MY BESTFRIEND’S BROTHER, MY RUIN의 모든 챕터: 챕터 31 - 챕터 40

"Get your hands off me. I’ll walk myself out."Cane’s voice cracked like dry timber. He shoved the two bailiffs back, his chest heaving under a rumpled silk shirt. The mahogany doors of the penthouse stood wide, a gaping mouth ready to spit him out. Rafferty leaned against the marble doorframe, arms crossed, watching the sweat bead on Cane’s receding hairline."Check the box again," one of the bailiffs grunted, hoisting a plastic crate filled with gold-plated desk accessories and a single, half-empty bottle of expensive scotch. "Everything stays except personal effects. Orders from the new board.""I am the board!" Cane roared. He lunged for the crate, but his shoes skidded on the polished floor. He looked like a dog on ice.Rafferty reached into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled, single dollar bill. He stepped forward and tucked it into the breast pocket of Cane’s suit."The mechanical voice on the phone chirped, 'For the bus, Cane. Since the towncars are already being towed.'""Y

"Why, Leo? Just give me one reason that doesn't sound like a pile of corporate shit."Rafferty stood in the center of the sterile, high-ceilinged office. The glass walls overlooked a city that looked like a circuit board of cold lights. He didn't sit. He didn't lean. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing the cold edges of the burner phone he’d used to dismantle the Thorne empire.Leo sat behind the desk, swirling a glass of amber liquid. The ice clinked against the crystal—a sharp, rhythmic sound in the heavy silence. He looked tired, but not broken. He looked like a man waiting for a delayed flight."You really want to play the martyr, Raffy? After everything I did to keep the wolves away from your door?" Leo finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with the strain of forty-eight hours of damage control. "I did it to save you. You were a liability. Ignatius was going to crush you, or Cane was going to bury you. I gave them a version of you they could control so

"What the hell are you looking at? Eat your damn soup before it gets cold."Cane shoved a plastic tray across the scarred laminate table of the shelter. The liquid inside the bowl was a grey, watery sludge that smelled of scorched beans and wet cardboard. Ignatius didn't move. He sat hunched over, his fingers twitching in his lap, his eyes fixed on the flickering television mounted high on the cinderblock wall."He’s on again," Ignatius rasped. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed in a tin can. "Look at him. Sitting in your chair. Wearing your favorite watch. He didn't even change the carpet."Rafferty’s face filled the screen. He looked polished. Untouchable. He sat across from a high-profile news anchor, the black smartphone resting on his knee like a weapon. The mechanical, synthesized voice droned through the cheap speakers of the room."Raffy’s a fake," Cane hissed, his jaw creaking as he ground his teeth. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned a bloodl

"Who the hell authorized a server crawl at four in the morning?"Rafferty’s voice cracked, a dry splinter of sound in the dark. He slammed his palm against the mahogany desk, the impact stinging through his wrist. The monitors on the wall didn't flicker with the usual stock tickers or security grids. They pulsed. A sickly, rhythmic green light flooded the executive suite."Marcus? Get in here!"No answer. The intercom hissed, a dead-air static that tasted like ozone. Rafferty grabbed the mouse, but the cursor moved on its own. It dragged a file across the screen. Open. Execute.The first image snapped into focus. High resolution. Grainy shadows. It was the bedroom in the penthouse. Rafferty was in the frame, tangled in charcoal sheets, his mouth slightly open. The timestamp was forty minutes ago.He lunged for the power cable, yanking it from the wall. The screen didn't go black. It stayed lit, the internal battery or some secondary bypass keeping the ghost alive."The vault code is s

"What the hell is that smell?"Rafferty slammed the door of the Bentley, the leather interior usually smelling of nothing but cold vacuum and expensive polish. Now, a thick, cloying sweetness choked the air. Sandalwood. Spiced orange. The distinct, metallic tang of Ignatius’s signature cologne.He didn't touch the steering wheel. He sat there, his fingers curling into the palms of his hands until the nails bit into the skin. It was thick. Oppressive. It clung to the roof of his mouth.He lunged for the glove box, tearing it open. Empty. He checked the vents. Nothing visible. But the scent pulsed with every breath he took.The engine roared to life as he hit the start button. The air conditioning kicked in, blasting the fragrance directly into his face. He gagged, rolling the windows down as he tore out of the parking garage. The city air didn't help. The smell stayed in his nostrils, a persistent ghost.The gym was no better.He dropped the heavy iron plates, the clang echoing through