Chapter 26: The Prey and Predator VII(Final)

General POV

The air inside the dimly lit room was thick with tension, and the flickering light from the single bulb overhead did little to dispel the darkness that clung to the walls. The man standing before him, Cain, was drenched in sweat, his body visibly trembling. The once confident and sadistic killer was now a quivering mess, reduced to a pitiful state by the mere presence of the white-haired figure who loomed over him.

The figure's glowing blue eyes pierced through the darkness, locking onto Cain with a gaze that seemed to see right through him, stripping away every facade, every ounce of bravado he had left. Cain's breath hitched as he felt the icy stare, his mind scrambling to find a way out of this nightmare.

The figure took a step closer, his movements deliberate and slow, like a predator toying with its prey. A cruel smile curled on his lips as he watched Cain's fear intensify with each passing second. "Hiding behind a woman?" the figure mocked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Pathetic."

Cain snapped out of his stupor, the taunt igniting a spark of defiance within him. With a maniacal laugh, he lunged forward, aiming to knock the figure off his feet. But the moment his leg connected, he felt an excruciating pain shoot up his shin, as if he had just kicked an iron wall. Cain stumbled back, scanning around for something to use against, his laugh turning into a wince.

"Laugh all you want," Cain spat, his voice laced with desperation as he tried to regain some semblance of control. "I don't care if I die here tonight. You and that bitch will be riddled with bullets before you can even touch me. I've got more than enough men out there, armed to the teeth. You're just one man—"

The figure's smile widened, cutting Cain's rant short. He slowly raised the knife in his hand, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light. Then, in one swift motion, he brought the knife to his palm and squeezed. The metal screeched as it bent and warped under the pressure of his bare hand, until it was nothing more than a twisted piece of scrap.

Cain's eyes widened in disbelief, the color draining from his face as he watched the impossible unfold before him. The figure dropped the mangled knife to the floor, the sound echoing in the silence that followed.

"Is that the best you've got?" the figure asked, his tone almost bored. He reached out and placed a hand on Cain's shoulder, the grip tightening with a force that made Cain's bones creak. Cain bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, desperately trying not to scream, but the agony was too much. His knees buckled under the pressure, and he felt the bones in his shoulder beginning to crack.

The figure leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can tank a nuke if I want,But you? Oh, poor you... I can't even begin to imagine the fate that awaits you. Living with crippled legs, missing arms... paralyzed, blind, deaf. You'll wish you were dead.... but you won't be that lucky." he said, tightening the grip like a hydraulic press.

Cain's resolve shattered completely. He had faced death more times than he could count, and had come out on top in situations that would have broken lesser men, but this was different. The man before him wasn't just a killer—he was a total psychopath an unchained lunatic that Cain had foolishly tried to challenge.

Just as Cain was about to give in, to put him out of this misery, a new sound reached his ears. It started as a distant rumble, barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. But then it grew louder, closer—a series of thuds, crashes, and gunfire, accompanied by the screams of his men outside. Cain's eyes darted to the doorway, panic setting in as he realized that whatever was out there was quickly making its way inside.

The figure released Cain's shoulder, letting him slump to the floor. Cain barely registered the pain in his arm; his focus was entirely on the sounds of the slaughter happening just beyond the door. The mercenaries he had boasted about, the men he had counted on to save him, were being systematically torn apart. And there was nothing he could do about it.

The door to the room burst open, and a man stepped inside, his silhouette outlined by the flickering lights from the corridor. He was drenched from the rain outside, his hair slicked back, water dripping from his body. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, the smoke curling upwards as he took a slow, deliberate drag.

"Long time no see, Cain," the man said, his voice calm, almost casual, as he exhaled a plume of smoke. He flicked the cigarette to the side, letting it fall to the wet floor, before turning his attention to the white-haired figure.

The white-haired figure smirked, not taking his eyes off Cain. "Harry Nam," he greeted, his tone light. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Harry Nam didn't respond immediately. He walked further into the room, his eyes scanning the carnage around him. The bodies of the mercenaries were strewn about like discarded ragdolls, their blood mixing with the rainwater that had begun to seep into the building. He looked at Cain, who was now trembling on the floor, and then back at the white-haired figure.

"Let me guess," Harry said, his tone still eerily calm. "He thought he could take you on?"

The white-haired figure shrugged. "They always do...but this time it was not for me " he said as he looked at the baby and the unknown women's corps

Harry's gaze lingered on Cain for a moment longer before he turned his back on him, dismissing him entirely. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The glow of the flame briefly illuminated his face, revealing a cold, detached expression.

"Do you want to take care of him, or should I?" Harry asked, exhaling another puff of smoke.

The white-haired figure glanced at Cain, who was now trying to crawl away, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. "I think he's had enough for one night," he said, his voice tinged with mock pity. "Besides, there's no fun in finishing off someone who's already broken."

Harry nodded in agreement. "Fair enough." He turned his attention to the girl, who was still huddled in the corner, clutching the baby to her chest. Her eyes were wide with terror, but there was a glimmer of hope in them as she looked at Harry, as if she recognized him as a savior.

Harry knelt down beside her, his expression softening slightly. "It's over," he said gently. "You're safe now."

The girl nodded, tears streaming down her face as she held the baby tighter. Harry reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly tender given the violence he had just unleashed.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

She nodded again, her voice trembling as she whispered, "Thank you."

Harry helped her to her feet, steadying her as she struggled to regain her balance as she looked at the door in fear and uncertainty. He glanced back at the white-haired figure, who was now standing by the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold.

"What about him?" Harry asked, nodding towards Cain, who was still attempting to crawl towards the exit.

The white-haired figure didn't bother to look at Cain. "Let him go. He's no threat anymore."

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He guided the girl towards the door, pausing briefly as he passed Cain. "If I were you," he said quietly, "I'd disappear. And I wouldn't come back."

Cain didn't respond. He just kept crawling, his mind too shattered to comprehend anything other than the primal need to escape.

As Harry and the girl left the room, the white-haired figure remained behind, his eyes fixed on Cain. He waited until the sound of footsteps faded before he spoke again, his voice low and menacing.

"Remember this night, Cain. Remember what it feels like to be powerless, to be at the mercy of someone stronger. Because the next time we meet, I won't be so merciful to stop with just arms."

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving Cain alone in the darkness, his mind consumed by the terror of what had just transpired.

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Alex's Room

Alex Lee's room was a controlled chaos of screens, each displaying a different feed of information—live security footage, financial transactions, encrypted emails, and news headlines scrolling in real-time. The room was bathed in the cold glow of the monitors, casting eerie shadows across the walls. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of information, cross-referencing underground rumors, and following digital breadcrumbs that most people would never even see.

His concentration was intense, a laser focus that could dissect a thousand different threads of information and weave them into a coherent tapestry. But then, something caught his ear—a news report that sent a ripple through his mind, forcing him to pause and listen.

Breaking News: Mathew Sung, Son-in-Law of Late Chairman of Kim Sung Group, Found Dead in Apparent Murder-Suicide. Wife and Newborn Child Missing.

"Suicide, huh?" Alex muttered, leaning back in his chair. His mind whirred with possibilities. The timing, the circumstances, and the fact that the bodies were missing—it all pointed to something far more sinister than a simple case of suicide.

Alex's eyes darted to the screen broadcasting the news, his expression unchanging, but his mind racing. The Kim Sung Group wasn't just another company; it was a titan in South Korea's economy, a conglomerate so vast that it practically ran the country. From consumer goods to heavy machinery, from technology to real estate, the Kim Sung Group had its hands in everything. More than 40% of the nation's economy flowed through its veins.

His mind began to work faster, analyzing the situation from every angle. Mathew Sung's death left a gaping hole in the family's power structure. The only remaining heir was Jared Sung, a bastard son who had been kept at arm's length from the family's core operations. Jared was ambitious, ruthless, and cunning—everything Alex expected from someone in his position. But was he involved in this incident? Was this a power play?

Alex needed more information. He leaned forward, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he accessed the Kim Sung Group's mainframe. The security systems were robust, but they were no match for his expertise. Within minutes, he was inside, sifting through the company's most sensitive data.

He dug through financial records, looking for anything out of the ordinary. His eyes scanned line after line of transactions, searching for patterns, anomalies, anything that could give him a lead. And then, he found it—a slush fund, hidden so deep in the company's finances that it was practically invisible. But Alex was an expert at finding things that didn't want to be found.

The slush fund had been moved recently, a staggering 15 billion won, transferred without leaving a digital footprint. No ordinary accountant or even an experienced corporate auditor would have noticed, but to Alex, it was as clear as day. Someone had gone to great lengths to cover their tracks, but they hadn't been careful enough.

He slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen in front of him. The image of Jared Sung flickered on one of the monitors, the man's face plastered with a smile that Alex knew was as fake as the rest of his public persona. Jared was laughing, probably basking in the chaos he'd sown, thinking he was untouchable. But Alex had seen the cracks in his armor.

"Got you, son of a bitch," Alex muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. He reached for his coffee, only to find that it had gone cold. He took a sip anyway, the bitterness matching his mood as he began to formulate his next move.

His eyes narrowed as he cracked the final layer of encryption, the hidden vault finally laid bare before him. It was a moment of triumph, the culmination of hours of relentless pursuit. "Checkmate," he whispered to himself, his smirk widening as the pieces fell into place.

Without hesitation, Alex initiated the transfer, rerouting the funds into his offshore account. It was a clean operation, flawless in its execution. No footprints, no traces, nothing to link the transfer back to him. The money, a substantial sum, was now in his control, and the owner—whoever they were—would find themselves staring at an empty account.