But outside the room, hidden in the hallway shadows, Lee's voice whispered through his comms:
"Watch him. Every step. Every glance. If he even breathes wrong near Snowflake, I want to know before he does."
The mansion was no longer a sanctuary.
It had become a chessboard.
And someone—someone close—was playing with bloodied hands.
Lee stood by the arched window of his office, storm clouds bleeding into the horizon. His fingers clenched the edge of the mahogany table as he dialed a number from memory — one he hadn't called in years.
After two rings, a rough British voice answered.
"Been a while, mate. Thought you forgot about Manchester."
Lee's voice was sharp and serious.
"Drake. I need your monsters. Now."
There was a pause. Then the tone changed — serious, aware.
"What happened?"
"She got shot."
"The girl?"
"Snowflake."
"Shit."
Lee continued, eyes dark.
"We've got a rat. Someone inside. And Adam's too close to the fire to see who's holding the match. I need your best men here within 48 hours. Armed. Trained. Silent as shadows. You know the drill."
Drake didn't ask more. He simply said,
"I'll send five. The ones I trained with my own blood. They don't blink, Lee. You'll owe me a kingdom."
Lee smiled coldly.
"If Snowflake breathes freely again… I'll owe you an empire."
He cut the call.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside the mansion, the real guards were finally on their way.
The kind who don't flinch.
The kind who don't miss.
And the kind who bury traitors without asking why.
The moment the black SUV pulled up at the Manhattan hospital entrance, five tall figures stepped out, dressed in midnight tactical suits with a single stitched emblem on their chest — Drake's insignia: a lion with wings drawn in blood red.
They walked like ghosts. Silent. Lethal. Eyes sharp. Movements calculated.
Lee stood at the entrance, arms folded, nodding once. No words were exchanged — only mission files were handed. Within seconds, the five spread out like shadows: two at the roof, one monitoring corridors, one securing the perimeter, and the last positioned right outside Snowflake's room.
As Adam turned from the hallway, his eyes locked on the leader of the squad. No words.
Lee gave a slow half left eye blink.
Adam exhaled — finally, someone he could trust. He gave a barely noticeable nod and whispered under his breath, "Guard her with your soul."
Then, turning to Jaciee, he spoke gently, "Could you check with the nurse if they need anything for Snow? I'll grab a quick coffee... I won't be far."
Jaciee nodded and left with quiet urgency.
Meanwhile, Dave, oblivious to the shifting tides beneath his feet, was sent to the harbor under the pretense of inspecting the delayed shipment. His departure was smooth — too smooth.
But Lee was watching everything.
And now, with Drake's monsters crawling through the shadows, the game wasn't just survival anymore.
It was hunt time.
Lee leaned back, sipping his mocha like they weren't planning hellfire.
A teasing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"By the way… my better half's already in Setagaya."
Adam raised a brow.
Lee chuckled, "Yeah, Drake. You know I only trust two things in this world—my gun, and that lunatic."
He leaned in, voice dropping lower.
"And trust me, he's not just tracking Bad Boy. He's going to make him regret being born."
Adam's eyes darkened, a slow burn igniting behind them.
Lee clinked his coffee mug lightly against Adam's.
"To Snowflake… and to vengeance served ice cold."
Silence.
Just the hum of storm clouds rolling in.
Because this wasn't over.
This was just the start of the reckoning.
FLASHBACK – Manchester, 7 years ago
The underground ring was roaring.
Blood, sweat, and fists flew under flashing lights, and in the center stood Lee, shirt torn, lip bleeding — smiling like a madman. Across the ring, his opponent staggered, breath ragged.
From the crowd, a voice boomed:
"End it, you drama queen!"
Drake, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, leaned against a pole — tattoos half-hidden under his leather jacket, eyes glowing with reckless pride.
Lee gave a bloody grin and knocked the man out cold with one swift uppercut.
As the crowd went wild, Lee walked over and flopped beside Drake on the bench, both drenched in chaos and adrenaline.
"Could've done it faster," Drake teased.
"Wanted to make it cinematic," Lee replied, spitting blood and laughing.
Drake handed him a water bottle and raised a brow.
"You're a damn lunatic."
Lee drank, then leaned back and said with a shrug,
"And you still stick around. That makes you worse."
They laughed — raw, real.
That night, they made a pact over whisky and fire — no matter how dark things got, they'd have each other's backs. No questions, no betrayal. Blood in, blood out.
Back to the present, Adam sips his cappuccino as Lee finishes the story.
"He may call me the lunatic, but he's the storm. And lucky for us…" Lee said, eyes gleaming.
"The storm just landed in Tokyo."