At Tesmee's estate, the air was thick with focus and tension. Everyone stood in the grand meeting hall—this time, not just her team, but military captains too. The week of silence had ended, and with it came a new fire.
Maps were sprawled out across the long oak table, marked in red, blue, and black. Tesmee stood at the head, her arms folded, her gaze sharp. Lorenzo, Seig, Diana, Lyra, Chan, Tiger, Vhernom, and Blake flanked the sides while uniformed captains reviewed satellite images and logistic briefs.
"This time," she said, her voice commanding but level, "we don't move solo. We strike together."
The plans were surgically detailed—entry points, exit routes, timed assaults, and communication channels. The primary targets: Tyson's main warehouse and his covert weapons base. They'd studied the terrain, tracked shipments, and even anticipated the patterns of his men. Yet, as always with the Hales, caution was not a suggestion—it was survival.
"We prepare for two outcomes," Lorenzo added, pointing at one of the maps. "Victory… or Tyson being five steps ahead again. We draft backups for the backups."
The mission was set for 24 hours from that moment. The countdown had begun.
No more improvisation.
This time, they were ready.
"How far are you, Tyric?" Tesmee asked over the phone, her voice calm but expectant.
"Look up… the door," he replied.
Her brows lifted, and as she raised her head, there he was—standing in the doorway like he'd always belonged there. A small, rare smile curved on her lips as she stepped away from the table and walked toward him.
"Thank you for coming," she said softly.
"Don't thank me yet," he murmured as they embraced briefly—a quiet, firm hug that spoke more than words.
Together, they returned to the table. No further words were needed.
The war room had just gained one more shadow.
"It's good to finally see you…" Lorenzo said, extending his hand toward Tyric. His tone was casual, but the sly glint in his eye as he threw a quick glance at Tesmee didn't go unnoticed.
"Same goes for you…" Tyric responded, shaking his hand firmly. His face remained unreadable, but there was weight behind his gaze—one that hinted he caught the silent message.
Tesmee didn't say a word. She simply moved back to the head of the table, her presence alone pulling their attention back to the reason they were all gathered: war was coming, and every second mattered.
The planning on Tesmee's side moved like clockwork—strategic, intense, and focused. Each move weighed against its consequence, every option dissected for its risks and rewards. Surrounded by her elite and the military captains, she was no longer just moving in shadows—this was war declared with precision.
Meanwhile, Tyson sat at the center of his own storm, calm as ever. He wasn't scrambling to hit Tesmee's bases—he had no idea where they were, and he didn't need to. His strategy wasn't to hunt her down. It was to build a trap—one she and her people would walk into willingly, unknowingly. No force. No panic. Just careful manipulation.
Tyson Hale was a man of power—undeniable, commanding. Some might call his actions desperate, a fear-driven retaliation to protect what he almost lost. Others might believe rage guided his hand. But none of that was true. Not now. He wasn't a man cracking under pressure—he was steel forged through it.
He had chosen his side, just like Ashley once did. He had sacrificed his heart for the Hale legacy—for the blood that built it and the future that depended on it.
And now, the stage was set.
It was no longer a matter of who strikes first.
It was a matter of who survives the storm when the blood begins to rain.