Mr. Richard flew with a quick strike. Unconscious, he struck the cold floor.
Grayson sighed, releasing the strain from his fingers.
Alexander was looking up, watching with cold enjoyment.
"This is the difference between us," Grayson remarked.
His voice got cold as he further said, "You destroy. I'll rebuild." Alexander's smirk disappeared.
A long hush stretched between them.
Alexander then put down his glass with quiet finality.
You are therefore no son of mine. Grayson didn't flinch. He didn't anticipate anything else. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out.
He had decided what to do. And now, he had to live with the consequences.
The moment Grayson went outdoors, his phone buzzed.
He retrieved it from his pocket and answered, "What?"
Clara's terrified cry sliced through the night air. "Sarah's been taken." Grayson froze.
His pulse beat against his ribs.
"Where?" His voice was sharp, controlled, but his hold on the phone was iron.
A second of static.
Then… a distorted voice arrived.
"Come alone," the voice rasped. "Or she dies."
Grayson's entire body tightened. His free hand clenched into a fist.
His vision sharpened.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a voice colder as ice, he murmured— "Then let's finish this."
The city was blurred by Grayson as he rushed through the streets, the engine snarling like a caged beast. His grip on the driving wheel was strong, his knuckles white from the pressure. Every second felt like an eternity. Sarah had been stolen. And he wasn't about to let Marcus get away with it.
His phone buzzed on the dashboard. With a swift flip of his eyes, he hit the speaker.
"She's in a warehouse on the outskirts," Clara's voice came through, tense and clipped. "It's heavily guarded."
"They're expecting you to walk into their trap," Lila continued. "Rico and Marcus won't play fair."
Grayson exhaled softly, his jaw stiffening. He knew. He had always known.
"I know," he responded bluntly. "But I'm walking into it anyway."
Lila swore under her breath, but Clara cut in. "Just... be careful, Grayson."
He didn't answer. The neon lights of the city began to fade behind him as he took the turn onto a barren road headed toward the industrial zone. Rows of abandoned warehouses stood like motionless sentinels, their cracked windows reflecting the eerie glare of the streetlights.
As the warehouse came into view, he deactivated the headlights and slowed the car to a stop. He stepped out, his hands at his sides, his heartbeat calm. His pulse didn't race, no, this wasn't dread. This was a chilly calculation.
Because if Marcus felt he had triumphed, he was badly incorrect.
The metal doors of the warehouse groaned as Grayson pushed them open, entering into the enormous blackness beyond. A solitary, flickering lamp created uneven shadows down the concrete floor. The air was thick with the aroma of oil and rust, the faint murmur of dripping water shattering the silence.
Then came the sound of slow, steady footsteps.
Marcus.
Grayson's eyes adjusted swiftly to the faint light, surveying the scene before him. Sarah sat strapped to a chair in the center of the room, her face battered, her wrists raw from the handcuffs. Her head lifted at the sound of his approach, but before she could say a word, a man walked into the light.
Marcus, cocky as ever, dressed in a fitted suit that seemed out of place in the dirty atmosphere. Beside him, Rico stood with his arms crossed, a cold smirk on his lips. A dozen armed men surrounded the perimeter of the room, each one poised, ready for an order.
"Well, well, well," Marcus drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Look who decided to show up."
Grayson took a deliberate step forward, his countenance unreadable. "Let her go."
Marcus chuckled. "Oh, you don't get to make demands, Blackwell. You embarrassed me. Took everything from me. And now…" He waved toward Sarah with a flourish. "I take everything from you."
Grayson didn't blink. "You made one mistake, Marcus."
Marcus cocked his head, fascinated. "And what's that?"
A small, almost undetectable smile graced Grayson's lips.
Then, with a resounding clang, the warehouse doors slammed shut behind him.
The lights turned out, plunging the room into absolute blackness.
Chaos erupted.
