Chapter 130: Three.. Two.. One!!

A few days have passed..

It was a normal weekend for most of the world. People slept. People worked. The usual small, safe rhythms of life hummed on.

Then the news flash cut through — sudden, bright, impossible to ignore.

A knock at the door. Someone opened.

“What is it?” the President asked, voice thick with sleep.

“Mr. President — you should see this,” the assistant said, breathless. No time for pleasantries.

Within minutes the White House moved from quiet to controlled panic. Nightgowns were shrugged off. A casual shirt was yanked on. Phones lit up. The war room blinked to life; monitors flared. Heads of security, the Joint Chiefs, the generals — they gathered, voices clipping, shoes scuffing on the floor. The air smelled like stale coffee and adrenaline.

The President stepped into the room, suit half-buttoned, eyes narrowing at the bank of screens. Someone pressed a button and the main screen brightened.

“Mr. President,” an aide said, voice small. “This was streamed live just minutes ago — to every feed we track.”

The screen filled.

A woman in a mask looked straight at the camera. She smiled — small, sharp. (A silly little smiley, as if she’d texted the world a wink.) Her voice slid through the speakers, calm and theatrical.

“Hello, world. I am Atropos,” she said. “And right now you are seeing the live video feed from the most secure prison in the world.”.

On the screen the feed switched — grainy CCTV angles, white lights, high walls. Rows of glass cells. Men inside. Dangerous names flagged in captions: bombers, traffickers, terrorists. The narrator’s voice — Atropos’s voice — drew the attention like a magnet.

“Look at these glass cells,” she said. “Look at the men behind them. See this one?” The camera lingered on a man sitting under the harsh light, shoulders slumped, hands folded. He looked calm. Bored, even. The president’s jaw tightened.

“Please, hold onto your chairs,” Atropos continued, almost playful. “Hold your couches, your beds—because the land beneath your feet will shake.”

Her finger tapped the phone at her side. The screen flashed. The camera cut close to the man.

“Keep looking at him. I’m starting in… 3…2…1.”

The man on the monitor convulsed — suddenly, violently. He jerked, clawing at air. Blood leaked from his mouth. He groped for something to grab; his eyes rolled. The sound was awful over the speakers — a wet, ragged tearing noise mixed with desperate coughing. People in the room flinched. Some turned away. Some couldn’t.

He fell to the floor of the cell. Hands shook on consoles. An officer in the war room closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer. The President’s face went grey.

Atropos laughed. A small, delighted sound. “Terrifying, isn’t it?” she said, like she was enjoying a private joke.

“Now the next one,” she said, and the feed jumped again. Another face, another countdown. 4 at once, she said, and the monitors filled with simultaneous scenes — men slumping, collapsing, chaos in miniature behind bulletproof glass.

The room in the White House went quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not the low hum of busy work, not the sharp orders of a crisis. A stunned silence, like everyone had been struck.

“This is live,” Atropos reminded them, her voice soft now. “All live.”

She leaned closer to her phone on screen, smiled wider. “Just like that, I can kill anyone in this world… from my chair.” She laughed again, then, because why not. The absurdity of it was part of the spectacle.

Then she switched the feed. A city street: New York, a narrow lane, two men walking under a lamppost, the camera steady on them. Ordinary. Boring, even.

“Look at those two men,” she said. “Three… two… one…”

They stumbled. One buckled, then both went down, bodies folding like dolls. Car horns blared somewhere in the background of the live feed. People in the room let out sounds that were half-curse, half-cry.

Atropos’s face filled the screen again, mask and smile. “I have entertained you enough, I guess,” she said. “So, why am I doing this?”

She tapped the phone. Her tone slipped into something colder.

“I have demands for the powerful countries of the world,” she said, deliberately. “I have sent them. You have three days to comply. If not —” she lifted her chin, voice losing the performative softness — “the next time I come to your screens will be the last time you’re watching me.”

The feed cut, abrupt and clean.

Silence hung for a beat, then the war room leaped to noise. Phones lit up. The President barked questions, orders spilling from his mouth like a flood. Generals shouted. Analysts scrambled for data, for origin traces, for any breadcrumb leading back to who Atropos might be.

But the image — the mask, the smile, the countdown — sat in every mind in the room like a stone. Outside, news channels re-aired the clip. Social feeds exploded. The world, which had been ordinary moments before, had been forced awake — and everything now felt fragile, threaded with the threat of someone who could reach through screens and snap lives like brittle glass.

Star Harbor — Sunday Morning, Pearl Villa

The TV hummed in the background, Sterling Media’s logo flashing before the anchor came on screen. Her face was composed, but her voice carried a weight it usually didn’t.

“Good morning. The world is still shaken after the sudden broadcast by the masked figure calling herself Atropos. Leaders of major nations have confirmed they will hold a virtual summit today to discuss her demands. But so far… those demands remain undisclosed to the public. No one knows what she has asked for — or how far her reach may extend. Until then, fear continues to ripple across cities worldwide.”

The footage cut to a loop of Atropos’s message, the blurred faces of collapsing prisoners replayed behind the anchor’s words.

