Chapter 138: How Could You Have Known?

The small studio apartment feels far too luxurious for a hiding spot, especially for a man who is actively waiting to die.

Leon sits on the edge of a clean, plush sofa, staring blankly across the room. Only a few hours have passed since the men came to move him from that filthy, damp room in the rotting district.

They packed him up without explaining a single thing, throwing him into the back of a black van with tinted windows and driving him to this new location.

This place feels like a golden cage. It is tucked away in a quiet, high-rise building on the safer side of the city. It has modern amenities that make no sense for a fugitive.

There is a broad stainless steel fridge stocked with bottled water, expensive juice, and fresh fruit. Hot meals are delivered directly to his door twice a day, left outside in brown paper bags by silent men who never stay long enough for him to see their faces.

There is central heating, soft carpet under his feet, and a massive, flat-screen television mounted on the main wall.

It is a massive upgrade from the creaking mattress and stale dust of his previous hole. Yet, the added comfort does not make him feel safe.

If anything, it makes him feel far more protected, wrapped in layers of high-end security, but that protection only makes the walls feel thicker. He is still a prisoner.

He is still just a pawn waiting for the board to clear.

Leon reaches into the brown paper bag resting on the glass coffee table, pulling out a container of hot chicken and rice. He holds the plastic fork numbly, lifting a small bite to his mouth, but he can barely taste the heavy spices.

The television is on, its bright screen throwing sharp blue light across the clean living room.

The mid-afternoon news anchor is speaking in that smooth, dramatic tone that makes Leon’s stomach turn.

Images flash across the screen in rapid succession. High-definition pictures of Adrien on the streets, blurry hidden-camera footage from cheap motels, and bold red text shouting about the Vassilis family scandal.

The reporter goes on and on, detailing Adrien’s past as a sex worker and implicating him in the bombing of the engagement party weeks ago.

Leon watches the broadcast, chewing his food with slow, rhythmic movements. He lets out a dry, raspy laugh that barely leaves his throat.

Deep down, he already knows who is behind this. He does not need a trace team or a detective to figure it out.

It is Louise. It has always been Louise. And it will always be Louise.

Leon knows he is no genius. He considers himself an idiot in many ways, an absolute fool who used up his fair share of stupidity when he allowed himself to get dragged into the kidnapping at the church.

He never even wanted to kidnap Adrien in the first place. He hated every second of it. He had done it because he was pushed, because he was terrified, and because he thought it was the only way to save his own skin for a few more hours.

But Louise possesses a special, relentless kind of stupidity. She has enough arrogance to pull a stunt as insane as airing the private life of Orion’s obsession on national television.

Yet, as Leon stares at the screen, his mind turns the thought over. Louise is arrogant, yes, but she is not entirely brainless.

She is a cruel, persistent snake, and she never moves without a string of backup plans hidden behind her back.

She would not unleash a scandal this massive, risking the wrath of Orion’s entire empire, unless she had an exit strategy already lined up.

Leon leans his head back against the cushion, a morbid sense of amusement washing over him. It is strange, almost surreal. He knows his own time is up.

He knows that whether it is today or tomorrow, Orion and Niko will eventually breach whatever walls are protecting him and end his life.

He has already accepted that he is dead.

So watching Louise try to pull off something even worse, watching her poke a sleeping dragon with a stick, brings a twisted smile to his face.

She is persistent. She is ruthless. And knowing her, knowing how calculated her cruelty can be, there is a tiny, horrifying chance she might actually succeed in causing real damage before Orion crushes her.

"She really is out of her mind," Leon mutters softly to himself, shaking his head as he watches another picture of Adrien flash on the screen. "She is going to burn the whole city down just to get what she wants."

But that’s the thing. What does she want? Where exactly is she going with this?

He lifts another forkful of rice toward his mouth, the soft hum of the television filling the room.

A loud, sudden bang shatters the quiet air.

The heavy front door of the apartment buckles violently inward, the lock snapping with a sharp, metallic crack.

Leon flinches, his entire body going rigid. Panic flares through his veins like wildfire, hot and sickening. He drops his fork into the container, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs as he scrambles off the sofa.

He turns to run, his instincts screaming at him to find a back window, a fire escape, anything to get away. He thinks of Orion. He thinks of Niko. He imagines Orion’s pitch-black eyes or Niko’s heavy, merciless hands coming through that door to drag him away.

He takes two frantic steps toward the hallway, his feet skidding slightly against the polished floor.

Then, he stops.

The intruder steps through the ruined doorway, walking smoothly over the broken wooden frame.

Leon freezes in his tracks. His breath hitches, getting caught in his throat like a lump of dry ash. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, terrified exhale.

How...How is it him?

Fear, colder and heavier than what he felt for Orion, grips Leon by the chest. His eyes widen in sheer horror, his skin losing every drop of color until he looks like a walking corpse.

"You..." Leon stammers, his voice barely a squeak. "How... how did you find..."

He takes a slow, trembling step backward, his legs shaking so badly he can barely keep his balance. He opens his mouth to say something else, to beg, to explain, to offer whatever useless excuses he has left in his head.

In his panic, his elbow catches the plastic container of chicken and rice resting on the coffee table.

The container flips over the edge, crashing hard against the floorboards. Hot rice, meat, and sauce scatter across the clean rug, making a dull, messy thud in the quiet room.

Neither of them looks down at the mess.

The only sound filling the space between them is the loud, dramatic voice of the news anchor on the television, droning on and on about Adrien Dubois, the ruined stocks of the Vassilis family, and the impending police investigation.

The intruder says absolutely nothing. They do not raise a weapon. They do not shout or make a dramatic speech. They simply walk forward with calm, steady, measured steps, crossing the distance between them with ease.

Leon stares at the approaching figure, his vision blurring with helpless tears. He realizes, with a sickening clarity, that running is completely useless. He has nowhere left to go.

There are no more safehouses, no more clean apartments, and no more chances.

As the person reaches out a hand, Leon slowly closes his eyes.

"I’m sorry," Leon mutters softly to himself, accepting his fate in the quiet gloom.

Before the words can even finish leaving his lips, the person’s hand comes down with brutal, practiced precision against the side of Leon’s neck.

The heavy blow strikes the nerve with force. Leon’s eyes roll back into his head, his knees instantly buckling beneath him.

His body goes completely limp, collapsing forward into the dark before he can even feel himself hit the floor.

The intruder moves seamlessly, catching Leon’s unconscious body around the shoulders before he can crash into the spilled food on the rug.

Without a word, the person adjusts their grip, sliding one arm under Leon’s knees and the other around his back. They lift the grown man effortlessly off the ground, tucking his limp frame against their chest like a light bundle of laundry.

The intruder turns away from the glowing television screen, stepping smoothly over the mess on the rug and walking toward the shattered front entrance.

They step out into the quiet, carpeted hallway of the apartment building.

Lying flat on the floor directly outside the doorway are two tall, broad men dressed in black suits. They are the guards who had been stationed outside to protect Leon, the same men who had delivered his hot meals only hours prior.

Both guards lie completely still in growing pools of crimson. Right in the center of each man’s forehead sit two clean, neat bullet holes, silent proof of how fast and lethal the breach had been.

The intruder doesn’t even spare the bodies a glance. They adjust their hold on Leon’s limp frame, pulling his head back against their shoulder so it does not drag along the wall.

With quiet, steady strides, the person carries Leon down the empty hallway, heading toward the service elevator at the end of the corridor, leaving the television behind to bleed its blue light into the empty room.