A sharp gust of wind tore through the room. Marko Hoxha's instincts scread a warning, a deep sense of unease rising in his chest. Forcing himself to endure the stinging pain in his eyes, he opened them.
Through the blurred haze of a world still washed in gold, he caught a fleeting figure moving like a ghost right in front of him—so fast it left only afterimages.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the blinding light began to fade.
When Marko Hoxha finally adjusted to the dizziness and regained partial clarity, the scene before him froze his entire body in place.
All of his n—more than a dozen—were already collapsed on the floor. From the grotesque angles at which their necks were twisted, it was obvious they had all been killed instantly.
The girls, however, were unhard. They were covering their eyes, still screaming in terror, huddled together without understanding what had just happened.
And in front of them stood a figure in a black jacket, T-shirt, and jeans, wearing a baseball cap.
The glare was still too intense, and Marko Hoxha couldn't make out the person's face clearly. But that didn't stop him from instinctively reaching for the gun at his waist.
The mont his hand touched the grip—
A finger pressed against his forehead.
His entire body stiffened.
Cold sweat imdiately broke out across his skin.
An overwhelming sense of fear surged up from the depths of his mind, like a tidal wave swallowing him whole, leaving only suffocating pressure behind.
Marko Hoxha was never soone who lacked brutality. Raised in a gang family, violence and bloodshed had been engraved into his very bones. He was not afraid of death.
But pain could always turn even the hardest man into sothing weak—unless he had faith.
And he had none.
His only belief was power gained through violence and exploitation.
Yet this unknown intruder had killed over a dozen of his n in an instant using a thod he could not even comprehend. That kind of absolute strength, combined with an inexplicable suppression of instinct itself, made fear spread through him uncontrollably.
"What do you want? I can give you anything," he forced out, trying to bargain with wealth and power.
The response was death.
A sharp pain struck his forehead.
Darkness swallowed his consciousness.
Until the very end, he never saw the face of the person who killed him.
Nor could he understand why.
Thud.
His body collapsed onto the floor.
Only then did the girls finally begin to adjust to the fading light. When they opened their eyes again, they saw the scene before them—the pile of corpses, the unfamiliar figure standing among them—and the shock was enough to freeze their minds.
"Hey, girls, would you mind putting on so blindfolds?"
A slightly hoarse voice broke the tension.
The girls turned toward it and saw a woman wearing a mask, her face hidden, dressed in a green Air Force jacket and jeans, casually waving a handful of blindfolds in her hand.
"P-please don't hurt us…"
"We're here to rescue you," the woman replied calmly. "Of course we won't hurt you. Put these on and we'll take you ho. Just cooperate a little, go to sleep, and forget this ever happened."
Though still terrified, the girls ultimately did not resist and were led away.
From a window, the woman watched as several vans carried the rescued girls off into the night. Only then did she remove her mask, revealing the face of Neagley.
"There are still girls inside who've been controlled," she said, her tone carrying both anger and regret. "Unfortunately, they've already been exposed to drugs… severe addiction."
She glanced toward the young man beside her, her expression heavy.
"Their lives are already ruined."
Even if they managed to return ho, the neurological, physical, and psychological tornt caused by addiction would make it impossible for them to reintegrate into society. In the end, many of them would only spiral toward self-destruction.
Even if they could return ho, the neurological, physical, and psychological tornt brought on by addiction would make it impossible for those girls to reintegrate into society. In the end, they would only be driven toward self-destruction.
"Human limits always get pushed down far beyond what anyone can imagine."
Matthew let out a quiet sigh as he turned away.
He sympathized with those girls, but the best outco he could offer was for Neagley to send them to rehabilitation centers. Whether they fell deeper or managed to climb out and start a new life would ultimately depend on themselves. He was neither a saint nor a god—he couldn't save everyone so easily.
Neagley's efficiency and capability in this operation left him satisfied, and he formally hired her.
As for Neagley herself, for reasons unknown—perhaps because of Matthew's performance and thods during the Paris incident, or perhaps due to her connection with Reacher—she accepted the offer without much hesitation.
As a forr mber of a special military investigative unit, her intelligence and combat skills were both top-tier. She couldn't compare to monsters like Matthew, but her experience and judgnt were exactly what he needed.
The ten billion dollars obtained in Paris, once fully laundered, would ideally be reduced to a little under seven billion. That process would take ti.
He had no intention of treating this money as personal luxury funds. Instead, it would serve as initial capital. In this era, it was certainly a massive fortune, but not limitless—enough to be significant, yet not enough to waste. He needed to decide carefully how to use it.
In the best-case scenario, he could acquire a legally qualified laboratory and hire scientists from around the world to work for him, focusing entirely on research into nutritional pharmaceuticals.
However, Matthew was not in a rush.
Neagley would begin investigating scientists worldwide and establishing contact with them, laying the groundwork for a future research team. As for nutritional drugs themselves, their technological requirents were neither especially high nor particularly low.
What Matthew needed was far beyond the nutritional intake of ordinary humans—more than ten tis the normal requirent. And as his physical strength continued to grow, the required energy and nutrients would increase accordingly.
Building a dedicated research team was not difficult in itself. Purchasing equipnt, recruiting scientists—all of that would take ti. The real challenge was attracting top-tier biological scientists, as they were not easy to recruit.
People of that caliber usually had their own research projects, and ordinary laboratories would not appeal to them.
The best talents were already divided among major institutions and powers.
However, Matthew did know of one true genius—soone gifted in biology, dicine, and chemistry. Not that playboy Tony Stark, but Hank McCoy.
A mutant currently teaching at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.
Code-nad Beast.
Although he was a mutant, he was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent people on Earth. With his abilities, he could indeed formulate nutritional drugs suited to Matthew's needs.
The only issue was Charles Xavier.
Regardless of how one evaluated his character, in terms of ability alone, Professor X was one of the most powerful telepaths in the world. He could read a person's entire life within an instant and manipulate minds at will.
Matthew wasn't sure whether that old man would invade his mories the mont they t.
His past life mories and the system were absolute secrets—things he could not allow anyone to discover.
Compared to ordinary humans, Matthew's physical evolution had also strengthened his ntal capacity far beyond normal levels. But against a top-tier telepath like Xavier, he did not believe he could reliably resist ntal intrusion.
And he would never gamble on the assumption that Xavier simply "wouldn't do it" out of moral restraint.
He preferred to prepare thoroughly and ensure he had the ans to deal with it.
In that sense, he was sowhat similar to a certain bald, dark-skinned director type—trusting only himself.
So, the next thing he needed to do… was awaken Haki.
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