Chapter 1620:


    With that realization settling heavily in his chest, Grayson slowly lifted his gaze toward Maia, his expression difficult to read. In his years as Wildebell’s most elite operative, he had encountered masters of every discipline and fighters of every caliber. Yet never once had he encountered someone like her. Her fragile appearance and detached stillness concealed a level of destructive force that defied reason — a contradiction that left behind a quiet, involuntary unease.


    “Ms. Watson.” Grayson rose to his feet, his posture straighter now, his voice carrying a measured respect that had not been there before. “The situation has been fully secured.”


    “No. Not yet,” Maia interrupted without warning.


    Disregarding the attention drawn to her, she pivoted and gestured toward Kolton, who remained motionless on the stretcher, oblivious to the violent confrontation that had just ended.


    “He’s not doing well,” she said, her voice sharp and her frown cutting. “The details areplicated. What you need to understand is that those madmen performed a prefrontal lobotomy on him.” She continued without pause. “If we dy treatment, he’ll be reduced to nothing more than a body that still breathes — and that oue would be far too merciful. If he’s going to answer for what he’s done, if he’s going to stand trial with full awareness, then we have to do something to save whatever consciousness he still has.”


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    Maia hesitated, then lifted her gaze toward Chris, who stood only a short distance away. Her eyes held steady resolve, threaded through with unmistakable urgency.


    “Mr. Cooper, could you arrange for your people to transport Kolton to Wront Central Hospital immediately? They have the strongest neurosurgical department avable. It may be the only chance he has.”


    Chris did not pause, did not question, did not hesitate. He gave a single decisive nod and epted without reservation.


    Soon after, Chris took the wheel himself, driving Maia straight to Wront Central Hospital. The ck vehicle tore down the highway through the dark stretch before dawn, the road empty beneath them.


    Inside the vehicle, silence pressed in from all sides. Maia sat rigid in the passenger seat, her phone clenched tightly in her grasp, knuckles paling under the strain. The dim glow of the screen washed over her tense, anxious features.


    Ten minutes ago, Maia had sent Carsen a message.


    “Dr. Walsh, it’s an emergency. Kolton’s prefrontal cortex may be damaged — his condition is critical. I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m begging you. Please help me wake him up.” She had given him a quick overview of the situation, ready to provide more details if needed.


    In Wront, if anyone could pull off a miracle in circumstances this dire, it was Carsen.


    But ten minutes had passed. Carsen still hadn’t answered. All that remained in the chat was her own lengthy, unanswered message.


    Unease began to settle in.


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