Chapter 87

In the strained hours that followed the office hallucination, Williams maintained a clinical distance from Evelyn. She used the time to catch up on the deluge of news outside the villa: the media frenzy surrounding her silence, the whispers among her colleagues, and the public speculation regarding her competence.

She restructured the hospital policy in her head, planned her public statements, and outlined the emergency meetings that would reinforce her command. She audited the training programs and all international branches of Niran Kai, demanding control over the vast network where her presence was usually deferred.

That evening, seated at the edge of her bed, she stared into the mirror from across the room. A stranger stared back.

“A major surgery upon my return won’t be bad,” she murmured to herself, flexing her recovering hand. This hand, which in her dream had performed an intimate, agonizing violation between Evelyn’s legs.

She shut her eyes, sweeping the thought away like a flame threatening to burn her alive.

Focus.

Control.

Duty.

She had to concentrate on planning. She used to enjoy this, the control, the precision, the power. But today, everything felt mechanical, hollow, as if someone else was operating her body while her mind remained trapped in a distant storm.

A soft knock broke her spiral.

Evelyn stepped inside.

“Dr. Williams, I’ve packed my bag.”

Williams didn’t look up. “Good.” She deliberately picked up a random architectural blueprint nearby, shielding her face and her vision from Evelyn. Since she had been rigorously avoiding her gaze, the intrusive flashes of desire had ceased. And it was better that way.

“Tomorrow, I will settle the last things at the hospital. Upon my return, Makizal will take you home.”

Evelyn watched her for a long moment before speaking.

“You never asked me again about the video.”

“There’s no need. We made a deal. And since Makizal didn’t find it…”

“He was never going to find it.”

Williams finally looked up, her frustration momentarily eclipsing her guard.

“It’s at the orphanage,” Evelyn said softly. “In the bag of a little boy I care about.”

Williams remained silent, absorbing the devastating simplicity of the truth.

“Even if he had searched the orphanage, he wouldn’t have found it. But I will hand it over to you tomorrow evening. Then the deal will be complete.”

For a moment, Williams wondered if she was hallucinating again. She pinched her hand hard, the sharp, deliberate pain confirming this was not a hallucination. It was real.

“…Alright. Tomorrow.”

“Are you going to have lunch before you go out?”

“Why bother?”

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“No need,” Williams cut her off. “Once you’re gone, my staff will return. Everything will return to normal.”

Silence stretched.

Then Evelyn’s gaze drifted toward her hand.

“Your hand… is it better?”

“It’s fine.”

“We could say I took good care of you, Niran,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, almost a lullaby, stripped of pretense.

“Dr. Niran Williams,” Williams corrected her, the reflex instantaneous and cold.

“Sorry. Dr. Niran Williams.” Evelyn paused, a spark of pity flickering for the woman who wore her title like armor.

“I would like to rest.”

“Good.” Evelyn hesitated as she stood by the door before adding, “Thank you for letting me carry out my pregnancy, Williams.”

Once the door closed, the deep sadness Williams had been trying to hold back finally overwhelmed her. She stood up, locked the door, and slowly approached the full-length mirror.

“You are Dr. Niran Williams,” she whispered. “There is nothing you cannot do. There is nothing above you.”

But the mantra sounded weak tonight, as if spoken by someone drowning.

A tear escaped down her cheek.

She insisted, “You are Doctor Niran Williams,” but this time, her voice cracked, and she started weeping bitterly, collapsing inward. With a roar of pure, frustrated self-hatred, she violently struck the mirror, which shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, mirroring the psychological fragmentation within her.

If she taught, she was the only one whipping.

She wasn’t.

That night, tears echoed through several lives:

• Evelyn, crying over her imminent departure, relieved to leave but terrified of what waited outside. She yearned to see Yada, Kannika, her orphanage, and breathe the fresh air of freedom to ensure no one was hurt.
• Kannika wept as she finally met her little sister Milly, with Yada at her side, legal papers granting custody trembling in her hand.
• Miss Kai wept tears of regret over the cruel decision she had been forced to choose for her daughter’s survival.
• Malaya wept in fear, abruptly returning to the obscure, dangerous life her family was unaware of.
• Emilio, crushed under the agonizing weight of karma and betrayal.
• The journalist wept, bitterly regretting his actions and all the professional and personal repercussions they had brought on his family.

In this tiring, emotionally charged period, the worst was yet to come.

Because as dawn crept toward the horizon, another battle was being drawn, one paved with blood, pride, and two men destined to collide.

Romaric had been hunting shadows for days.

Shadows that smelled like Makizal.

Finally, a disgruntled former agent revealed the only useful truth: Makizal had no home, no family, making him immune to blackmail.

He slept wherever the night caught him.

But he had a CUG, a church where he conducted his discreet recruitment.

And that morning, Makizal was there.

Dressed in severe black, like an angel of death at a private service, he sat with his legs crossed, eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling deeply, a picture of calm, deadly focus. A few elderly parishioners murmured prayers nearby.

Romaric moved like a ghost through the quiet sanctuary. Before Makizal even had time to open his eyes, Romaric pressed a chilled hunting knife against his throat, simultaneously sinking onto the bench beside him to camouflage the threat beneath the veil of morning prayer.

“Who would’ve thought a man like you would come to a place like this?” Romaric murmured, his breath hot against Makizal’s ear.

Makizal exhaled, unbothered. “I was baptized here. Why shouldn’t I?”

Romaric scanned the environment.

“It’s courageous of you to show up here. Except, once again, you’re slow. I expected more agility,” Makizal said.

“It’s often hard to find rats of your kind.”

“Fine, you found me. Do what you have to do,” Makizal sighed.

Romaric pushed the blade slightly, just enough to draw a thin line of red.

“Is Evelyn Hazel alive?”

Makizal didn’t blink.

“I don’t know who you are talking about.”

“Don’t play games with me. I know you’re involved in her disappearance, as well as the others. Is she still alive?” Romaric sank the knife, a precise, shallow wound into the side of his neck.

Makizal’s expression finally changed, morphing into a look of dry amusement. “Are you talking about Esther Dara? Well, yes, she is still breathing. But tomorrow, she won’t be anymore.” Makizal handed him a file.

“What is this?”

“Her entire file. I plan to give it to Madam.”

“Williams isn’t aware?”

“Yes,” Makizal said with a bored tone. “I had other priorities. Now she’ll know everything.”

“You’re arrogant,” Romaric spat. “But your road ends here. I know everything you’ve done, you and your colleagues in the police and secret services.”

“Then you’re well placed to know there’s no chance you’ll kill me and walk away alive.”

Romaric looked around the dimly lit church, his eyes scanning the quiet, praying figures.

“In your opinion, religious people or my spies?” Makizal asked. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, he put down Williams’s document and took off his tailored jacket.

Romaric instantly discarded his own jacket, standing ready.

“I admit you’re very agile,” Makizal conceded as he rose slowly.

“But Williams got shot. You didn’t see that coming, with all your efficiency,” Romaric pressed.

“Not false. I can predict probable events, but that journalist shot her while she was already seated, surrounded by guards. If he had drawn his weapon while he was alone, I would have fired before his hand even left his pocket.”

“Hm. Keep searching for reasons.”

“Are we fighting or what?”

The fight began with a sudden, vicious speed that betrayed the placid setting. It was not a brawl but a controlled, highly technical exchange of military-grade violence, a dance of elbows, knees, and calculated strikes. Romaric fought with desperate, righteous strength, Makizal with detached, strategic malice.

Just as Romaric gained the upper hand, pinning Makizal against the marble baptismal font, Makizal smiled, a terrifying, humorless twist of the lips.

“I admit you haven’t lost your agility, after all. Except, once again, you’re going to lose.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Your problem, you see, is that you’re honest, and I’m not.”

Makizal discreetly pulled a hidden secondary knife from his boot and struck, a quick, devastating slash to Romaric’s hip. Romaric gasped, the pain momentarily stealing his strength, and he fell back. Makizal tossed the boot knife in front of Romaric, who immediately grabbed it and rose, wounded.

“You cheated.”

“Tell me, why are you fighting me when I’m doing the same job as you, protecting Williams?”

“You are not helping her, you are exposing her to harm. And if I don’t stop you before you give her that file, it will be too late. Williams is not well.” Romaric took his knife, staggered closer, and put the blade back to Makizal’s neck.

“You are not like me. You can’t kill. This is why they drove you out. I would have killed you right away,” Makizal said, not flinching as he raised his hands, his face bruised and sweating. “You came alone because you are alone, and you found nothing to contain me. But you shouldn’t have disappointed Miss Kai once again.”

Romaric’s arms slowly dropped. The pain in his hip was nothing compared to the truth in Makizal’s words.

“If you care about Williams, just hand Evelyn over to me and don’t say anything to Williams. At least let’s collaborate on this. You won.”

Makizal adjusted his attire, his gaze scornful. “Too bad. I was alone, and you should have killed me.” He backed away. “Now it’s too late. Guys, have fun,” he said, his voice carrying through the sanctuary. “This is your training. If he gets out alive, I’ll fire you. Bare-handed, even if he pulls out the knife.”

The elderly worshippers stood up. Not worshippers at all.

Eyes sharp. Bodies poised. Hidden trainees.

Makizal winked at the bleeding Romaric. “Good luck.”

Romaric fought like a trapped animal, quick and brutal, but he was injured and alone. Every blow he landed cost him twice as much in return. Every dodge left him gasping. The trainees moved in coordinated waves, calculating and merciless.

And Makizal simply walked away.

Straightening his jacket.

Adjusting his sleeves.

Calm. Unhurried.

Once again, Romaric had failed, blinded by his masculine pride and the naive love for the one he was protecting.

Makizal stepped outside into the morning sun, wiped a trace of blood from his neck, and slid into his vehicle.

He had a destination.

Williams.

And he intended to deliver Evelyn’s true identity into her trembling, fractured hands.

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