CHAPTER 120: YOUR MOVE, DAD

I didn’t say another word.

I just walked.

I didn’t care what Theo thought. I didn’t care that his eyes were still on me, full of questions and blame and doubt.

He could think whatever the hell he wanted.

He didn’t see what I saw.

Didn’t hear the gag in her throat.

Didn’t feel her blood soak through his shirt.

Didn’t watch her press that button with shaking hands just to save me.

My boots echoed softly against the cold steel floor as I walked across the room. No destination. Just movement. Just something to keep my body from collapsing under the weight.

Nomi’s face kept flashing behind my eyes—

The way her mouth opened to speak, but no sound came.

The way her hands reached for something—maybe me, maybe air—before going limp.

She was carrying my child.

My baby.

Gone.

A laugh slipped out of my mouth, sharp and hollow.

It didn’t even sound human.

I pressed my back against the nearest wall and slid down, knees bent, arms hanging limply by my sides. My vision blurred—not from tears exactly. Just... haze. Fog. Like my body didn’t know how to exist in this moment anymore.

Zaara hovered a few feet away, hesitant.

She looked like she wanted to come closer, like she wanted to hold me again.

But this time, I didn’t move.

I didn’t push her away...

I just didn’t move.

"I’m sorry," she whispered finally.

I didn’t respond.

Her voice was so soft I barely registered it.

I was still hearing Nomi.

"I’m sorry, Vincent."

I squeezed my eyes shut. My jaw clenched.

I could still feel her blood. Sticky. Warm. Unnatural.

It was too quiet in here.

Even Theo wasn’t talking anymore. Maybe he finally realized the weight of what happened. Or maybe he just gave up trying to make sense of me.

I rested my head against the wall, staring at the flickering lights above us.

How poetic.

Even the damn bulbs were dying.

Like everything else in this cursed place.

I pushed the heavy metal door open and stepped inside the restroom.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like flies over a corpse, flickering just enough to be annoying.

I didn’t come here to wash my face.

Or take a piss.

I came here to breathe.

I stared at myself in the mirror—blood still smeared at the edge of my shirt, dried at my collar, caked under my fingernails.

Nomi’s blood.

Our child’s.

My eyes looked... wrong.

Like they didn’t belong in my face anymore.

Too hollow. Too dark. Too tired of being.

I gripped the edge of the sink, fingers white-knuckling the rusted metal.

"You win," I whispered to no one. Or maybe to them. "You wanted to break me. Congratulations."

My reflection didn’t blink.

"You made me watch her die."

I looked down, breathing hard through my nose. My throat burned like I’d swallowed acid. I could still feel the sound of that shot—silent but so loud inside my chest. I hadn’t stopped shaking since.

I turned slowly, eyes scanning the corners of the ceiling until I found it.

The black orb in the top right corner.

A surveillance camera.

Of course.

They were always watching.

I stepped toward it, slow and calm, like I wasn’t crumbling from the inside.

"You like this, don’t you?" I said, voice sharper now. "Watching us bleed? Watching us beg?"

I laughed bitterly. "You got what you wanted, didn’t you? I begged. I told you I’d do anything. I offered you everything. And you still pulled the trigger."

My voice cracked.

I swallowed it.

"Is this what my father wanted?" I asked the camera. "For me to end up like this? Crawling to your feet, covered in the blood of my unborn child?"

I stepped closer.

I wasn’t done.

Until the camera couldn’t see all of me—just my face.

Not even close.

I turned back to the camera and dragged the nearest chair across the floor, the metal legs screeching like the scream I wasn’t allowed to release. I set it right in the center of the room and sat down — dead center, face up to the lens.

"You killed her," I whispered, voice shaking with something colder than hate. "You really did it."

I leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"You killed your own grandchild, Reynolds."

The name tasted bitter in my mouth. I’d never called him that — not out loud. Not until now.

"I always knew you were sick. But I didn’t think you were this wicked."

I let the silence stretch — thick and sharp.

Then I smirked.

"To the people watching, maybe rooting for me... or waiting for me to fall..." I raised a hand and pointed at the camera. "I want you to remember this name. Reynolds Aston. That’s the man behind this madness."

I let the words soak in, venom laced in every syllable.

"My father. My murderer. The man pulling the strings from behind a mask — the same man who’s been destroying me since I was old enough to stand."

I scoffed bitterly, voice rising.

"Let’s talk about this perfect, polished family image, shall we?" I laughed, sharp and humorless. "Reynolds Aston — the beloved innovator, the Sector A genius with a hero complex and a trophy wife half his age."

I leaned in again, smirking darkly.

"Did they tell you she tried to f**k me?"

I tilted my head.

"Yeah. Your golden wife. Your lovely little puppet. She kissed me, Reynolds. More than once. She groped me when I was drunk — told me you’d never know."

I laughed — but there was no joy in it. Just a sick kind of victory.

"You sat on your throne and judged me. You turned me into your pawn. And now you kill the one innocent thing I had left. My baby. My baby."

I looked away, trying to breathe.

My voice cracked again.

"You win, okay? You broke me. I don’t care about the prize money. I don’t care about Sector A, or reputation, or revenge."

I looked straight into the camera now.

"But when I get out of here — if I get out of here — I’m not coming for your company. I’m not coming for your fortune."

My voice dropped to a whisper — lethal.

"I’m coming for you."

Silence.

I let it linger.

Then I stood slowly, dragging the chair back like I was resetting the stage.

I faced the mirror one more time and whispered:

"Your move, Dad."