Chapter 4 - THE DIGITAL SNAREMidnight in the Vale estate was never truly quiet. The hum of the backup generators, the rhythmic sweep of the exterior security cameras, and the distant crash of thunder created an unsettling soundtrack for the conspiracy unfolding within its walls.
Clara sat at a small desk in the servant quarters on the third floor, the stolen medical vial glowing faintly under the harsh light of a single desk lamp. Beside her sat an old, burner laptop she had used during her brief stint in university pre-med classes.
Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed against her door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Clara froze. She quickly shoved the vial beneath a pile of laundry in her basket just as the door pushed open without warning.
Grant Mercer stood in the doorway, blocking the exit. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. He looked less like a corporate executive now and more like the ruthless syndicate enforcer he truly was.
"Working late, Clara?" Grant asked, stepping into the cramped room. His eyes roamed over the sparse furniture before landing squarely on her face. "Or should I say... investigating late?"
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she forced her voice to remain steady. "I’m organizing my sister’s medical bills, Mr. Mercer. If I missed my chores downstairs, I can go down—"
"Save it," Grant interrupted, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. He closed the distance between them with terrifying speed, stopping just inches away. His eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth. "I reviewed the security footage from the medical wing today. I saw how you bumped into Kline’s bag. I saw how your fingers lingered near his coat pocket."
Clara’s breath hitched.
Grant leaned down, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "My cousin lives in a cage because he broke his spine. Everything he owns, everything he controls, flows through my hands. If someone is trying to give him false hope—or worse, trying to wake up a sleeping beast—I find out about it."
Before Grant could reach out to grab her uniform, the overhead lights in the hallway flickered and died.
The room plunged into emergency red backup lighting.
From down the hall, the heavy motorized whir of a wheelchair motor broke the silence.
Whir... whir... whir.
Grant straightened up, turning toward the doorway as the shadows parted.
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Dominic Vale rolled out of the darkness. He wasn't slumped in his usual defensive posture. He sat tall, his broad shoulders squared, his hands resting calmly on the armrests. In his right hand, he held a heavy, suppressed tactical pistol, pointed directly at Grant’s chest.
"Looking for something, cousin?" Dominic’s voice cut through the red-lit hallway like a razor.
