The medical wing of the Guangzhou complex was silent, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall. The scent of antiseptic and jasmine hung heavy in the air.
I woke up slowly. My body felt like it had been crushed between two tectonic plates. Every shallow breath sent a jolt of fire through my cracked ribs. I tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against my chest.
"Don't even try," Emily's voice whispered.
I blinked, my vision clearing. She was sitting on a stool beside the bed, her face pale with exhaustion. She had changed out of her bloody coat into a clean scrub top. Her hands, steady but weary, were adjusting an IV drip connected to my arm.
"You've been out for four hours," she said. Her voice was a mix of professional sternness and raw, uncovered fear. "I've stitched the gash on your shoulder. I've taped your ribs. You have a concussion, Andrew. Or whoever you are."
I looked at her, my mind hazy. My eyes instinctively dropped to her wrist. The crescent moon birthmark was visible under the harsh fluorescent light. Looking at it felt like staring into a mirror of a life that was stolen from me.
As she leaned over to check my bandages, her proximity triggered a flashback so vivid it made my head spin.
The year was 2006. The setting was the Thompson Estate in the heart of New York. Back then, the world knew me as Oliver Thompson, the heir to Aegis Global Enterprises, the conglomerate that practically ruled the world's logistics and tech markets.
My father, Lucas Thompson, was a giant of a man—kind but powerful. My mother, Kate, was the soul of the family. And then there was Benjamin, my father's half-brother. They shared the same blood but different hearts. While Lucas built empires, Benjamin built resentment.
I remembered Charlotte. Benjamin's daughter. My cousin. We were inseparable. We used to hide in the gardens of the estate, making a pact that we would rule the world together. She had that birthmark. I used to tell her it was a piece of the moon that fell to earth just for her.
Then came the trip to China. A "family vacation" orchestrated by Benjamin.
The memory shifted to the hotel suite in Shanghai. The smell of smoke. The sound of Benjamin's laughter—a cold, metallic sound that still haunts my nightmares.
"You were always too soft, Lucas," Benjamin had sneered, holding a silenced pistol while his men poured gasoline over the silk curtains.
My father had stood in front of my mother, his voice steady even in the face of death. "Take everything, Benjamin. Just let them go. Let Kate and Oliver go."
"Oh, Lucas," Benjamin laughed, striking a match. "The dead don't claim inheritances."
My mother, Kate, had grabbed her personal assistant, Sophia, who was trembling in the corner of the balcony. Kate thrust me into Sophia's arms. "Save him, Sophia. Forget the Thompsons. Forget the money. Just keep my boy alive."
"Kate, no!" Sophia had sobbed.
"Go!" my mother screamed as the flames roared behind her.
The last thing I saw was my mother and father holding hands as the room turned into an oven. Sophia didn't hesitate. She clutched me to her chest and leaped from the third-story balcony, plunging into the deep end of the hotel's swimming pool.
We surfaced in the dark, the reflection of the burning hotel shimmering in the water like a phoenix. That night, Oliver Thompson died. Sophia took me to the outskirts of the city, changed my name to Andrew Parker, and we disappeared into a life of shadows.
"Andrew? You're spacing out again," Emily said, her hand touching my forehead.
I pulled myself back to the present. I looked at her—at Charlotte. She didn't recognize me. How could she? I was six years old when we were separated. Now, I was a man with blood on his hands and a hollow where my heart used to be.
"I'm fine," I rasped, my throat dry.
"You're not fine," she countered. She sat back, crossing her arms. "I've been thinking, Andrew. I treated you after a 'mugging' in an alley. Now, you show up at a secure athletic facility, covered in tactical grease, with injuries that look like they came from a professional hit squad. And then there's this..."
She held up the silver USB drive I had dropped.
"What are you? An agent? A spy? Because you're definitely not just here to play Sepak Takraw. Your 'habits,' the way you move, the way you look at exits... it's not an athlete's behavior. It's a soldier's."
I looked away, my face hardening. "It's none of your business, Emily."
"Actually, it is my business," she snapped, but then her voice softened. "I lost my family in a fire when I was a child. I was adopted by the Roses. I spent my whole life seeing ghosts in the dark. When I see someone like you—someone who looks like they're carrying the weight of the world—I can't just ignore it."
Confirmed. She was Charlotte. My heart thundered against my taped ribs. I wanted to scream her name. I wanted to tell her that I was Oliver, her cousin, the boy from the garden. But Benjamin was still out there. If he found out she was alive, she would be next.
"I have to go to the dorm," I said, trying to swing my legs off the bed.
"No, you don't," she said, pushing me back down.
"Emily, move."
"Listen to me, Mr. Gloom and Doom," she said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, feisty energy. "I am the head medical officer for this wing right now. If you try to walk out that door, I will pick up that phone, call your head coach, and report that one of his star players is involved in suspicious activity and is too physically compromised to play."
I paused, looking at her in disbelief. "You're blackmailing me?"
"I'm 'doctor-mailing' you," she corrected with a small, triumphant smirk. "You stay here tonight. I monitor your vitals. You eat the soup I ordered. In the morning, if you can walk a straight line, I'll let you go."
I let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind of sigh that only a man who has lost a battle of wills can produce. It was almost funny. I had just taken down six elite bodyguards, but I was being held captive by a five-foot-five doctor with a bowl of soup.
