Lucas’s phone buzzed. He stepped aside to answer, then quickly returned, leaning close to whisper in Sloane’s ear. "The restaurant owner’s gone missing. One of the kitchen assistants too." Sloane’s eyes narrowed. "When?" "This morning—about two hours after Mr. Jackson fell ill." That couldn’t be a coincidence. Their eyes met, both instantly alert. The poisoning had been premeditated, and whoever was behind it was likely still watching every move inside the embassy. "Mr. Ambassador," Sloane said gravely, "I recommend increasing all security measures—especially around Mr. Jackson. If the poisoner’s still out there, they might strike again." The ambassador’s expression darkened. "We’ve already doubled security. But there’s another urgent problem…" Sloane and Lucas both turned toward him. "In three days, the ambassador must appear at a major press conference. If he doesn’t show, the rumors about his condition will spiral out of control." His voice trembled slightly. "Three days?" Sloane’s tone tightened. Her fingers absently rolled the vial of blood between them. "At his current condition, full recovery in that time is almost impossible." The ambassador’s face went ashen. "Isn’t there any other option? This conference concerns trade deals worth billions. If Mr. Jackson can’t attend…" Sloane held the vial up to the light, watching the blood shimmer with an unnatural shade of dark violet. "I’ll do everything I can," she said quietly. "But this toxin—" she paused, shaking her head. "It’s complex. I need more time to isolate its compounds." Silence filled the room. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air. Later that night, the laboratory lights blazed harshly against the darkness outside. Sloane rubbed her tired eyes and added another drop of reagent to the blood sample. This was her seventh attempt at neutralization, but the toxin’s structure under the microscope remained stubbornly intact. "One more time…" she muttered, adjusting the focus again. Outside, the sound of patrolling guards echoed faintly through the corridor before fading away. A soft knock interrupted the stillness. "Come in," Sloane said without looking up, assuming it was Lucas bringing updates on Mr. Jackson. The door opened. A young man in an embassy uniform entered, carrying a tray. "Dr. Rivers, the deputy asked me to bring this to you." Sloane froze for half a heartbeat. His voice was familiar, but there was something off in the tone—stiff, mechanical. She slowly lifted her gaze. It was the same aide who had helped in the medical ward earlier that day. "Set it there, please. Thank you," she said evenly, eyes darting subtly to his hands. The skin around his thumb and index finger was faintly yellowed—the telltale sign of prolonged contact with chemical reagents. A clerical aide wouldn’t have that. The man placed the tray on the table but didn’t move to leave. "Something else?" she asked lightly, feigning nonchalance as her left hand inched toward the drawer, fingers brushing the handle of her scalpel."The deputy wanted me to tell you…" he said, stepping closer. Then his tone dropped to a chilling rasp. "To die." In a flash, a dagger gleamed beneath the tray. Sloane had already anticipated the strike. She shoved the chair back and twisted to the side, but fatigue and mild toxin exposure slowed her just enough. The blade grazed her sleeve, tearing through the fabric and slicing a shallow line across her arm. Warm blood welled instantly, staining her cuff crimson.