Everyone harbored their own schemes, but the real upheaval came ten days later.
A commercial building across the street from the military hospital suddenly exploded, sending ash and flames into the air. The once-bright skyscraper was instantly consumed by dense smoke. The flames leapt high into the sky, painting it a blood-red hue, shocking all who saw it.
Before anyone could react, a second explosion followed. Pedestrians screamed in terror, and sirens wailed from every direction, plunging the entire district into chaos.
The hospital across the street descended into disorder. To prevent any unforeseen incidents, patients were evacuated.
On the VIP floor, where Arabella was being treated, the guards exchanged uncertain glances, unsure how to proceed. But soon, they were under gunfire. Amidst the chaos at the hospital, a group of masked individuals armed with live ammunition scaled the exterior walls and entered from the outside. They wore identical jackets over bulletproof vests, with ammo belts strapped around their waists. Each of them was tall and well-built, and their movements made it clear that they were absolute professionals. The two leading them were especially striking—even with their faces covered, the ruthless and fierce look in their eyes was unmistakable.
The attackers wielded machine guns, mercilessly mowing down the guards. A fierce gunfight broke out in the hospital corridors, filling the space with the cacophony of gunfire and the flashing of muzzles. Outside, the air was filled with the sounds of frantic cries and blaring sirens, while inside the hospital, gunfire lit up the halls. Both sides were engaged in fierce combat throughout the entire hospital floor, locked in an intense battle.
While one leader commanded the assault, the other burst into Arabella's room. He yanked out her IVs and injected her shoulder with a syringe. Without hesitation, he hauled her up and left.
Arabella was in the midst of her recovery when the explosion echoed through the building. Her expression darkened immediately, the seriousness of her gaze deepening. This explosion had clearly taken her by surprise—it wasn't part of her plan. Even with her mind full of schemes, she couldn't figure out who might have gone mad enough to pull such a stunt. After a moment's hesitation, she decided to continue playing dead. After all, she had spent years plotting her plans, and there was no reason to let them be ruined by a sudden twist of fate. Moreover, given this unexpected turn of events, Arabella knew that Blade and the Faceless Ghost wouldn't stand by idly.
But when the tall masked figure burst into her room, she nearly lost her composure. That bastard Marcellus—only a lunatic like him would pull something like this. She recognized him immediately. The man with him was one of the Ackerley family's private soldiers, a relic from years ago.
The Ackerley family had long maintained a private army, rooted in its origins as arms dealers. Although they transitioned to politics under Marcellus's father, their power was built on the backs of mercenary-like enforcers. Arabella had thought the Ackerley family had disbanded its private troops. She never imagined Marcellus would dare deploy them so brazenly now.
As the sedative coursed through her veins, Arabella felt her body go limp. She remained still as they carried her out of the hospital. These men didn't hesitate; wounded comrades were summarily executed to avoid slowing them down. There was no doubt—they were highly trained.
The group smuggled Arabella out through a morgue tunnel and into a modified private vehicle. Once seated, she glanced at the rear-view mirror and caught sight of those all-too-familiar eyes. Without struggle, she flashed a wicked, mocking smile, already calculating when she'd gouge out Marcellus's eyes. Damn, he didn't deserve to look anything like Cyrus.
The car sped out of the alley, avoiding the chaotic streets as it raced away. Apart from the two fierce leaders flanking Arabella, the other soldiers dispersed and disappeared immediately after leaving the hospital.
Arabella closed her eyes, calculating the time and wondering when Taras and Faceless Ghost would arrive.
Midway through the journey, Arabella felt the car jolt from a collision, accompanied by the ear-piercing screech of tires from constant braking.
A glint of sharp awareness flickered in Arabella's eyes as she glanced out the window. There, she saw Taras on a motorcycle, his unruly hair tousled by the wind, revealing a face that exuded wild defiance. At that moment, Taras was steering the motorcycle with one hand and aiming a gun with the other, engaged in a high-speed chase with Marcellus's car. Ahead of them, another vehicle was attempting to block Marcellus's path—likely driven by Faceless Ghost.
Taras fired at the car's tires, but the bullets failed to penetrate. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he realized the vehicle had been specially reinforced. As Taras raised his gun to take aim at the rear-view mirror once more, Marcellus, the driver, sharply jerked the steering wheel, crashing the car toward the motorcycle. Taras swerved just in time, causing his shot to go astray. Up ahead, Faceless Ghost, who had been controlling the speed of his vehicle, witnessed it all. He slammed on the brakes, intending to block their escape outright.
However, Marcellus gripped the wheel tightly and floored the accelerator. The modified car's front, reinforced with special military-grade materials, was nearly indestructible. He rammed Faceless Ghost's hastily stolen vehicle with overwhelming force. The two vehicles grappled fiercely, the tires screeching against the asphalt, sparks flying, and the roar of engines deafening.
