The rain had stopped by dawn, but the sky still hung heavy with clouds. The Imperial Crest tower rose through the mist like a monument scarred by survival. Inside, the world had shifted. Fear had seeped into the walls; whispers followed every passing shadow.
John sat alone in the main conference lounge, a single lamp glowing beside him. The flash drive lay on the table, small and unassuming — yet it held the kind of truth that could bury empires.
He'd spent the entire night decrypting what he could. Half the data was corrupted beyond repair, but fragments remained. He scrolled through the recovered files again — coded bank transactions, shipping manifests, and an encrypted calendar log. One phrase appeared over and over.
"Summit — Dubai. 15th."
John leaned back slowly. The fifteenth was three days away.
Rita entered quietly, a folder in her hand. She looked better rested, but still carried the weight of everything they'd lost.
"Anything new?" she asked.
John nodded. "A meeting in Dubai. High-level financial summit, but I think it's more than that. Dalton's files point to Abdul Musa and Prosper Mercy being there."
Rita frowned. "You think they're meeting The Benefactor?"
"I don't think," he said, "I know."
She placed the folder on the table. "Then we have a decision to make. Morgan wants to hand this to the authorities. If we hold onto it and something happens, we'll be implicated."
John's gaze hardened. "The authorities won't stop them. They'll bury it under classified documents and call it diplomacy."
"John—"
"No," he interrupted, standing. "I'm done watching from behind glass walls while they erase everyone who stands in their way. Dalton died trying to expose them. I won't let his death be reduced to another file in an investigation report."
Rita looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "So what's your plan?"
"I go to Dubai," he said.
Her eyes widened. "Alone? You can't just walk into a trap."
"I'm not walking in," he replied. "I'm taking the fight to them."
He picked up the flash drive and slipped it into his jacket. "If The Benefactor wants his kingdom back, he'll have to face the man who rebuilt it."
Rita shook her head. "You're not thinking clearly. They've already tried to kill you once."
He smiled faintly. "And they failed."
Downstairs in the tech division, Morgan was buried in code when Rita entered.
"You're not going to like what I'm about to say," she began.
He didn't look up. "Then don't say it."
"John's going to Dubai," she said anyway.
Morgan stopped typing. "What?"
"He thinks he can confront Abdul Musa and Prosper Mercy. He believes The Benefactor will be there."
Morgan turned slowly, disbelief on his face. "That's suicide."
"I know," she said quietly. "But he's not listening to anyone."
He exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. "If he walks into that meeting, he's not coming back."
Rita nodded. "Then we have to find a way to make sure he does."
Morgan stared at her, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small encrypted tracker. "If you can get him to carry this, I can keep him on radar. But once he's there, it's all shadows. I can't protect him from that."
Rita took the tracker, her fingers brushing the metal casing. "I'll handle the rest."
That afternoon, in a glass tower overlooking downtown Manhattan, Prosper Mercy stood before a panoramic window, his reflection glimmering like a ghost over the skyline.
A private line buzzed. He answered without turning.
"He's seen the files," The Benefactor's voice said.
Prosper's jaw tightened. "Then he's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet."
"You'll make sure of that," The Benefactor replied. "The lion needs to remember he's still in a cage."
Prosper smiled faintly. "And when he breaks the cage?"
"Then you break him," came the calm reply.
The line went dead.
Prosper stared at the reflection of his own face, a strange mix of admiration and pity in his eyes. "Poor Raymond," he murmured. "You never learned that kings don't rule the board — they're pieces on it."
Night fell fast. The Imperial Crest's underground parking lot was almost empty. The fluorescent lights flickered as John walked toward his car, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls.
He'd dismissed his driver. Some things were easier done alone.
The air smelled faintly of oil and rain.
He reached the car and unlocked it. The sound of the door echoed too loudly.
Then he heard it — the faint click of a gun slide behind him.
John froze.
"Don't turn around," a voice said. Male, calm, professional. "Just hand over the drive."
John's pulse quickened. "You're making a mistake."
"No," the voice said. "You did when you opened it."
He turned sharply, faster than the shooter expected. The man in black raised his gun, but John slammed his arm into it, sending the shot into the wall. The sound thundered through the garage.
The gun clattered across the floor. John lunged forward, grabbing the attacker's wrist and twisting hard. The man countered with a blow to the ribs. John grunted but didn't let go. Years of buried fury fuelled him now.
They crashed against a pillar, fists and elbows striking in rapid bursts. The man was trained, efficient, but John had something he didn't — desperation.
The attacker reached for a knife. John grabbed his arm, turned, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The blade fell.
He kicked it away and slammed the man against the car hood.
"Who sent you?" John demanded.
The man smiled through bloodied teeth. "You already know."
John's grip tightened. "The Benefactor?"
The man didn't answer. His hand twitched toward his pocket. John caught the motion too late — a small detonator flashed red.
John shoved him away and dove behind the car just as the explosion tore through the corner of the garage. Shrapnel screamed through the air.
The shockwave threw him to the ground.
When the smoke cleared, the attacker was gone — or what was left of him.
John coughed, ears ringing, and struggled to his feet. The car was half-destroyed. Flames flickered along the concrete.
He staggered to the elevator, pressing the emergency key.
Upstairs, alarms began to blare again.
Security teams rushed down as he entered the lift. His reflection in the mirrored wall looked like a stranger — smoke-stained, trembling, furious.
Rita's voice buzzed over his phone. "John, what happened?"
He took a deep breath. "They tried again."
"Oh my God, are you…"
He cut her off. "Rita, listen carefully. Call Morgan. I want every trace of this covered up. No police, no press. They'll think I'm dead next time, and I want them to believe it."
She hesitated. "You're planning something."
He looked up at his reflection in the elevator glass. His eyes were cold, alive with purpose.
"They started a war," he said quietly. "Now I'll show them what happens when the lion wakes."
The doors slid open, the light spilling over him like dawn after a storm.
The king had survived the fire.
He was now prepared to begin his hunt.