[Ethan’s POV]

Varga moved with the terrifying, silent speed of a man who had nothing left to lose.

He slashed the serrated combat knife in a tight, brutal arc toward my stomach. I stepped back, the blade slicing through the fabric of my tuxedo shirt, missing my skin by a fraction of an inch.

I countered, driving the ceramic push-dagger toward his throat. Varga deflected the strike with his cast-covered forearm, the ceramic blade sparking against the hardened plaster. He pivoted, using the momentum to drive his knee into my already cracked ribs.

Pain exploded in my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. I stumbled backward, crashing into a heavy mahogany bookshelf. Books and glass awards rained down around me.

"You’re out of your depth, kid," Varga hissed, his burned face twisting into a grotesque sneer. He advanced, flipping the knife into a reverse grip. "You’re playing bodyguard for a ghost who doesn’t even care if you live or die."

"He cares," I gasped, pushing myself off the bookshelf. "That’s why he’s tearing your boss’s empire apart."

Varga lunged again, aiming a lethal downward strike at my collarbone.

Don’t fight his strength, Darius’s voice echoed in the back of my mind, calm and steady amidst the chaos. Fight his momentum. Use his anger against him.

I didn’t block. I dropped my center of gravity, stepping inside his guard, and drove my shoulder directly into his chest.

The impact knocked Varga off balance. Before he could recover, I grabbed his knife wrist with my left hand, twisting it outward with everything I had. At the same time, I drove the hilt of my ceramic dagger directly into the center of his burned face.

Varga roared in agony, his grip faltering. The combat knife clattered to the floor.

I didn’t stop. I swept my leg behind his knee and drove him backward. We crashed through a heavy glass coffee table, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

Varga hit the floor hard, but he was relentless. He reached up, his hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing with terrifying, desperate strength. Black spots danced in my vision. I couldn’t breathe.

I dropped the dagger, reached down, and grabbed a jagged, foot-long shard of broken glass from the ruined coffee table.

I drove the glass shard straight through the palm of Varga’s left hand, pinning it to the carpet.

Varga screamed, his grip on my throat instantly releasing.

I rolled off him, gasping for air, and scrambled to my feet. I picked up my Glock from where it had fallen near the sofa and aimed it directly at his head.

Varga lay on the floor, his chest heaving, blood pooling around his pinned hand. He looked up at the barrel of my gun, his dead eyes finally showing a flicker of defeat.

"Do it," Varga spat, his voice a wet rasp. "Finish it."

I stared at him, my finger resting on the trigger. My shoulder was bleeding, my ribs were cracked, and my lungs burned. I wanted to pull the trigger. I wanted to end the man who had hunted us across Europe.

But I wasn’t a killer. I was a protector.

"No," I said, my voice cold and steady. "Jake took your agency. I’m taking your dignity. You’re going to live with the fact that a frat boy beat you."

I stepped forward and delivered a brutal, precise kick to the side of his head. Varga’s eyes rolled back, and he went completely limp, unconscious on the ruined carpet.

"Ethan!"

I spun around. Claire was standing in the doorway of the shattered office, her Glock drawn, her chest heaving. She looked at Varga’s unconscious body, then at me, her eyes wide with relief.

"I’m okay," I panted, lowering my weapon. I limped toward her, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. "The boardroom. Did he come out?"

"No," Claire said, shaking her head. "The doors are still locked."

We moved out into the hallway, stepping over the bodies of the PMCs I had dropped earlier. The emergency lights were still flickering, casting long, eerie shadows across the walls.

We reached the heavy oak doors of the executive boardroom. I grabbed the brass handle and pulled. Locked.

I raised my Glock, aiming at the heavy internal deadbolt mechanism, and fired two rounds point-blank into the brass. The lock shattered.

I kicked the doors open, sweeping the room with my gun.

The boardroom was massive, featuring a long, polished mahogany table surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the Zurich skyline.

Sitting around the table were four older men in immaculate, conservative suits. The senior partners of Sterling & Cross.

They weren’t dead. They weren’t even injured. But they looked absolutely terrified. They were pale, sweating, and staring blankly at the empty chair at the head of the table.

"Where is he?" I demanded, keeping my gun raised.

The oldest banker, a man with a shock of white hair, slowly raised a trembling hand and pointed toward a set of open glass doors leading to a private executive helipad on the roof.

The freezing wind was howling through the open doors.

"He’s gone," the banker whispered, his voice shaking. "He took the private elevator to the roof."

Claire rushed past me, running to the head of the table. Sitting perfectly centered on the polished mahogany was a thick stack of legal documents.

"Ethan," Claire breathed, staring at the papers.

I walked over, keeping one eye on the bankers.

The documents were the official debt transfer ledgers for Aethelgard Properties. They were signed, sealed, and legally binding.

"He did it," Claire said, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and terror. "He bought the debt. He called it in. Isabella Vane just defaulted."

"He didn’t just buy the debt," the old banker whispered, staring at the empty chair as if a ghost were still sitting in it. "He paid in untraceable bearer bonds. Four billion euros. He didn’t negotiate. He didn’t speak. He just... he just slid the bonds across the table, signed the transfer, and walked out."

"He owns the Shard," Claire said, looking up at me. "He owns Isabella’s headquarters. He just legally evicted her from her own empire."

I looked at the signature at the bottom of the contract. It wasn’t the neat, elegant signature Jake used to have. It was jagged, sharp, and aggressive. The signature of a feral king.

"Did he say anything?" I asked the banker, grabbing him by the lapels of his suit. "Did he leave a message?"

The banker swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "He... he told us to send a message to Isabella Vane. He said to tell her that the board is clear." 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

"And?" I pressed.

"And he said he’s waiting for her," the banker choked out. "At the place where it all started."

I let go of the banker, stepping back.

"The place where it all started," Claire repeated, her brow furrowing. "Where does he mean? Washington? The university?"

I looked out the open glass doors, staring at the gray, snow-filled sky. The Oracle had guided him this far. It had helped him burn Isabella’s supply lines, destroy her investors, and steal her fortress.

Now, there was only one thing left to do.

"He’s not hiding anymore," I said, the realization settling over me like a heavy shroud. "He’s calling her out for the final battle."