The three raced wildly along the road. Taras, forced to weave between oncoming traffic, gradually lost ground to Marcellus. Meanwhile, Faceless Ghost's car, after enduring a fourth brutal collision, spun out as its tires gave way. Marcellus seized the opportunity, breaking free from the pincer attack.
Arabella sat calmly in the passenger seat, observing it all. When Marcellus finally shook off their pursuers, she closed her eyes with an air of irritation.
"Two incompetents—can't even manage a simple chase," she muttered to herself.
Without looking back, Marcellus adjusted course toward their destination. His voice, cold and commanding, cut through the tense air: "Move in."
As Marcellus's words fell, a figure to the left swiftly grabbed a black hood and brought it down over Arabella's head. Simultaneously, another moved with practiced precision, plunging a syringe filled with anesthetic into her neck without hesitation.
When Arabella woke, she felt her entire body paralyzed. With her physical resilience, this kind of state could only have been caused by an overdose of tranquilizers. The rare sensation of weakness in her limbs was a peculiar and unwelcome experience.
As her vision cleared, she saw Marcellus sitting beside her, holding a syringe as he injected something into her arm. A quick glance at the floor revealed several discarded syringes. With that amount, they might as well have been dosing an elephant.
Her gaze traveled up from Marcellus's jawline to his face—a face she knew all too well. But his eyes repulsed her. Despite the shared surname, the two brothers were worlds apart in nature.
A sharp pain shot through her arm—it was Marcellus who delivered the injection. He tossed the syringe aside, wiped his hands with a tissue, and said with cold disdain, "Arabella, this time, you're completely at my mercy."
A few more injections followed, leaving Arabella's scalp tingling and her heart racing. Her injuries, though not as severe as they seemed, were far from healed. Facing Marcellus now, she had no chance of winning.
But being unable to move her limbs didn't mean her tongue was tied. In front of Marcellus, Arabella didn't bother pretending. "What's wrong with you? Rushing over here just to get cursed at?" she scoffed.
A deep aura surrounded Marcellus as he reached out and gripped her chin tightly, his fingers curling with palpable menace. "Say that again," he hissed, "I dare you."
Arabella fell silent. Partly, she found herself unable to hurl insults at Marcellus's face, and partly, she knew when to pick her battles. She had a plan brewing—one that required others to get her out of this predicament.
Marcellus seemed quite pleased with Arabella's compliance. He lightly patted her cheek a few times, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Don't rush. We'll take our time settling the score for all these years."
As Marcellus finished his words, he reached out and began tugging at Arabella's clothes. She had been wearing a hospital gown, with an additional jacket draped over her when she was taken. Now, the jacket was stripped away, and Marcellus yanked her waistband with one swift motion, snapping it and pulling her pants down. Wrapping an arm around her slender waist, he hoisted her up and carried her into the bathroom.
"Bath first. Filthy," he muttered, grabbing the showerhead and spraying her down mercilessly. Arabella, her limbs still tingling and weak, couldn't stand upright and was forced to lean against his solid grip. If there was any stark difference between the Ackerley brothers, it was that Marcellus's physique was more muscular, his bronzed skin a sharp contrast to his elder sibling's lighter complexion.
Drenched and humiliated, Arabella couldn't help but spit out a curse, her tone laced with venom. Without a word, Marcellus adjusted the spray, aiming it straight at her mouth.
Anger burned in Arabella's chest, a fire so fierce she nearly acted on her urge to leave him broken and bleeding. But she bit back her fury, knowing she was at a disadvantage. Her long-laid plans were nearing fruition; any reckless move now could jeopardize everything. Swallowing her rage, she turned her face away, refusing to look at Marcellus's face—a face that, infuriatingly, she found herself noticing too much.
While Arabella was contending with Marcellus, Taras and the Faceless Ghost reported the news of her disappearance. Faceless Ghost examined the crumpled rear end of a car and muttered, "Could it have been Arabella's people?"
Taras shook his head decisively. "Impossible."
"Why not? The attackers in the hospital were clearly highly trained professionals," the Faceless Ghost countered.
"Arabella's group or AE's men are nothing but outlaws. No matter how skilled, they don't move with the precision of disciplined troops. Those were clearly special forces," Taras replied firmly.
Hearing "special forces," the Faceless Ghost's expression darkened. "Could Marcellus have orchestrated this himself? But if he used the military, it'd be impossible to keep it under wraps."
Taras took a deep breath. "I'm afraid he might have resorted to using private soldiers."
The Faceless Ghost was stunned. "If it really was him, he's insane. Bombing an entire commercial tower in his own country to create chaos for Arabella?"
