All Chapters of My Lover Drowned Me For Greed: I'm Back To Make Him Suffer : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The blue light of the Aegis terminal pulsed steadily, casting cold, sharp shadows across the brick walls of the pump house. Outside, the three-mile weather dome held firm, keeping the toxic yellow fog at bay. But inside the small room, the air felt suffocatingly tight.​Vivian’s hand was still sticky with Julian’s blood. She stared at her crimson palm, her chest heaving as a wave of pure horror crashed over her.​In her past life, she had seen that twisted, jagged scar on his right shoulder a hundred times. She had always wondered what kind of monster had done that to him. Now she knew. It wasn't a monster. It was her. He had taken a flying piece of glass to the back while pulling her out of the vacuum blast at the pharmaceutical warehouse.​"Vivian," Julian rasped. His voice was lower than usual, stripped of its sharp, mocking edge. He leaned heavily against the steel door frame, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck strained. "Stop looking at me like I'm already dead. L

​Julian’s touch was cold against the rising heat of his fever, but his grip remained absolute. His eyes locked onto hers, burning with an unspoken promise that cut through the glare of Marcus's spotlights.​"I have the shot," Julian whispered, his left hand slowly tracking down to the door pocket where he kept a secondary tactical rifle. "The moment you draw his attention, I’ll clear the perimeter."​"No," Vivian said, her voice dropping to a sharp, quiet register. She gently pulled her hand from beneath his, her fingers lingering against his skin for a fraction of a second. "He has his finger on a military-grade detonator. If your round misses by a millimeter, or if his dying reflex squeezes that trigger, the air filtration shaft collapses. We both suffocate underground."​She looked out the windshield at Marcus. He stood under his umbrella, a cruel, triumphant smirk stretching across his face. He looked exactly like he did on the lifeboat right before he broke her knuckles.​But this

​The warning light painted the concrete room in a thick, pulsing orange. The automated voice repeated its alert, steady and mechanical, completely detached from the danger it announced.​WARNING: SYSTEM INTERACTION DETECTED FROM SECONDARY AUXILIARY VENTILATION CORES.​Vivian’s fingers hammered against the main console. She didn't let the panic take hold. In her past life, she had survived two years in the lawless eastern ruins by learning one absolute truth: panic killed faster than any bullet.​She opened the bunker’s environmental schematics. A digital blueprint of the facility expanded across the main screen. Deep within the lower levels, the pressure sensors inside the primary ventilation shaft were spiking.​"They're trying to clear the intake valves," Vivian muttered, her teeth grinding together.​It wasn't Marcus. Marcus was currently crushed or broken out in the black mud of the transit yard. This was his tactical backup vanguard—the elite security sweep team he always kept on

​The wet, hollow slap of rubber soles on the metal floorboards grew louder. It was coming from the darkness of Sector 3—the storage corridors Vivian had spent the last forty-eight hours sealing off.​Julian didn't blink. He sat propped against the console, his bare torso glistening with cold sweat, his left hand locking the rifle butt against his good shoulder. The muzzle didn't waver. The absolute, predatory focus in his eyes showed exactly why he became the undisputed king of the northern ruins in her past life. Even half-dead from a fever, his survival instincts were terrifying.​Vivian didn't freeze. She slid her fingers downward, her palm wrapping around the cold checkered grip of the pistol tucked into her waistband. She drew it silently, thumbing the safety off down by her thigh where the click would be swallowed by the low roar of the environmental filters.​The wet footsteps stopped right at the boundary line where the blue server glare died into the shadow of the hallway.​"S

The harsh metallic broadcast hummed through the speakers, leaving a thick, suffocating silence in its wake. On the central terminal, the emblem of the Cross Family Syndicate—a stylized silver hawk clutching a broken anchor—spun slowly in place, marking the frequency as an active, high-priority military channel.​Clean-up crews will deploy at dawn.​Vivian stared at the glowing silver crest, her fingers curling tightly into her palms. Dawn was less than four hours away. The surface was an endless expanse of churning, black seawater, but a multi-district syndicate like the Cross family wouldn't be deterred by a simple flood. They had heavy-amphibious transport rigs, tactical atmospheric suits, and deep-radar scanners.​If they rolled into Sector 4 to strip Marcus’s territory, their scanners would find the bunker’s thermal footprint within forty minutes.​"They think I'm dead," Julian’s voice broke the quiet, a low, grating sound from the floorboards.​He had forced himself up into a sitt