Sloane’s hand slipped limply from Lucas’s grip as her body went still. "Doctor! Help her!" The ambassador’s shout echoed down the corridor. Several medics rushed in, lifting the unconscious Sloane onto a stretcher. Lucas followed close behind, his shirt soaked in her blood, eyes fixed on her pale, motionless face. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. Thirty minutes later, the door to the emergency room opened. The attending doctor’s expression was grim. "Ms. Rivers has been poisoned—the same toxin as Mr. Jackson. We’ve stabilized her for now, but she won’t regain consciousness anytime soon." "What?" Kaizen staggered back a step. Mr. Jackson’s poison was still unresolved, and now the only person who could cure him had fallen victim to it herself. "Save her," the ambassador ordered coldly. "No matter what it takes." The red emergency light glowed in the hallway, casting the walls in a blood-colored hue. Lucas sank to the floor, leaning against the wall, his hands trembling uncontrollably. Moments later, Kaizen arrived, drenched in sweat. "I just heard about the attack—how’s Sloane?" "She’s still in there," the ambassador said, his brow furrowed with tension. "The assassin used the same toxin—or something very close." Before he could say more, the ambassador’s aide burst through the doors, face ashen. "Bad news! The plane carrying the medicinal supplies… it crashed!" "What?!" Kaizen and Lucas exclaimed in unison. "The report just came in," the aide stammered. "It went down thirty kilometers from the embassy. Search teams found wreckage—no survivors." Lucas sprang to his feet, seizing the aide by the collar. "The herbs—where are they?!" The aide’s voice broke. "Gone… all of it. Nothing survived the fire." Elsewhere— A man’s laughter rang out in a dimly lit room. "Hahahaha! So, the so-called miracle doctor’s been poisoned too?"He leaned back in his chair, smirking coldly. "Perfect. Let’s see who can save Jackson now." Meanwhile, at the international press conference, the hall was packed. Cameras flashed nonstop. The event, scheduled for ten a.m., had already been delayed fifteen minutes. Restless murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Why isn’t Mr. Jackson here yet?" "Yeah, he’s never late. Something must be wrong." "I just got word the conference might be canceled." "Does this mean the trade deal’s falling apart?" Among the press, a man in a baseball cap leaned toward a fellow reporter. "My cousin works at the embassy. He says Jackson’s practically dead—machines are keeping him alive." The rumor spread like wildfire, and panic began to ripple through the crowd. In the corner, a man in black pressed a finger to his earpiece. "The story’s spreading. Time to pull out." Just as the room was descending into chaos, the side doors swung open.Mr. Jackson walked in. He looked alert, steady, and strong—his suit pressed, his steps firm. The hall fell silent for half a heartbeat before erupting into applause. "No way," the man in black whispered, springing to his feet and knocking over his chair. His face drained of color as he stared at the stage. Mr. Jackson smiled warmly, stepping up to the podium. "My friends in the media," he said, his voice clear and composed, "I apologize for keeping you waiting. There were a few unexpected delays this morning." From the crowd, a reporter stood up. "Mr. Jackson, is it true you were seriously ill?"