Chapter 1388:


    Blood mingled with spilled champagne, shards of crystal glinting beneath the harsh lights.


    Raegan stumbled back, tearing off her mask with shaking fingers. Her face drained of color, leaving her with a ghost’s pallor.


    Confusion and terror warred in her wide eyes as she watched the Four Horsemen show up at the same time.


    She struggled to understand, voice barely a whisper. “Why are you… here?”


    Grayson raised his head, and his gaze cut through the air like frost. “You fool. You allowed our members to ughter one another. If gue and Famine had not infiltrated early and spiked the drinks, do you know how many would have died?”


    Each word struck her like a physical blow. Her knees weakened, and she swayed, her breath shallow and uneven.


    But worse awaited her. The guards in front shifted, parting like a dark curtain.


    There—kneeling before Chris—were gue and Famine themselves. Their posture held no arrogance, only rmed devotion. Their eyes flicked to Chris with something startling beneath the surface: fear… and reverence.


    Raegan’s breath hitched sharply. Her pupils constricted, and a cold shiver crawled along her spine.


    Panic seized her throat.


    Her voice cracked as she pointed at the motionless man lying in Maia’s arms. “Who… who on earth is he?”


    No one answered. The silence itself became a judgment, heavy and suffocating.


    Her question drifted away, swallowed by the thick, icy stillness.


    Raegan staggered back, trembling from head to toe. Panic hollowed her eyes, and each breath came thin and ragged.


    In the very next moment—right beside Raegan—Grayson suddenly sprang forward.


    Every move he made was sharp and controlled, never a hint of excess. His arm cut through the air with lethal precision. A crisp smacknded squarely on Raegan’s carotid artery. The strength behind it was perfectly calcted—not brutal, nor gentle, just enough to knock her out cold.


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    Raegan’s pupils shrank, her eyes rolled back, and she copsed like a marite whose strings had snapped. Her legs folded beneath her, dropping her to the floor.


    The panic etched on her face remained frozen there, thest expression she managed before losing consciousness. Grayson’s strike was surgical—clean, fast, leaving her no chance to react.


    Behind Maia, through the thunderous roar of the helicopter des, urgent footsteps and shouting broke through. “Move! Hurry!”


    A tactical team rushed in with a stretcher, pushing through smoke and chaos with practiced efficiency.


    They ced it beside Chris.


    Maia practically gathered him into her arms as she helped lift him onto it.


    Chris was still unresponsive, his face drained of color, his blood continuously oozing out.


    Maia’s hands were slick with crimson. Her heart felt like it was being wrung dry.


    As the team prepared to pull back, a staggering figure emerged from the panicked crowd.


    Maxwell. He had finally made it to the scene.


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