteps hit the stairs—fast. His right-hand man drops beside him, laptop already open. "There's a request. Urgent. Kidney transplant. Blood type—AB negative."A beat. "They sent full compatibility data. Clean. Verified."
D doesn't move. Doesn't need to.
"You were right," the left-hand man says, already stepping in. "What's the call?"
The screen reflects in D's eyes. Scrolling data. Medical reports. Crossmatch. Tissue typing. Real.
Immediate.
"Holy— the reward's—"
"Find it."
The word cuts clean. The room stills. Because that's not the command they expected. Normally—
this gets pushed out. Distributed. Auctioned through channels. Let the network fight over it. D doesn't do that.
"Now." He adds. That's enough. Three men move instantly—chairs scraping, phones already in hand as they scatter.
But this time—it's different. Because it's not a job. Not a transaction. It's her.
"D…" His right-hand man doesn't look up this time. His hand hovers over the keyboard.
Still. "There's… a message."
Something in his voice—off. D steps closer. Close enough to see the screen. One name.
JR
D goes still. "Fuck."
###
This is a violation of informed consent. Jason knows it the second the idea is spoken.
"Ace, I know this isn't—"
"Sign it." Mohamad steps into her line of sight, voice cold, absolute.
Her eyes are unfocused. Pupils slow. The painkillers have done their job—too well. Jason hesitates for half a second. Then he places the pen in her hand. She signs. Not clean. Not steady. But close enough.
Jason takes the page, comparing it to the signatures on file for Project Eve. Same structure. Same stroke pattern. Legally… defensible. Arguable, at least. He swaps the blank page with the Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care.
"Sign it," Mohamad says again.
Jason watches. Her hand moves. Slower this time. The pen drags slightly before completing the signature.
Done. Jason exhales quietly, folding the document with precise care. His gaze shifts back to her.
Dazed. Medicated. Disoriented. And still—she listens to him. Still responds to him. Still does exactly as he says.
Jason's jaw tightens. He doesn't know whether to admire that… or be concerned by it. Now he understands why she's here. Mohamad said she ran into the alley—pushed him out of the car's path. Saved him.
But Jason's mind doesn't settle there. Because the question isn't what happened. It's intent. Who was the real target? Who was actually saved? …and what, exactly, was taken in exchange?
"Sleep." Mohamad's voice drops—low, quiet. Not a command this time. Something else.
His hand comes up, brushing along her cheek. Ace exhales softly. Her body slackens. Then—stillness.
Jason freezes. He's seen Mohamad angry. Controlled. Ruthless. He's seen him dismantle men twice his size without raising his voice. But this—This is different. Dangerous in a way Jason doesn't have a framework for.
Mohamad doesn't look away. His thumb traces her skin again. Slower now. Careful. Like she might break.
And then Jason sees it. Not in the touch. Not in the words. In what's missing. The calculation is gone. The distance. The control. There's no performance here. No strategy. Just… him.
Jason's breath stills. Because Mohamad doesn't know. Doesn't know it's showing.Doesn't know that every movement—every pause—every second he lingers—gives him away. Completely. Utterly. Gone for her.
Mohamad's gaze lifts. Like he's only now registering that Jason is still there. His hand withdraws. The softness vanishes. By the time he straightens, the stoic mask is back in place—seamless, impenetrable. He turns and walks out of the private suite. Jason follows.
"Destroy all digital records of her visit." The order lands without warning.
Jason stops mid-step. Turns.
Mohamad faces him. "Transfer her physical file into Project Eve."
Jason's mind moves instantly—NDAs, restricted access tiers, compartmentalization protocols. Everyone in Project Eve is bound. Including him.
So this isn't about secrecy. It's about containment.
"Reformulate Estravax into oral contraceptive format. No labeling. Have it prescribed to her."
Jason blinks. "Birth control?" The words slip out before he can stop them.
Then—understanding settles. Cold. Precise. He's not planning to tell her. Estravax isn't a contraceptive.
It's a high-efficacy hormone therapy—designed for post-menopausal patients and women without a uterus. Prescribing it this way… is deliberate.
Jason studies his face. Looking for hesitation. Doubt. Anything. There's nothing.
Mohamad turns, continuing down the hall like the decision was made long before this moment.
Jason doesn't move right away. Because this—this crosses a different line. Not just legal. Not just ethical. Personal.
"How do we justify the prescription?" Jason asks, voice controlled now—sharper at the edges. "She's not on any contraceptive. There's no clinical indication."
Mohamad doesn't slow. "Then create one."