At that moment, Malcolm was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Without a doubt, if he escaped, many would watch the world burn. But as he envisioned the shapes his revenge would take, he looked at his disappointing son—who had inherited none of his business acumen. All he ever did was cause problems, and as a father, Malcolm had always been the one to clean up the mess.
Still, Bobby was very good at giving him gifts. Many of the women he played with had been brought to him by his troubled son. Malcolm's personal doctor had already examined him. His body was damaged, and it was impossible for him to have more children.
He didn't want to give up on his son!
Malcolm kept going in circles in his mind, but the voice rang out again. It came from the other side of the room.
"Your time is running out, Malcolm." Larry spoke only one sentence, but it made Malcolm so anxious he was about to lose his mind.
He didn't want to die!
He had finally reached the peak of life—everything a man dreams of in his youth. He was rich, enjoyed a respected status, had many women, and owned everything any man in the world could desire.
But he hadn't fully enjoyed it yet—and he wasn't even fifty.
How could he die here like this?!
Malcolm was lost in thought. He ran to the front door of his apartment, left, and headed straight for the elevator, but it wasn't working. He slammed it hard, but there was no response.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Malcolm cursed as he bolted toward the stairs. He could already feel the pain in his body gradually intensifying.
"Listen! I'm Malcolm! I'm the CEO of Malcolm Petroleum! Someone's trying to kill me! Hurry and save me—I'll make you infinitely rich if you save me!"
At that moment, remembering he had his cell phone, he quickly called the police.
The dispatcher, who had been awake all night, responded calmly and slowly, "Don't worry. Tell me slowly. Where are you? Do you know the person who's trying to kill you? What number are you calling from?"
"Didn't you hear me?! I'm Malcolm! I'm at The Wexford Grand Hotel—send help now! I don't pay that much in taxes every year to feed a bunch of incompetent garbage like you!" Malcolm roared in anger.
Five minutes later, two police cars left the nearest station and headed for The Wexford Grand Hotel, located near the central part of the city.
…
Baltimore Metropolitan Police Department, Maryland
"Chief, we found the livestream!" shouted a police officer, handing the computer to his superior.
Raymond Holt, Captain of Precinct 99 of the Baltimore Police Department, Maryland, stepped up to the computers the techs were working on.
In the videos, he could see Malcolm had collapsed. It was due to the effects of the poison on his muscles. He had rolled down the stairs. Blood was coming from his head, and no one could determine his condition at that exact moment.
"A live broadcast of a murder. Who does he think he is? He has no respect for us at all! Shut down his streaming room and account immediately!" ordered Raymond Holt, unable to understand how everyone in that building had simply vanished.
The officer replied, "No, sir. I already tried. This isn't a regular stream. It's like a virus connected to the internet. It can't be shut off. The only way would be to take down the hosting server directly. Even then, it might not work. If it fails to fully shut down, the viewers will just switch to other channels. That would make the impact even worse!"
Upon hearing that, Raymond Holt hesitated. He couldn't stop it—and he had no choice. The longer it dragged on, the bigger the impact.
"Shut it down. That's an order!"
With unwavering resolve, Raymond Holt ordered, "Contact the FBI immediately and tell them to shut down all the servers of every media outlet broadcasting this content!"
"Yes, sir!"
Meanwhile, Malcolm had already crawled to the hallway on the first floor. The monitor in the middle of the hallway suddenly turned on. It was playing the broadcast. The screens showed everything with incredible resolution. The muscles in Malcolm's face had started to dissolve and distort. He had never seen such an ugly face.
"Am I going to die? Where are the police? Come save me! Who's going to save me?" Malcolm screamed desperately in the hallway, but because the muscles in his vocal cords had deteriorated, his voice now sounded even more repulsive than the shrieks of demons in hell.
There was no response. Only the echo of his own voice rang through the empty corridor.
Malcolm looked out the window and saw the city lights beyond. He felt his vision grow darker and darker. This place was supposed to represent worldly wealth. Yet no amount of money could stop him from being dragged toward death.
Suddenly...
It seemed he had an idea.
He returned to his apartment, grabbed a meat tenderizer from the kitchen, and walked toward a window.
He stepped up to the French window and swung his arm.
He hoped the glass would shatter. However, the golden mallet slipped from his hand and struck him in the head.
Time is money.
Malcolm had said that in his youth. Now, he completely disagreed with it.
If he were given just a few more minutes, he'd pay any price. Every second was torture for him. Not just the physical pain in his muscles, but psychological agony. With every minute, the pain intensified.
The intense suffering reminded him that death was approaching—closer and closer—and there was no escape. He could only endure the physical and psychological torment.
Huff... Huff...
Malcolm's breathing grew more labored.
His face, deformed by the dissolution of his muscles, became increasingly unrecognizable. It no longer looked human.
…
"Oh my God, I've never seen a substance cause those kinds of reactions," said Masuka, speaking to Dexter from his living room throughout the broadcast.
"You mean it's a new kind of poison?"
"More than that—it looks like a scientist spent years developing a compound to do exactly this." Masuka realized that whatever was happening was more coordinated than a terrorist attack.
The mastermind behind all this may have been planning it for years.