Chapter45 Zero Protocol

At the edge of the wreckage atop the Empire State Building, the night wind cut straight to the bone—sharp, biting, relentless.

The air reeked of scorched tactical aviation fuel.

The front half of a heavy armored vehicle had been sheared away. Twisted specialty metal plates smoked across the rooftop.

Hundreds of infrared targeting beams sliced through the haze.

Every red dot converged on the center of the encirclement.

A woman stood there, wrapped in a tactical trench coat.

The wind whipped violently at the hem of her silk dress.

A man stood half a step behind her.

The devouring instinct interrupted inside the aircraft now surged, triggering an irreversible biological backlash.

A crimson fissure split along the back of his thick neck—pulsing, throbbing.

Dark-purple blood seeped along cords of bulging muscle.

The commander of the heavily armed security force crouched behind cover nearly a hundred meters away.

He raised a gloved hand.

His night-vision scope locked onto the targets.

One pull of the trigger—armor-piercing explosive rounds would tear straight through both figures.

The man stepped forward—only half a step.

No provocation. No challenge.

Yet that single movement swallowed the woman's slender frame behind his massive shadow; even the floodlights could not pierce it.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His jaw locked. Teeth ground together.

Blood-red eyes opened amid the devastation.

No sound.

The berserk biomagnetic field of Subject Zero erupted outward in a radial wave; the air itself was pushed and displaced.

Six military reconnaissance helicopters circling overhead sparked with electricity, rotors failing in unison.

One after another, they fell—crashing in chains of fire across the streets below.

The first row of mercenaries trembled uncontrollably.

Ancient apex-genetic dominance forced their combat instincts offline.

Some collapsed to their knees.

Others broke into cold sweats, vomiting, stomachs rebelling.

The commander's hand froze midair.

Over a hundred hardened killers, seasoned in corpses and chaos, stepped back.

A path to the elevator opened.

Not a single person dared pull the trigger.

The private glass elevator activated.

The transparent cabin shot upward, leaving Manhattan's chaos sinking beneath the horizon.

The atmosphere shifted—from smoke and fire to sterile luxury.

Inside the elevator, the low pressure pressed in.

The hum of the ventilation system magnified, rhythmic, oppressive.

The man forced his enormous body into the furthest corner.

Mud and black blood coated him.

He could not touch her.

His broad back twitched, irregular, a lingering trace of polar ice entombment trauma.

He didn't dare turn his head—yet his gaze clung to the stainless-steel reflection panel, where Vivienne's cold silhouette shimmered.

The wound on the back of his neck pulsed violently.

He wanted to touch her.

To curl that pale throat in his hand.

Instead, he pressed both arms rigid at his sides.

Thick fingers intertwined, bones cracking, skin tearing under the pressure.

He inflicted brutal self-pain to suppress the urge—to resist the savage possessiveness clawing through his veins.

The penthouse level.

The double doors of the imperial suite swung open.

Vivienne, back to the entrance, unfastened the clasps of her blood-stained tactical coat.

The heavy fabric fell.

A thin black silk nightdress traced her elegant spine.

Without a glance backward, she walked toward the bathroom.

The door closed. Water began to run.

Outside, military boots struck the hardwood—heavy, restless, uneven.

Far beyond the shattered windows, a tiltrotor aircraft bearing the crest of a financial dynasty closed in.

Its searchlight pierced the darkness, tracing a bright circle across the carpet.

It had crossed the security perimeter.

The man stopped.

Turned his head.

Then strode to the window, seizing the manganese-steel frame with one hand.

He pulled.

Three hundred pounds of reinforced steel warped beneath his grip.

Paint and plaster rained from the wall.

His crimson eyes locked onto the cockpit.

An overwhelming, violent protective instinct surged outward—raw, visceral.

The pilot's scalp tingled.

He yanked the controls and fled.

Water ceased.

Steam drifted from beneath the bathroom door.

Vivienne emerged in a dark emerald silk robe.

Bare feet traced the thick handmade wool carpet.

The main lights remained off.

Only the neon glow of Lower Manhattan painted the room in cold reflections.

The temperature had dropped below freezing.

Silence, thick and heavy.

The only sound: the man's heavy breathing from the shadows, restrained yet unyielding.

She approached the broken window.

Without glass to shield her, the wind from hundreds of meters above streamed inside.

Hypothermia from Siberia surged back in full force.

Cold gnawed at her bones.

Vivienne lowered her eyes.

Closed them briefly.

Arms crossed unconsciously, hugging herself.

A faint crease formed between her brows—a whisper of fatigue, vulnerability, and chill.

No commands.

No ruthless authority.

One second.

That was enough.

The line separating master and servant burned to ash in the man's mind.

His two-hundred-pound frame crossed half the room in a single stride.

He appeared behind her.

Arms spread wide.

One movement would trap her entirely against his chest.

Yet—half an inch from her silk robe, he stopped.

Hands suspended in the wind, fingers still coated with mud and dried blood.

She was fragile.

He feared rough skin might scrape her.

Chest heaving violently; possessive hunger slammed through his veins; desire to consume, to dominate, to protect—clashing, roaring.

Finally—he stepped back, lowering his injured knee.

The kneecap struck the wool carpet with a harsh thud.

He knelt before her.

Hands reached out—large, burning—but careful, avoiding the silk.

Her cold bare feet disappeared into his scorching palms.

The extreme temperature difference sent an electrifying shiver through the room—nerves screaming, bones tingling.

His hands radiated heat, life-core energy flaring, driving the cold from her marrow.

Dim light.

He tilted his head, dark stubble shadowing his jaw.

Holding her ankle, he drew it closer—delicate skin pressed against his burning cheek.

Eyes closed.

Bloodlust tamed beneath lowered lashes.

Throat worked, dry, rasping, trembling:

“Use me…”

Command me.

Exploit me.

Make me your weapon.

Vivienne did not pull away.

She looked down at the man who willingly sheathed his fangs for her.

Fingers rose.

Cool tips traced the wound on his neck—the crimson line.

Gently, she pressed along it.

The violent biomagnetic fluctuations synchronized with her heartbeat.

The deterioration ceased.

On the tea table behind them sat the military terminal recovered from Siberia.

Motherboard long burned.

Dead.

Yet now flickering with ghostly white light.

Startup bypassed.

Blood-red English appeared across the center:

“He looks exactly like me when he loses control.”

Coordinates pulsed quietly in the lower-left corner:

Seven thousand meters beneath the ocean.

The Mother.