Lahat ng Kabanata ng BOUND BY THIS BLOOD CONTRACT : Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

​POV: Malia​The cold in the lower maintenance tunnels of Sector Four didn't just bite at the skin; it settled into the bones. It smelled of stagnant seawater, machine oil, and the slow, copper decay of rusting iron beams. Every breath I took turned into a thin ghost of steam in the humid darkness, disappearing into the maze of pipes above us.​Behind me, Jarrah moved with the silence of a man who had made a lifelong practice of surviving in shadows. He didn't touch me, but I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a steady, terrifying anchor in the dark.​My hand rested lower down on my thigh, where the hard weight of the tactical combat knife pressed against my leather trousers. It was Jarrah’s blade. He had buckled the sheath onto my belt three weeks ago, his calloused fingers brushing against my hip while his low, raspy voice repeated the same lesson until my muscle memory caught up with my fear: Never fight the grip, Malia. Go for the nerve. Use the steel to carve yourself a

​POV Malia ​The air in the library of the main estate smelled of bitter cold, vintage leather, and the metallic tang of fresh gun oil.​I sat at the heavy mahogany desk, tracing the intricate crest engraved on Jarrah’s signet ring, the one he had left resting on top of Vance’s interrogation transcript. In the basement three levels below us, Vance was still breathing, but barely. He had given up names, bank accounts, and coordinates, but the most dangerous truth had stayed lodged in his throat: Alastair knew we were here.​"You're staring at the wood grain like it's going to answer you, Malia."​Jarrah’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the room. He stood near the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting the tactical harness strapped across his chest. He didn't look like the ruthless syndicate boss the underworld feared; he looked like a man standing at the precipice of an absolute storm.​"He's coming, isn't he?" I asked softly, standing up. My hands were steady as I stra

​POV: Malia​The subterranean dampness didn't just touch my skin; it seeped straight into my bones, carrying the metallic tang of old rust and forgotten subterranean decay. Every breath felt heavy, weighed down by the suffocating darkness pressing against us.​We had consolidated what little gear we had left three near-spent flashlight batteries, a half-empty canteen of metallic-tasting water, and Jarrah’s battered leather pack containing the digital police drive we had nearly died securing. Behind us, above the thick concrete slab of the maintenance access door, the city echoed with the faint, muffled hum of sirens and patrol drones. Ahead of us lay the unmapped mine shafts beneath the old industrial district a maze of collapsing timber supports and endless drop-offs.​"Stay right on my heels," Jarrah murmured, his voice barely above a rasp.​His shadow stretched out long and jagged against the slimy rock wall in the faint, flickering light of my dying flashlight. I could see the ten

​POV: Malia ​The hum of the server cooling fans sounded like a death rattle in the cramped basement office of the Calaby safehouse. Rain lashed against the high, narrow window, painting slanting bars of water across the concrete floor. On the monitors in front of us, the progress bar hovered at sixty percent, a jagged green line crawling across a sea of black code. ​Sixty percent of Callan’s police file. Sixty percent of the truth my brother had died trying to protect. ​"That's all we're getting," Vance muttered, his thick fingers flying across a mechanical keyboard that clacked like dry bones. Sweat glistened on his receding hairline, reflecting the amber glow of the terminal. "The corruption hit the rest of the sector before the cold storage drive isolated itself. The file is intact up to the primary suspect manifest, but from there on out..." ​"Show me," I said. My voice was too quiet, raspy from eighteen hours without sleep and three days of swallowing down the glass shards of

​POV: Malia​The noise inside the abandoned gatehouse was a deafening mix of rain drumming against the tin roof and the static-laced hum of the tactical comms console.​From my position behind the reinforced glass window, I had a clear view of the lower staging area of Pier 4. Down on the asphalt, Jarrah’s four-man tactical team was moving like shadows between the towering stacks of shipping containers, sweeping toward the central berth where the armored transport truck was parked.​"Alpha team in position," Jarrah’s low voice crackled over the radio, heavy with static. "Moving to breach the primary cargo trailer. Malia, how does the perimeter look from the tower?"​I swept my night-vision binoculars across the high catwalks running along the crane structures. "All clear on the upper rail, Jarrah. But something feels wrong. The guards near the vessel... they aren't loading the ship anymore. They're just standing there."​"Repeating, Malia, say again: static is rising"​"Jarrah, wait!"