The ER doors slammed open.
"Move—now!"
Stretchers were pushed in at full speed, nurses scrambling aside as two bodies were rushed into the emergency room. The air was sharp with antiseptic and urgency.
Prim Carter.
Ava Carter.
Every doctor present froze for half a second—then chaos erupted.
These weren't ordinary physicians. Each of them owned private hospitals, specialists whose schedules were booked years in advance. Some served royal families, heads of state, presidents. Yet here they were, gathered in one room, sweat forming at their temples as they worked to save the children of Nathan and Emily Carter.
"Check pulse—now!"
"Vitals?"
"Scans—what do they say?"
"Normal," a nurse answered, disbelief clear in her voice.
"Normal?" one doctor snapped. "They were buried underground—do you hear yourself?"
"Oxygen, now."
"Check for fractures."
"Internal bleeding—run it again."
Machines beeped. Gloves snapped. Orders overlapped.
Then—
Ava's eyes opened.
The room went dead silent.
She sucked in a breath and sat up abruptly, fingers ripping the oxygen mask from her face.
"The hell…" she muttered.
At the same time, on the other bed—
Prim jolted upright, tearing his mask off and tossing it aside.
"Shit."
He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard.
Doctors stared.
At the twins.
At the monitors.
At each other.
It took hours.
Scans. Blood work. Neurological tests. X-rays. MRIs.
Nothing.
No fractures. No internal damage. No trauma.
Perfectly healthy.
Too healthy.
They were moved into a VVVIP ward, two beds separated by a single window. Moments later, their grandparents rushed in.
"My poor babies!" Mrs. Brown Carter cried, pulling Ava and Prim into her arms one after the other. "Are you sure you're alright? These doctors—are they quacks? How can they say nothing happened?"
"If they valued their lives," Brown Carter said quietly, sitting beside the bed, worry filling his eyes, "they wouldn't dare lie. They ran over a hundred tests."
The door opened again.
Grace. Peter. Amelia. Henry.
"Oh, my poor nephew and niece," Amelia said, stepping forward with outstretched arms.
"Stay away," Mrs. Brown Carter snapped sharply. "They're vulnerable. Don't give them germs."
Amelia's smile stiffened.
Grace chuckled lightly. "Now that you're awake, you can tell us what happened. Did Elena do something wrong?"
Prim lifted his gaze.
"Since the explosion," Brown Carter said, trying to soften the tension, "Elena has been unconscious for two weeks. It also took two weeks before you two were found."
Ava frowned. "Two weeks?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes darkened. "Where were we found?"
"Outside the collapsed building," Brown Carter replied. "Both of you."
Silence followed.
"Then tell us," Grace pressed. "How did the explosion happen?"
"It just happened," Prim said shortly, closing his eyes.
He didn't want to say more.
What he remembered didn't feel real.
Elena smashing the pendant.
The blinding light.
The sensation of his soul being ripped away—
The door burst open.
Emily Carter walked in.
The moment her eyes landed on Ava and Prim—alive, breathing, unharmed—she finally exhaled.
"Where's Nathan?" Mrs. Brown Carter asked.
"Your son is handling business," Emily replied coldly. "Since it seems to be more important than his children."
The room stiffened.
"I've spoken to the doctors," Emily continued. "You're healthy enough to be moved. My people will take you to the Hayes Hospital."
The silence turned sharp.
"What do you mean?" Brown Carter frowned. "Taking them to your parents' hospital?"
"Yes." Emily didn't hesitate. "Your house is unstable. The building was old. Gasoline was stored there. The cause of the explosion is still unknown."
She looked around the room, eyes icy.
"I'll be damned if my children stay here. And I'm not asking for opinions."
"Sister-in-law," Grace said slowly, "are you blaming us?"
"Yes," Emily replied flatly. "I am. If you don't like it—bite me."
Her bodyguards entered immediately.
Ava and Prim were escorted out without resistance.
"You're trying to start a war with your in-laws," Brown Carter said darkly.
Emily didn't turn back.
"Think whatever you want. If you're unhappy, tell your son to divorce me."
And she left.
---
Nathan Carter's Company
Nathan ended the call and rubbed his forehead.
"Madam has taken the children to the Hayes Hospital," John reported. "She also moved all their belongings to her family residence."
"She's angry," Nathan said calmly. "Have guards follow her. Always."
John nodded and placed another file on the desk.
"The Chen family and several others have taken the bait."
Nathan's fingers tapped the desk once.
"Good. Do it."
"And—" he added, voice lowering, "blacklist every involved business. Strip their projects. Fire every spy and connection. I want them unemployed by nightfall."
John hesitated. "This will affect the economy. It's… extreme."
Nathan tilted his head slowly.
"Then let the economy bleed."
Nathan flipped through the files calmly, the papers making a soft, rhythmic sound in the silent office.
"That's business," he said flatly. "If I weaken them and leave them alive, it's like letting a wounded lion crawl away. It will heal—and bite me later."
He didn't even look up.
"So drop the saint act, John. Do it. Or quit."
The room was vast, cold marble underfoot, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that belonged to him. Every light below felt small, insignificant. Nathan Carter sat at the center of it all like a judge passing sentence.
John clenched his jaw, then nodded.
"As you wish."
He turned and left, already knowing the consequences—companies collapsing overnight, employees losing jobs, entire industries trembling. Candles were being lit for the living.
---
A week passed.
Prim hadn't stepped outside much since the accident.
Sleep came in fragments. His dreams felt wrong—too vivid, too heavy—like memories that didn't belong to the present. Ava had locked herself in her room, asking for space, and for once he didn't push. He didn't even know how to ask the question burning in his chest.
Did you go back too?
His parents' relationship sat in a strange place—not broken, not healed. Just tense. Fragile.
When James called.
"Blue Ivy. Underground track. Rematch."
Prim stared at the ceiling for a long moment before answering.
"…Fine."
He needed noise. Speed. Something real.
Getting dressed, Prim drove out alone.
Blue Ivy sat brightly against the night, its exterior deceptively ordinary. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a high-end lifestyle complex—glass walls glowing with soft blue light, a luxury hotel stacked above a refined restaurant and club. Guests flowed in effortlessly: couples dressed in designer wear, business elites laughing lightly, exchange students gawking at the elegance. Staff in tailored uniforms guided people politely—some toward the lobby, some toward the restaurant, others toward private elevators that required verification.
Nothing about it screamed underground.
James waited near the entrance, leaning lazily against a pillar, cigarette between his fingers.
"You're late," he said.
Prim hummed in acknowledgment and followed him without comment.
They passed through a side corridor, quieter, guarded. Another building entirely—plainer on the surface, heavily secured. The moment the doors shut behind them, the noise above faded.
They entered an elevator.
Prim leaned against the wall, eyes half-lidded, posture loose, as if gravity itself bored him. James flicked ash into a metal tray and glanced sideways before holding out a cigarette.
Prim opened his eyes, took it, and placed it between his lips.
James clicked the lighter and handed it over. The flame flared briefly, illuminating Prim's calm face as he lit up.
Smoke filled the small space.
"Hm," James said casually. "You've got something on your mind."
Prim gave him a sideways glance and exhaled, then took another slow drag before answering.
"Why would you think that?"
James snorted. "Because you quit smoking. No matter what mess you were in, you didn't smoke. Rehab, remember? That's why you started carrying lollipops around like a kid."
Prim exhaled again, gaze unfocused.
He raised his index finger and pressed it lightly to his lips.
The elevator dinged.
He stepped out first.
"There's a race going on," Prim said calmly, eyes narrowing just slightly. "I'll take that one first."
James studied him for a second, then sighed. "Fine. As long as you clear your head before the main event."
At reception, James handled the registration. Prim was led alone into the rental bay.
Rows of cars sat under cold industrial lights—sleek, expensive, dangerous.
Only one remained.
As Prim was about to pay—
"What's going on here?"
A man strode over, badge clipped to his chest. Manager.
He looked Prim over with clear disdain.
"You're renting that car?" the manager scoffed. "Give it to me. He'll just wreck it. I've got a real racer who needs it."
The female attendant stiffened, eyes flicking between them.
Prim didn't react.
"Give him the key," Prim said flatly.
Relief flashed across the girl's face as she handed the key to the manager.
The manager straightened, pride swelling. "Good. At least you know your place. I might even tell the racers to spare you. Otherwise, you'd be dead."
Prim didn't answer.
He turned and walked away, already texting James.
The racetrack roared.
Engines screamed, lights flashed, bets flew across digital boards. The crowd surged with excitement, shouting numbers and names, money changing hands faster than breath.
The countdown began.
Then—
A black sports car rolled onto the track.
The engine purred low, controlled, predatory.
Laughter exploded across the stands
A sports car.
Clean lines. No armor. No spikes. No visible weapons.
On a track where every other vehicle looked like a moving war machine.
"What is this?" someone laughed. "Does he think this is a street race?"
Up in the hidden private room, tucked high above the chaos where no one even knew a room existed, surveillance screens showed every angle of the Blue Ivy Underground Club—every tunnel, every curve, every racer.
Neo whistled low.
"Looks like pretty boy wants to try his luck."
"That's suicide," Luis's second right-hand man scoffed. "This isn't about skill. The cars are built to kill. The road is built to kill. Everything is against him."
Luis chuckled, licking his lip, eyes glued to the screen.
"No one enters this race without knowing they might die," he said calmly. "If he wants to gamble his life… let him. Just enjoy the show."
The countdown hit zero.
BOOM.
Engines screamed like beasts unleashed.
Ten armored cars rocketed forward, metal grinding, exhaust flames blasting as if the track itself had been set on fire. Chains rattled. Blades unfolded. Guns slid into position.
And then—
The black sports car launched.
Not smooth. Not controlled.
It exploded forward like it had been shot out of a cannon.
The speed climbed instantly—too fast. Insanely fast. The kind of speed where even tapping the brakes would mean losing control. The car became pure momentum, ripping through the first curve as the road began to change.
Steel plates slammed up from the asphalt. Sections split apart. Hydraulic barriers snapped open and shut like jaws.
The other drivers reacted.
One slammed a button—his tires expanded outward, rotating with sharp steel spikes, aiming straight for the car beside him. Sparks flew as he sideswiped another racer, forcing him toward a collapsing lane.
Another leaned out, firing wildly. Bullets sparked off armor and road, ricocheting into darkness.
The race turned into war.
Cars slammed into each other at full speed, drifting sideways while shooting, ramming, blocking, hunting. One racer fired a grappling chain, trying to yank another car into a pit as the road dropped away.
Through all of it—
The black sports car flowed.
It drifted through a falling overpass, slipping between two collapsing walls by inches. A spike trap erupted under its rear tires—but the driver hit the gas harder, lifting just enough to clear it. The car danced, twisted, slid, every movement sharp and precise.
One armored car locked onto him.
Big. Heavy. Built to destroy.
It boosted forward, ramming the black car's rear, trying to force it into a narrow kill lane ahead. The road tilted downward, lined with steel teeth ready to tear anything apart.
The black car swerved—then let the other car think it had won.