บททั้งหมดของ My Father’s Enemy, My Obsession : บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

The blackout doesn’t fall all at once.It comes in jagged, ugly bites.From the passenger seat of the van, Ava watches the map on Cass’s tablet bloom with red and orange sectors while, outside the glass, Manhattan blinks and stutters like a dying thing.Three blocks ahead, a whole avenue winks dark, building by building. Streetlights flare, dim, and go out. Neon signs gutter. The sky itself seems to lower, the reflected glow on the low clouds shriveling away.“What’s our footprint?” Damian’s voice cuts through the comms, controlled but tight.Cass flicks her eyes between the windshield and the tablet as she weaves through traffic, one hand white‑knuckled on the wheel.“South Midtown to lower, spotty outages,” she says. “Some grid segments hard‑off, some flickering. Emergency lines are still holding—for now. Substations look stressed as hell. He’s not just tripping breakers; he’s playing the edges.”As if to prove her point, the traffic light ahead goes from dead black to a frantic bli

Cass snorts softly. “Heard that, Ava. Keep the profiling coming.”They take the left turn.Almost immediately, two guards step out from a side alcove too slow, guns half‑raised, clearly expecting a different timing.Damian and Leo cut them down before they can adjust.“Nice call,” Adrian says.“Don’t make me start charging consulting fees,” Ava mutters.They move up another flight—this one - a stark metal staircase with open risers and a caged wall on one side looking into a darkened service shaft.At the top, a narrow landing and another door, marked ACCESS – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.“Core is three levels above you,” Nolan says. “But this landing puts you at the outer ring. Expect more bodies from here.”Damian presses his ear to the door for a second.Muffled voices. The faint clink of gear.“We’ve got company,” he says. “Stack up.”Adrian takes the hinge side. Leo, jaw tight, takes the far. Damian centers himself.He nods once.Adrian twists the handle and shoves.The door swings

For a heartbeat, nobody moves.The only sound is the layered hum: servers, distant generators, the faint whine from something in the guts of the building that was never meant to run this hot this long.Valen’s gun stays pointed at Damian’s chest.On Ava’s tablet, the little red LIVE dot blinks in the corner of the feed. Comments are already starting to crawl under the frame—fragments of outrage and confusion from whatever back‑door audience Valen shoved this into.“What are you doing?” Damian asks, voice low.“Elevating the narrative,” Valen says. “You’ve been so busy shaping your story in private. A girl, a boy, a city, an empire of sin rebranded as virtue. It’s…quaint.” His smile sharpens. “Stories need stakes.”His free hand twitches toward another control.“Don’t,” Damian snaps.Valen tips his head. “You have no idea what this does.”“I know you think it hurts people,” Damian says. “That’s enough.”“Incorrect,” Valen murmurs. “I know it hurts *everyone*.”He flicks the switch.Ava

For a second, the control room turns into a pinwheeling blur of bodies and noise.Damian’s shoulder slams into Valen’s chest, driving him backward into the edge of the central console. The impact jars up Damian’s injured side; white pain knives through his ribs, but he doesn’t let go.The pistol jerks between them, barrel scraping against his vest, then arcing toward his face.Leo’s first shot cracks past Valen’s ear, forcing the closest gunman to duck behind a server rack instead of taking the clean flank he almost had. Adrian’s fire pins another, rounds sparking off the metal housings and sending Valen’s remaining muscle scrambling.“Damian, left wrist!” Nolan barks in his ear, watching from the overhead cam. “He’s trying to torque back in—”Damian feels it a split second before Nolan says it—the twist in Valen’s forearm, the shift of muscles as he tries to roll the gun hand free.He reacts on instinct, honed by too many fights in too many ugly rooms.He slams his right forearm down

The holding cell doesn’t look like much.Gray walls. Steel bench. Fluorescent buzz.For Vincent Moretti, it might as well be a different planet.“Bail is denied,” the judge says, voice even. “Given the scope of the alleged offenses, the strength of the preliminary evidence, and Mr. Moretti’s extensive resources and international ties, the court finds he is both a flight risk and a danger to the community.”Vince doesn’t flinch.He sits in his suit—pressed, perfect—as if he chose the hard plastic chair and the scuffed floor.His lawyer leans in, murmurs something about appeals and motions.Vince’s gaze flicks through the glass to the hallway beyond, where reporters are already jostling for position.He straightens his cuffs.He can play the long game.Until the first hearing.***The courtroom is colder than Ava expects.It shouldn’t matter—it’s marble and wood and microphones—but something about the air feels thin, like everyone’s been holding their breath since dawn.She sits behind