A single thought passed Marcus's mind before the first gunshot went out: He had just walked into Grayson's trap.
The warehouse trembled with the weight of anticipation.
Marcus's sneer widened as he reached for the revolver at his hip, aiming it straight at Grayson. "You walked right into my hands, Blackwell," he gloated. "How does it feel, knowing you, lost?"
Grayson breathed gently, his lips twisting into the tiniest smirk. "You made one mistake, Marcus."
Marcus frowned. "And what's that?"
The answer came in the form of a thunderous metallic clang. The warehouse doors slammed shut with a mechanical hiss, the locks shutting them within. Before Marcus could react, the overhead lights cut out, plunging the room into darkness.
Then, anarchy ensued.
Gunfire pierced the silence as shadows moved in from every direction. Clara and Lila stormed through the side entrances, leading a tactical crew that had been lying in wait. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like lightning, bodies colliding, gunshots ricocheting.
Grayson rushed rapidly, utilizing the uncertainty to his advantage. He ran at Sarah, his fingers working fast to untie the ropes holding her to the chair. "Can you stand?" he asked hurriedly.
Sarah, terrified but determined, nodded. "Yeah. Let's get the hell out of here."
A bullet zipped by them, embedding into the wooden crate near them. Grayson pushed her down behind the chair just as Marcus yelled in fury.
"Kill them all!" Marcus bellowed.
His troops surged forward, but Grayson was already moving, dodging through the tumult. He seized a discarded rifle, firing precise shots as he sheltered Sarah.
"You should have stayed in prison," Grayson snarled before knocking him unconscious with one more violent punch.
Silence descended over the warehouse, the struggle won.
Grayson turned to Emery, his breath still thick from the battle. Their eyes met, something unspoken went between them.
"This doesn't make us allies," he added, his voice calm but forceful.
Emery nodded. "I know. But it makes me less of an enemy."
Marcus coughed, blood dribbling from his broken lip as he lay sprawled on the cold concrete floor. His breaths were raspy, his body scarcely able to move after the brutal fight. Grayson loomed over him, his knuckles battered, his chest rising and falling with steady purpose.
"You should have stayed in prison," Grayson whispered, his voice low, tinged with finality.
Marcus's eyes flared with one final glimmer of defiance—before Grayson's fist impacted with his jaw in a crushing knockout punch. His body fell limp.
Silence spread over the warehouse, disturbed only by the faint echoes of sirens in the metropolis beyond. The combat was over.
Or so it appeared.
From the shadows, a figure lurked, watching, waiting. Jordan Steele, Marcus's silent accomplice, had seen enough. His quick eyes flashed over the scene, assessing his next move. But now wasn't the time to act. Not yet.
Without a sound, he disappeared into the night.
Grayson breathed, shaking the tension from his shoulders. He turned, his gaze resting on Emery, who still gripped her firearm. The excitement was fading out now, leaving only the weight of everything that had passed between them.
"This doesn't make us allies," he continued, his tone measured.
Emery met his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then, after a lengthy moment, she nodded. "I know. But it makes me less of an enemy."
Neither of them glanced away. But neither of them had anything further to say.
Grayson's phone vibrated in his pocket as the dust settled. Pulling it out to find an unknown encrypted message flashing on the screen, he wrinkled. His stomach flipped.
"Clara," he called. She was already beside him, scrutinizing the screen. "Trace it."
"I'm trying," she mumbled, fingers flying over her tablet. "But it's bouncing off too many servers."
Then, the message played.
A voice crackled across the speakers, deep, controlled, chillingly familiar.
His father's voice.
"You think this war is over?" The words slithered into the silence like a serpent. "It's only just begun."
Grayson's grasp tightened around the phone. His jaw locked.
The screen turned black.
Grayson inhaled, his mind already sharpening into focus, ready for the next fight. His father was no longer a phantom from the past. Again he was back.
A slow smirk ghosted over his lips.
"Bring it on."