Daniel felt his chest tighten, just a little. He didn’t show it much — but the fear sat there, stubborn. He turned his head toward the next couch. Miles sat there, quiet, calm as stone.

“Son… is this—?” Daniel’s voice trailed, searching for words.

Miles didn’t hesitate. “It seems so. But don’t worry. No one can harm any of us… not while I’m here.” His tone carried authority, not just reassurance. It filled the room with certainty.

Daniel exhaled slowly, shoulders easing. He nodded. “I believe you, son.”

From behind the couch, Elena’s voice broke in. “What are you two whispering about?”

Miles smirked faintly. “Nothing, Mom. Just a men’s talk.”

“Oh, right.” Elena crossed her arms, smiling at him with that mix of pride and amusement. “My beautiful boy has become a man.”

Miles chuckled, shaking his head. “Where are my soldiers, then?”

Elena sighed, pretending exasperation. “In their room. I had to put them there after they spread every single toy across the floor. The staff had to clean up, and of course, the twins dragged the poor house helps into their play too.”

Miles laughed, the sound easing the tension in the room. “Anyway… can you get them ready?”

Elena raised a brow. “Ready for what?”

“I told you last night,” Miles reminded gently. “I’m taking them ice skating.”

Her eyes widened for a second, then she laughed. “Ahh, I forgot. Yes, yes — please take them. They need the activity.”

Miles tilted his head. “Do you want to come?”

Elena shook her head quickly. “Not this time. It’s my rest day. Last week drained me. You young people go.”

Miles grinned, leaning back. “How old are you, anyway?”

She gave him a mock glare. “Old enough to have a son whose friends are getting married.”

Daniel chuckled from the couch, trying not to laugh too loud.

Miles lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, you win.”

The sound of faint laughter filled the villa’s living room, clashing gently with the grim news still playing from the TV.

…

The Subzero Center carried its own hum that day. Not crowded, but alive. The air smelled faintly of clean ice and hot chocolate, the buzz of skates scratching across the main rink echoing into the hallways.

Miles walked in with Hope and Asher bouncing on either side of him, their small hands tugging at his sleeves. Sunday had them both charged with energy — little soldiers in casual sweaters, wool hats tugged low, eyes bright.

“Big bro, big bro, we’re really skating today?” Hope piped, practically hopping.

“Not watching,” Asher added firmly. “Actually skating!”

Miles chuckled, adjusting their hats. “Yes. Actually skating. But don’t blame me if you fall more than you glide.”

The staff greeted him warmly, already prepared. They led the three into a private mini rink tucked off the main floor — quieter, safer for beginners. The ice gleamed under soft lights, smooth and inviting.

Miles crouched by the benches, kneeling to strap on skates for the twins. Fingers nimble, he tugged at the laces, double-knotting them. Hope giggled the entire time, swinging her legs impatiently. Asher tried to help with his own boots, fumbled, and ended up sighing dramatically until Miles fixed them.

“You’re supposed to be soldiers,” Miles teased, tightening Asher’s straps. “Not helpless recruits.”

“We are soldiers,” Hope said, puffing her chest. “But soldiers need armor. This is our armor.”

Miles smirked. “Then stand tall.”

The staff stepped onto the ice first, reaching out hands. Miles followed, steady as always, one hand holding Hope, the other reaching for Asher. The twins wobbled instantly, knees knocking, arms flailing.

“Whoa—!” Hope squeaked.

Asher slipped sideways and clung to Miles’s arm with both hands. Miles caught him easily, pulling him upright.

“See? Told you,” Miles said.

Hope laughed breathlessly, trying to balance, leaning too far, then too little. Her skate slipped and she landed on her knees. She burst into a giggle instead of tears.

“Soldiers don’t cry, right?” Miles said, kneeling beside her and helping her back up.

“Right!” she chirped, brushing at her gloves.

Asher made it three steps before his legs crossed wrong and he slid flat onto his back. The staff bent down quickly, but Miles just shook his head, reaching down with one hand to haul him back to his feet.

“Again,” Miles said calmly. “Fall ten times, stand up eleven.”

The twins clung tighter to him, shuffling step by step. Their laughter filled the little rink, tumbling over each other every time one slipped. Soon they weren’t scared of falling — they laughed even when they hit the ice, scrambling up with pink cheeks and stubborn grins.

Miles didn’t laugh much, but his smirk lingered the entire time. His voice stayed patient, steady, guiding them through every stumble, every shaky glide.

Then, as Hope steadied herself against his hand and Asher managed to stand without falling, Miles’s eyes lifted.

Through the glass wall, just outside the mini rink, a man stood talking with one of the staff. He wasn’t dressed for skating, just a coat and scarf. Beside him clung a little girl, her hand wrapped around his sleeve, eyes wide as she watched the ice.

Miles’s gaze narrowed slightly.

He leaned toward the staff member inside the rink. “Go check what that’s about.”

The staff nodded quickly and skated off toward the exit, slipping through the gate to speak with their colleague.

Miles stayed where he was, hands steady on the twins’ shoulders, but his eyes followed the man.

The little girl clutched closer to him.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep