?Chapter 1619:

“Sure,” Corrine replied with a nod.

By the time darkness enveloped the city like a quiet curtain, they had finished their meal. The two of them now curled up together in the home theater, warm and close, lost in the glow of the screen.

To make things easier for her, Nate had curated an impressive lineup of films—timeless ssics from both local and international cinema, as well as a few recent releases across various genres.

Corrine scanned the titles and chose a suspense film. With a bucket of popcorn bnced on herp, she sank into the plush cushions of the sofa.

As the movie unfolded, they whispered theories back and forth, trying to outguess the plot and unmask the culprit.

Time slipped through their fingers. Just as the film reached its most electrifying twist, Corrine’s phone rang, shrill and sharp.

The sound sliced through the room like a de, dragging her from the story’s grip. She snatched up the phone. “Hello?”

“Corrine, get to Depraval Bar—quick! Your Uncle Waldo is in trouble!” Jolene’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with urgency.

Corrine felt her heart skip a beat. There was no time to think. She tossed the popcorn aside and sprang to her feet.

Nate was already alert. Seeing her expression, he stood as well, ready to move. “What happened?”

“Uncle Waldo is in trouble,” she said breathlessly.

Without hesitation, Nate reached for her hand, his palm warm and steady against her cold fingers. “I’ll take you there.”

When they arrived at Depraval Bar, a dense crowd had already gathered at the entrance. Onlookers swarmed like moths to a me, craning their necks for a better view of the chaos inside.

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Nate cast a sharp nce at Saul, who trailed just behind. The message was silent but clear. Saul gave a quick nod and strode forward with his men, slicing through the crowd and ushering people away from the doorway.

Only after the crowd began to scatter did Corrine and Nate step inside.

The bar was jarringly bright, stripped of its usual moody ambiance. No soft shadows, no inviting darkness. Just white, clinical light spilling across a scene that reeked of conflict.

Furniture had been shoved aside. Blood speckled the floor, stark against the polished wood—a silent testament to the violence that had erupted not long ago.

Jonathan lounged across a leather sofa, his legs tossed over the low table in front of him. In his hand, he flipped a fruit knife back and forth, the de shing under the overhead lights like it had its own mind.

Not far from him knelt a tall man, his head bowed low, silently scooping something off the floor and shoveling it into his mouth like a beaten dog. Corrine barely spared the man a nce. Her eyes swept the room, sharp and searching, scanning for Waldo.

Her uncle had always held the air of a gentleman—collected, articte, more ustomed to a courtroom than a fistfight. If he had been dragged into violence, then he would have been outmatched. Severely.

But he was nowhere to be seen. Had he been hurt? Taken away to a hospital? The question lingered, heavy in her chest, until a burst of footsteps echoed from deeper inside the bar—followed by sharp voices.

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