CHAPTER 119: DOTS!!

The canvas shook as Grim Reaper slammed Angelo down with brutal finality.

The bulky man writhed, a groan of pain tearing from his throat. Miles crouched low, his shadow falling over him, eyes cold as ice.

To Angelo, that face wasn’t human anymore—it was monstrous. A predator. Something that could swallow him whole.

Miles’s voice was low, cutting through the air like a blade. "So weak. I thought you might have some guts. But it turns out... you’re just another weakling. Just like the men you sent."

The crowd leaned in, sensing the tension but unable to catch the words. All they saw was their undefeated boss trembling on the floor.

Angelo’s lips trembled. "Who... who are you...?"

Miles tilted his head, his expression sharper than steel. "Huh? You try to mess with my property, and you don’t even know who I am?"

Realization struck Angelo’s face, his eyes widening with fear. He thrashed desperately, trying to rise. But before he could, Miles’s hand clamped around his throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

The atmosphere shifted—air grew heavy, breaths caught, the crowd silenced. All eyes locked on the chilling image of Angelo kicking helplessly, dangling in the Reaper’s grip.

"Spare me!" Angelo croaked, veins bulging, spit flying from his lips. "I can—I can give you lots of money!"

Miles’s gaze didn’t waver. He tossed him aside like discarded trash, Angelo crashing to the mat with a thud. "Who wants your dirty money? Or should I ask—do you even have any money left?"

Angelo coughed, his voice breaking. "I... I have lots of money!"

Miles straightened, voice sharp and loud enough for the entire arena to hear. "Unfortunately, your lots of money is illegal. And as we speak, the Financial Crimes Department is already raiding your house."

Gasps rippled through the audience. Whispers surged like wildfire. "Raiding...?" "He’s finished...""Who is this Grim Reaper...?"

Angelo’s eyes widened, trembling. "You’re bluffing..."

Miles leaned closer, voice dropping to a chilling calm. "You can relax, living in delusion that I’m bluffing. I know you won’t be able to. But remember this—if you ever even think about touching my property again..."

His smirk deepened, deadly. "I will reap your soul out."

The arena fell utterly silent. No jeers, no cheers, just awe and fear.

From the balcony, Celina’s lips curved in excitement. "So... he came here with a motive. That was so cool."

Beside her, Finn was frozen—dumbstruck. The man he thought was simply a powerful chairman was something far beyond. For the first time, he was truly looking up to his boss.

Celina stood, tugging Finn toward the door. "Let’s go. Time to move out."

Down below, Miles adjusted his cuffs calmly, then turned his gaze to the trembling host. His voice cut through the silence. "Host. Why don’t you announce the winner? The gamblers are waiting for their results."

The host nearly dropped the mic, his hands shaking. But he managed to raise it, voice cracking as it boomed across the hall. "L-Ladies and gentlemen... your winner! The new champion of the fight club... The Grim Reaper!"

The crowd erupted, the silence shattering into a storm of cheers, chants, and thunderous applause.

The Reaper had arrived.

The car hummed softly as it slipped through Star Harbor’s traffic. The fight club’s roar was behind them now, but the tension of it still clung faintly in the air.

Celina sat in the passenger seat, arms folded, brows furrowed. "So... what did he really do?"

Miles kept his eyes on the road, voice steady. "Nothing much. He was messing with my mom’s restaurant renovation. He had his eyes on the property."

Celina’s jaw tightened, her tone sharp. "He deserved the beating. How dare he?"

Miles glanced at her briefly, noticing the heat in her eyes, the way her cheeks flushed with anger. A low chuckle escaped him. "You seem angrier than me."

Her cheeks reddened deeper. She looked away, lips pressing into a pout. "Of course. I don’t want anyone messing around with Aunt’s restaurant."

For a moment, Miles allowed himself a small, genuine smile before turning back to the road.

"So... where to now?" he asked casually.

Celina sighed, shoulders slumping. "I hate to say this, but... drop me at the office."

Miles arched a brow."Your car is right behind us. Why do I need to drop you?" His tone carried a playful edge.

Celina shot him a sideways look, flustered. "Why? Do you want to get rid of me that quickly?"

Miles sighed lightly, shaking his head. "Fine. I’ll drop you."

The rest of the drive flowed with easy conversation—bits of teasing, Celina’s laughter slipping out despite herself, Finn occasionally chiming in through the comms, though mostly silent, watching the car ahead .

Finally, the sleek car pulled up to the glass-fronted Wraithbourne office tower. Celina gathered her bag, her eyes meeting Miles’s for a brief moment before she stepped out.

Finn bowed slightly toward Miles, his voice firm. "Boss, I’ll ensure her security"

Miles gave him a faint nod, a wordless seal of trust.

As Celina disappeared into the lobby with Finn shadowing her, Miles shifted gears.

The hum of the engine returned, steady, as he turned the wheel. His destination now—his own office.

Another battlefield awaited.

The office was quiet, the blinds drawn halfway against the afternoon light. Miles leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the massive screen on the wall.

A photo filled the display—a girl in black shades, a cap pulled low, walking with two men shadowing her.