"Fine," I grumbled, sinking back into the pillows. "You're very annoying."
"I've been told," she smiled, tucking the blanket around me. "Now, stay still. I'm going to go get that soup. And don't try to sneak out—the door is alarmed."
She walked out, the light from the hallway silhouetting her for a moment.
I lay there in the dark, the physical pain finally starting to dull. I had the drive. I had the intel on the people who killed my parents. But more importantly, I had found the one person I thought was lost forever.
Charlotte was alive. She was Emily Rose now. She was safe, she was smart, and she was beautiful.
I looked at the ceiling, a single tear escaping the corner of my eye. I'm coming for them, Mom. Dad. I'm going to take back the Thompson name. But first... I have to survive this doctor.
The mission was no longer just about revenge. It was about protecting the crescent moon.
The medical wing was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp. I lay on the narrow cot, my body screaming in languages I didn't know I spoke. Every time I tried to shift, my ribs reminded me that concrete pillars are harder than human bone.
"Stay. Still," Emily commanded without even looking up from a clipboard.
I looked at her, my mind spinning. I knew exactly who she was. That birthmark—the crescent moon—wasn't just a mark; it was a ghost from my childhood. She was Charlotte Thompson. My cousin. My best friend. My only ally in that massive New York estate.
But a cold realization settled in my chest. If she was Charlotte, why was her name Emily Rose? Why was she living as the daughter of a middle-class American family? Did she forget? Or was she hidden away just like I was? The Thompson name was a death sentence, and the fact that she had a completely different identity meant the roots of our family's destruction went deeper than I thought.
"I need to leave," I rasped, trying to push myself up.
Emily was at my side in a second, her hands firmly on my shoulders. "You aren't going anywhere, Hotshot. You lost enough blood to power a small village. Sit. Down."
I stared into her eyes. "This is none of your business, Doctor."
"Actually," she said, popping open a container of steaming chicken soup she had brought from the cafeteria, "it is my business. In case you didn't notice, you bled all over my floor. I have a very strict 'no bleeding on the linoleum' policy."
I groaned, sinking back. "I have things to do. People to... see."
"Unless those people are 19th-century poets you're planning to join in the afterlife, they can wait," she countered. She pulled a rolling stool over and sat down, blowing on a spoonful of soup. "Open up."
I stared at the spoon like it was a live grenade. "I can feed myself."
"With those hands?" she asked, gesturing to my shredded, bandaged knuckles. "You'd drop the spoon and then I'd have to clean the floor again. Open. The. Mouth. Andrew."
I looked at the ceiling, letting out a long, dramatic sigh. I had survived a fire, a leap into a swimming pool from a third-story balcony, and a literal massacre in a parking garage tonight. And here I was, being defeated by a woman with a plastic spoon.
"This is humiliating," I muttered, opening my mouth.
"It's nutritious," she retorted, shoving the spoon in. "And don't give me that grumpy 'I'm a dark and mysterious soul' look. It doesn't work on me. I've seen you in your underwear, Andrew. Your mystery is gone."
I nearly choked on the broth. "What?"
"To treat the wounds on your legs and torso?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "I had to cut your clothes off. You have very nice stitches, by the way. Whoever did your previous ones was a pro."
I looked away, my face heating up. "That was... a long time ago."
"Right. Just like that 'fall' you had tonight was a 'long time ago,'" she said, her voice turning serious for a split second. She stopped feeding me and looked me dead in the eye. "I know you're not just a player, Andrew. You move like a predator. You have the eyes of someone who's seen too much. Are you an agent? A mercenary? Because if you're a criminal, I'm technically harboring a fugitive, and I'd like to know if I need to pack a bag for prison."
I stayed silent. I wanted to tell her. Charlotte, it's me. It's Oliver. We used to play in the jasmine garden. Your dad tried to kill my dad. But the words died in my throat. If I told her, I would be putting a target on her back. Benjamin Thompson was still out there, sitting on a throne of blood. If he knew Charlotte was alive, he'd finish what he started in that hotel room.
"I'm just a guy who gets into trouble," I said quietly.
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England," she replied, standing up to clear the soup container. "You're an enigma, Andrew Parker. But for tonight, you're just my patient. And as your doctor, I'm telling you that if you try to leave, I will scream."
I blinked. "You'll what?"
"I will scream. Very loudly. At the top of my lungs," she said, leaning against the doorframe with a playful, yet dangerous glint in her eyes. "I'll tell the guards you tried to assault me. I'll tell your coach you're on performance-enhancing drugs. I'll make your life a living hell."
I let out another heavy sigh, closing my eyes. "You are truly terrifying."
"I know," she beamed. "It's my best quality. Now, sleep. I'll be in the next room. If I hear your feet hit the floor, I'm calling the National Team director."
She flicked off the main light, leaving only the soft blue glow of the monitor.
I lay there, listening to her footsteps fade away. My mind was a whirlwind. Charlotte Thompson is Emily Rose. She was alive. She was here. She was bossy and brilliant and somehow, she had found me. Or I had found her.
I touched the silver USB drive hidden under my pillow. The names of the people who killed my parents were on this drive. My past was in my hand, and my future was in the next room.
I had to get to Ethan. I had to decode the drive. But first... I had to figure out how to get past a five-foot-five doctor who was ready to scream the building down.
"Oliver Thompson," I whispered to the dark ceiling, "you really picked a complicated life."