Chapter 11 Countdown in Block Twelve

Dark purple veins snaked violently beneath the surface of the carotid artery, like malevolent serpents.

The blood vessels swelled eerily, pulsating with a sickening rhythm. With each heartbeat, those ghastly patterns writhed towards the chest.

Arthur had planted a gene - locked, mutated neurotoxin. Maniacal laughter blared from the loudspeaker, a sadistic declaration of the ultimate wedding “gift” — hopeless despair with no cure.

Vivienne flicked her wrist, and the tactical pouch on her outer thigh unzipped with a hiss. A medical - grade titanium steel hemostat, glinting like a predator's eyes, hurtled from her hand.

She clenched her knuckles white.

The blade tip rammed against the junction of the acupoint and blood vessel on Alexander's neck. It pierced the skin with a pop, then stabbed down, making a squelch.

The sharp metal dug into the arterial wall, halting the poison - laden blood. The dark purple poison marks stopped above the collarbone, unable to advance.

Alexander stood still, jaw clenched, letting her work.

Vivienne yanked out her blood - stained fingers. Sticky flesh clung to her digits as she wiped them on her tattered dress. A searing fury coursed through her. She whipped around to face the surveillance camera.

“Arthur, cowering in the shadows. You're a coward,” she spat, venom in her voice.

Suddenly, old Martin's corpse twitched. The high - concentration adrenaline capsules shattered, sending him into a violent, jerking resurrection. His body shot upright, limbs flailing like a broken puppet.

A deafening rasp filled the air.

The walking corpse's mouth flew open. Its blood - shot eyes locked onto Vivienne. Blood, mingled with chunks of liver and gore, geysered from his mouth.

“Hack, you don't know the chessboard! The Presbyterian Council was a pawn. Arthur's the master of the ‘Silver Thorn’ scepter,” Old Martin rasped.

Crack! The cervical vertebrae snapped. Old Martin's head slumped, turning into rotting flesh.

The laughter cut off.

An electronic voice took over. “Self - destruction program of the underground defense in Block Twelve activated. Countdown, thirty seconds.”

A shrill beep screeched from the load - bearing columns. Shockwaves shattered the ceiling tubes. Glass shards rained down, and dust billowed.

The Scavenger guards formed a defensive ring. Alexander, despite the numbing pain, felt a steely resolve. Failure wasn't an option.

Vivienne drew an armory blade and knelt beside Martin's body.

She pressed the knife tip against his neck and pushed. The blade grated against the bone. Flesh peeled back, and blood oozed, staining her knuckles. She rummaged through the mess.

She pinched her fingers and plucked a top - secret data chip from the spinal cavity.

“Decode it,” she barked, tossing the chip to the assistant.

The assistant's tactical terminal, though cracked, had intact core hardware. He inserted the chip and forced the lock open.

The screen flickered, then a surveillance video popped up.

Dim light filled a gloomy Gothic hall. A totem throne of bones and gold loomed.

Arthur sat on the throne, legs crossed. He held an unlit cigar in his left hand and pressed on a magnate's head with his right.

Arthur's fingers curled. The magnate's skull crumpled with a sickening crack. Blood geysered, and he collapsed, a broken heap.

In the background, a dark - gold flag with a new crest hung.

The countdown hit zero. The ground shook. The floor cracked and collapsed.

Alexander grabbed Vivienne's waist. His left side was numb, but he was fierce. They dashed through falling blocks and flames, guards leading the way.

The moment they burst out, the hospital and door were engulfed in flames. The underground network became a sea of fire.

At the ruins' edge, the storm raged. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. Rain lashed.

Alexander tilted Vivienne's chin up and kissed her. A salvo against the tyrant.

The assistant glanced at the tablet. Arthur looked up and mouthed “Lulu.”

She froze. Her stomach dropped. Memories flooded back. He knew. Her hands trembled around the glass. The city below blurred in the rain. Arthur would pay.

Cold sweat soaked the assistant's vest. The tablet crackled and went black.

“Prepare the vehicle,” Alexander growled, wiping blood from his lips.

“Sir, all safe houses are compromised. The Black Shield controls the roads. All flights are locked down,” the assistant stammered.

Vivienne tied up her hair and adjusted her collar. “Head to the helipad on West 11th Avenue.”

The assistant hesitated. “Madam, the air - defense is in the council's hands.”

“That was ten minutes ago. This chip holds Martin's assets and keys. We can change permissions and seize a plane,” Vivienne snapped, picking up the chip.

She walked to the armored vehicle and opened the door. “If Arthur wants to clean house, I'll empty his coffers.”

The engine roared, breaking through roadblocks.

Alexander leaned back, eyes closed. The clamp held the toxin. His left side was numb, but he was in control. He calculated their odds.

Vivienne took the notebook, connected the chip, and typed rapidly. Codes danced on the screen.

The password wall crumbled. She hit the spacebar. Capital flow: $27 billion into “The Abyss”.

She opened the firewall. “Alexander・Pierce,” she said, eyes narrowing.

The assistant turned, surprised.

Alexander opened his eyes. “Framing me to take power. Using all - network forces.” Anger simmered in him.

Vivienne pressed enter. “Can't waste this money.”

The screen turned. “Split it, scatter it, and buy bounties for Martin's family and Black Shield leaders in three minutes.”

Rain lashed the window. “He wants to pin the blame. I'll make it stick.”

The vehicle raced forward, crashing through the fence at the helipad.

Rain poured. A jet - black Gulfstream waited.

As the mercenaries raised their guns, Alexander slid out and fired. The guards dropped.

The three boarded and slammed the door. Vivienne's fingers flew over the console. She seized the autopilot.

The jet roared. Storm clouds split. Below, the convoy scrambled.

In the cabin, a gift box sat on the table.

Alexander opened it. A syringe and a recorder were inside. He pressed play.

“Don't doubt it. The antidote delays the toxin for 48 hours. Bring Alexander to the monastery in 48 hours. Be late, and face the consequences,” Arthur's voice said.

The recorder self - destructed.

Vivienne picked up the syringe. “A short - acting suppressant. Walking into his game,” Alexander said.

“Since he invited us, we can't back down,” she replied.

The needle pierced the vein. The marks faded. Blood flow normalized.

Alexander removed the clamp and rotated his shoulder. “Where's the location?”

“Route locked. A private estate in the Italian Alps,” the assistant said.

Vivienne poured whiskey and handed a glass to Alexander. Standing by the porthole, she stared into the storm. She crushed the glass. “Forty - eight hours. Enough to tear him apart.”

The Gulfstream sliced through the clouds, hurtling towards Europe.