Miles’s voice was calm, deliberate. "Who am I looking at?"

On the other end of the video feed, Monica appeared, her sharp eyes glowing against the soft background of her operations room. "She’s Luna Whitecliff. Twenty-eight. Recent Stanford graduate."

Miles arched a brow."Twenty-eight, and a recent graduate? What’s the play?"

Monica’s lips curled faintly. "Remember there’s one more recent Stanford graduate we’re tracking..."

Realization clicked in Miles’s mind. "You mean Silvey?"

Monica smirked. "Bullseye. They studied in the same class. And twenty-eight is her real age—she was in with falsified documents we uncovered."

Miles leaned forward, his gaze sharpening."So, what’s her connection with Silvey?"

"None, directly," Monica admitted. "Except... they were roommates at Stanford, in the same hostel."

Miles’s tone lowered, skeptical. "Alright. Then why does she matter to us?"

Monica’s fingers tapped against her desk before she spoke. "She was flagged by our agents at the Denver Port a few days ago. Like many others traveling the Pacific sea route. We investigated all of them. But she stood out."

Miles narrowed his eyes. "What did you find?"

"She arrived on a private vessel," Monica explained. "That ship last departed from the same port eight months ago. And in all that time, it was never seen docking anywhere else."

Miles’s eyes flickered with understanding. "You’re saying it came from the Old Master’s base."

"Exactly." Monica’s tone was firm. "But there’s more. It looks like Luna’s presence at Stanford wasn’t just academic. Our theory suggests... she was there to keep an eye on Silvey Sterling."

Miles’s jaw tightened. "Like a bodyguard?"

Monica shook her head. "No. Like a spy. A more likely theory is that Kyle Sterling himself sent her."

Miles exhaled slowly, skeptical. "That’s still just a theory."

"Most likely the truth," Monica countered. "But..." she tapped a key, and another photo slid onto the screen. "There’s something else you should see."

Miles’s eyes fixed on the new image—an older man in a lab coat, grey beard neatly trimmed, intelligent eyes behind thin spectacles.

"Who’s this? A doctor?"

"Dr. Mason Whitecliff," Monica said. "He died seventeen years ago. In Star Harbor. And yes—he worked for your father’s research project."

Miles’s expression hardened. His voice dropped. "You mean he was part of the drug research? ...Wait. Whitecliff?" His eyes narrowed. "How is he related to Luna?"

Monica’s voice was steady. "Luna is Mason’s daughter."

Silence filled the office for a moment.

Miles sat back, eyes locked on the screen, his expression unreadable. "Then why would she work for the same man who possibly killed her father?"

"That’s the question," Monica replied softly. "And only she could answer."

Miles’s fingers tapped against his desk once, his tone calm but heavy with thought. "So what now?"

"The Navy already seized Old Master’s base," Monica explained. "But they found nothing solid. For now, we’re tailing her. She boarded a flight to Citadel City."

Miles’s lips curved slightly. "Interesting. And Silvey?"

"We’ve already dealt with that private investigator—Zed," Monica replied. "Silvey knows about Kyle. According to Zed, she has big ambitions. But as a daughter in that family... those ambitions are useless."

Miles exhaled, almost bitterly amused. "So Kyle is next in the line of inheritance."

"Yes," Monica confirmed. "And I’ll keep you updated."

Miles leaned back, his gaze softening briefly. "Mom was asking about you. Call her sometime."

Monica blinked, then allowed herself a small smile. "Oh... sure. I’ll call her right away."

The call ended.

The screen went black, leaving Miles staring at his reflection. His eyes were sharp, thoughtful, unsettled.

He muttered under his breath."...This girl."

Citadel City – Evening

The glow of city lights spilled through the high-rise windows of Silvey Sterling’s apartment. She had just set down a glass of wine when the doorbell rang.

She padded across the polished floor, heels clicking softly, and opened the door.

There she was.

A girl stood with a suitcase at her side—slim frame, black shades hiding her eyes even indoors, a cap pulled low over her dark hair. Her posture was neat, but there was something cold, measured, about the way she held herself.

Silvey’s eyes lit up in surprise, warmth flooding her expression."Layla! You’re finally here... I was waiting for you! Come in, come in!"

Her voice carried the kind of joy reserved for someone trusted, someone who once shared late nights and whispered secrets under the same roof.

Luna—known here as Layla to Silvey—let her lips curve into a polite smile. She wheeled her suitcase inside, her movements smooth, quiet, calculated.

The two women embraced. Silvey’s was tight, genuine. Luna’s was light, practiced—arms wrapping around without real weight.

"Feels like college days again," Silvey said with a laugh as she pulled back. "You always disappeared when I needed help packing. Still the same, huh?"

Luna chuckled softly, but her eyes, hidden by the shades, did not laugh."Some things never change."

They sat down in the living room, the warm glow of lamps softening the sharp edges of the city skyline behind them. Silvey poured another glass, pressing it into Luna’s hand.

"To new beginnings," Silvey said brightly. "I’m so glad you’re here, Layla."

Luna raised the glass, clinking it lightly, her smile faint."To new beginnings."