Yvette casually flexed her fingers, her dark eyes glinting with icy sharpness. In a tone as calm as if asking about the weather, she drawled, “Which way do you think is the best way to die?”

Winona and the men in black froze, stunned. Years in the underworld had never prepared them for a woman like this. On the brink of death, she was asking them how they wanted to die, as if it were the simplest question imaginable. It was unsettling.

Winona scoffed, narrowing her eyes at Yvette, attempting to mask her unease. Is this woman insane? What kind of question was that? she thought.

An uneasy silence fell over the group, each member caught off guard. No one knew how to respond. Yvette sat with her legs bent, relaxed and indifferent. She’d given them a chance—if they didn't want it, so be it.

Glancing at her watch, Yvette realized it was nearly lunchtime. If she didn't hurry, she'd miss the cafeteria's pork ribs—a limited-time special, first come, first served.

Meanwhile, Zachary, frantic after Winona’s call, couldn’t sit still. She’d threatened to kill Yvette if he contacted the police, vowing to go down with her. He had to go to an abandoned chemical factory on the outskirts, alone.

He knew the place—a developer’s abandoned project, decaying for decades, a shell of rusted metal and broken machinery. Driving recklessly, he ran multiple red lights, focused solely on reaching Yvette.

If anything happened to her, how could he face Lilian? His life would be hollow without Yvette. Though he knew she was an Interpol officer and capable, Winona was cunning and likely had employed some underhanded scheme. Zachary braced himself for the worst. He’d trade his life for hers if necessary.

He couldn't allow anything bad to happen to Yvette. Winona, that lunatic, should never have been released; she was a ticking time bomb. As he sped down the deserted roads, terrifying possibilities flooded his mind, fear gripping him with each passing second. Half an hour later, he reached the abandoned factory, his heart pounding.

Without hesitation, Zachary threw himself against the door, bursting it open and stumbling inside. Looking up, he froze, utterly stunned.

“What…what the hell is this?” he blurted, speechless.

Inside, the scene was surreal. A group of black men knelt, perfectly disciplined, their arms limp, faces ghostly pale, eyes wide with terror, their gazes vacant and haunted. Blood pooled beneath their knees, filling the air with a nauseating metallic scent; their kneecaps were shattered, their hands broken.

Behind them, a trembling Winona clutched her stomach, ashen-faced, her eyes unfocused, her hair disheveled. Nearby, slumped against a pillar, lay an unconscious woman, her face obscured by her hair; something about her seemed vaguely familiar to Zachary. And in the middle of it all sat Yvette, perched on an old machine, her legs swinging casually as she focused on her phone.

Zachary swallowed hard, struggling to process the scene. He'd prepared for every worst-case scenario—except this.

“Yvette?” he whispered.

“Yep. You made it,” she replied, glancing up briefly, a hint of impatience in her gaze. She'd already be halfway to those pork ribs if she hadn't been waiting, Zachary imagined.

His mouth twitched. He was speechless. Having such a fierce daughter was definitely an experience—and not for the faint-hearted.

Yvette hopped down and walked toward him, her expression calm. “You’re pretty easy to fool, you know.”

Zachary’s initial shock turned to bemused disbelief. Shouldn't he be more emotional? Only Yvette would greet him with that after this.

He shook his head at her nonchalance. He’d been so panicked he’d rushed over without confirming anything with Yvette.

Hearing Zachary’s voice, Winona looked up and screamed, “Dad! Dad, help me! Yvette’s a monster, she’s insane! She’s the one who did this to them!”

Images of Yvette ruthlessly incapacitating fifty men replayed in Winona’s mind, filling her with dread. How could one person, a woman, dismantle fifty men without breaking a sweat? It was incomprehensible.

As Winona shakily rose, Zachary looked at her coldly. “You still have the nerve to call me ‘Dad’? You kidnapped Yvette. You’re as hopeless and twisted as your mother.”

Winona froze, stunned, then exploded in rage. “I’m the hopeless one? Twisted? It’s Yvette who destroyed everything for me! I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for her! I had a happy family until you brought her back. I was supposed to be Richard’s renowned apprentice, but Yvette exposed me at the worst possible moment, turning me into the laughingstock of Seacrity. Now I’m barely surviving with the Carters. All of this—all of it is because of Yvette. She should’ve died with her mother!”

Winona’s voice grew hysterical, her messy hair framing her crazed expression as she glared at Yvette. Zachary stepped between them, blocking Winona’s view.

This tipped Winona over the edge. She clenched her hands so tightly that her nails drew blood. Zachary sighed, looking at her with pity and resignation. After all, Winona was raised by Nellie—a woman who never accepted responsibility and always blamed others. She wouldn’t be in this position if she hadn’t harbored such ill intentions.

Zachary looked at Winona, his face etched with disappointment. “Even now, you’re blaming everything on Yvette. I warned you when you were young—to walk the right path because once you stray, there’s no going back. The situation you’re in now has nothing to do with Yvette. You know exactly how many underhanded tactics you’ve used, both openly and secretly, ever since she returned. I was only acting in front of Nellie, but I never wronged you or Zeke. You walked yourself into a corner, blaming Yvette for every misstep. She’s never once sought you out to cause trouble. If you hadn’t tried to deceive everyone with forged paintings from the black market, there’d have been nothing for her to expose. Even now, you refuse to admit your mistakes. You truly are beyond saving.”

Yvette stood beside them, one leg bent casually, her expression cold and distant, like the chill of winter sunlight; a lazy indifference, like the faint starlight on an autumn night—remote and untouchable.