Semua Bab My Billionaire Ex-husband Won't Call It Quit: Bab 131 - Bab 140

Medbay – 1 Week Later Griffin woke to sunlight and silence.The first thing he noticed was the absence—no whispers threading through his thoughts, no phantom code fragments suggesting tactical analyses of every face that entered his field of vision. The second thing was the warm weight of natural light streaming through the medical bay's reinforced windows, painting everything in shades of gold that seemed almost impossibly clean after days of artificial illumination.No whispers. No phantom code. No sense of sharing headspace with a predator who wore his father's face.Just the gentle hum of medical equipment and the sound of someone snoring in the chair beside his bed.Griffin turned his head carefully, testing the limits of his mobility. His neck felt stiff but functional, his thoughts moving with the sluggish clarity of someone emerging from deep sedation. Eli sat slouched in a medical chair that had clearly been designed for patients rather than visitors, his lanky frame folded

Coleman Manor Bunker – 00:17 Hours The glass pod hissed open with the sound of escaping steam, releasing a cocktail of medical vapors and ozone that made the air taste metallic. Michael stepped out—barefoot, clad in medical whites that seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the underground facility. His movements were jerky like a puppet learning its strings, each step calculated but somehow off-rhythm, as though his consciousness was still settling into its borrowed flesh. Griffin pressed himself against the cold concrete wall, watching in horror as his father—or what remained of him—tested the limits of his reconstructed form. The man who emerged from the pod bore Michael Coleman's face, but everything else was wrong. The way he held his shoulders. The subtle cant of his head. The predatory stillness that had replaced his father's characteristic restless energy. "You look... disappointed," Michael rasped, his voice carrying harmonics that hadn't been there before—

Cliffside Overlook – Midnight Eli didn't knock. The door to Griffin's quarters exploded inward under the impact of his steel-toed boot, the reinforced polymer frame splintering like kindling. He crossed the room in three strides, hauled Griffin out of bed by his shirt collar, and dragged him through the stronghold's corridors before the younger man could fully process what was happening."You're a shit liar," Eli growled as they reached the platform's edge, where forty-foot waves crashed against the support pillars with enough force to make the entire structure shudder. "Always have been. Even when you were ten years old and trying to convince me you hadn't hacked into the Pentagon's classified files."Below them, the Atlantic roared with primal fury, the storm system Griffin had been tracking finally making its presence known. Wind whipped across the platform with enough velocity to make standing upright a challenge, and the spray from the waves below left everything slick with sal

Island Stronghold – 72 Hours Later Griffin's nightmares had started the moment he'd closed his eyes in the medical bay, sixty-seven hours after Coleman Manor had become a smoking crater. What began as standard post-traumatic stress—images of fire and collapsing concrete—had evolved into something far more disturbing.Not nightmares of Michael—but dreams as Michael.He'd wake up with his hands around imaginary throats, his voice rasping orders in a cadence that wasn't his own. Commands issued with the casual cruelty of a man who had never seen other human beings as anything more than variables in an equation. "Liquidate the pension fund. Those teachers won't need retirement if they're not breathing." The words would spill from his lips before he fully understood what he was saying.The island stronghold—a repurposed oil platform in international waters that Maria had converted into their base of operations—offered the isolation Griffin needed to wrestle with what was happening to him

Bunker Control Room – 00:23 Hours Michael poured whiskey into a crystal glass—his first act in his new body—the amber liquid catching the harsh light of the control room's monitors. The Macallan 25, a bottle he'd been saving for a special occasion. What could be more special than resurrection? The glass trembled slightly in his grip; his motor control wasn't perfect yet, the neural pathways still forming new connections between synthetic thought and borrowed flesh. The control room stretched before them like the bridge of some impossible starship, banks of monitors displaying data streams from around the globe. Heart rates, sleep patterns, stress indicators—the vital signs of seventy-three hybrid children reduced to glowing metrics on screens. The technology was beautiful in its complexity, elegant in its reach, terrifying in its implications. "Join me," Michael said, turning to face his sons with the glass raised in mock toast. "Not as pawns. As partners." The offer hung in the r