Chapter 5 - The Descent into IncheonBy dawn, the mountain road was littered with smoking wreckage and empty brass casings.
The private tactical unit sent by Director Park had underestimated two things: the fierce loyalty of the Incheon dockworkers who had reinforced our perimeter within minutes of Viktor's emergency call, and the sheer, unadulterated wrath of a crippled syndicate boss whose wife's murder had finally come to light.
The battle in the grand foyer had been short and brutal. By the time the local police—too terrified of the Black Dragon Syndicate to intervene until the shooting stopped—arrived at the gates, Park’s men were either handcuffed to the iron railings or unconscious in the snow.
Inside my private study, the air smelled of cordite, expensive scotch, and melted wax.
I sat by the window, my right boot resting on a padded footstool. Dr. Evans was kneeling beside me again, his hands trembling as he checked the neural responses in my ankle.
"It's... it's incredible," Evans muttered, shining a penlight into my right eye, then tapping my Achilles tendon. My foot jerked upward with a sharp, involuntary reflex. "The blue serum combined with the massive adrenaline spike from the raid... Caleb, the nervous system is firing along the spinal bridge. You're going to walk again."
"I know," I said quietly.
I looked across the room. Maria was sitting on the sofa, holding Leo tightly in her arms while Lily curled up beside them, sleeping peacefully despite the chaos of the night.
The door opened, and Viktor stepped in, his clothes stained with soot and blood. He tossed a heavy, encrypted tablet onto my desk.
"We decrypted the comms unit from the lead tactical officer, Boss," Viktor reported, his breathing heavy. "Director Park didn't just send them to recover the serum. He's scheduled to fly out of Incheon International Airport for Zurich in four hours. He's trying to bury the entire operation."
I picked up the tablet. On the screen was Park's flight manifest, along with financial wire transfers routing millions of dollars into offshore accounts tied to the very pharmaceutical companies that had funded the research in Klaus's lab.
"Get my armored Mercedes ready," I said.
Viktor paused, looking down at my legs. "Boss, you can't walk yet. Let me handle Park. We can intercept his car on the highway—"
I pushed my hands against the armrests of the wheelchair.
It was an instinctive movement, born of habit, but this time, I didn't just rely on upper-body strength. I focused every ounce of will, every drop of rage and sorrow I had carried for eight years, down into my hips, my thighs, my knees.
My right heel pressed against the floorboards.
Then my left.
With a slow, agonizing groan of muscle and bone that hadn't seen real work in nearly a decade, I pushed myself up.
Viktor’s jaw dropped. Evans dropped his penlight.
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I stood there—shaking, unsteady, leaning heavily against the edge of the mahogany desk for balance, but standing on my own two feet for the first time since March 14th, eight years ago.
"Park isn't getting away," I whispered, my voice steady and cold as winter steel. "And neither are the men who helped him."
