Chapter 1 A Glimpse

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the arrival announcement for International Flight GA711 echoed across Terminal 3 of Marrowbay International Airport.

Sunlight streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling glass walls, gilding the polished marble floor with shimmering gold. The crowd waiting for arrivals stirred. Flight information scrolled on electronic screens, and the rolling of suitcase wheels filled the air with noise.

A hush fell over the bustling arrival hall the moment Jasmine Sullivan walked out of the international arrivals corridor.

She wore a sleek floor-length scarlet dress that accentuated her glowing complexion. The hem swayed gently with her steps.

Her long hair was tied into a loose bun, with a few strands falling along her neck. She carried an imposing aura beneath her relaxed demeanor.

Without sunglasses, her clear eyes were fully visible. Her irises bore a rare blue-gray hue, while the upward tilt of her eyes lent her an aloof, piercing look.

What drew the most attention was the two children she held by the hands. One stood on her left and the other on her right, both around six years old. They looked nearly identical, clearly twins.

On Jasmine's left, the boy was dressed in a dark blue suit set over a white shirt buttoned all the way up, holding a slim silver-gray laptop in his arms.

They stopped. The boy let go of Jasmine's hand, his face set in a stern expression. Though still young, he had an unnaturally calm gaze as he typed rapidly, lines of code scrolling across the screen.

On Jasmine's right, the girl wore a pink dress and a white cardigan, hugging a brown teddy bear tightly.

Curious, she glanced about. Her large, round eyes held pure naivety, but every time her eyes swept over a shadowed nook, a shrewd glint flashed through them, incongruous for one so young.

"Mommy, the surveillance system here is at least three versions behind that of Strandholm," the boy said without lifting his head, his fingers gliding across the trackpad. "Its firewall is useless. I broke through it in seven seconds."

A faint smile tugged at Jasmine's lips. "Yale, how many times have I told you not to hack public systems casually?"

"I was running a security check," said Yale Sullivan, Jasmine's son, in a serious tone. "I also fixed three bugs for them. I should charge a fee if they put the project out for formal bidding."

"Yale is showing off again," said Winnie Sullivan, Jasmine's daughter, in a soft voice as she twiddled the teddy bear's ears. "Mommy, I'm hungry. You said we have candy apples here."

Jasmine stopped and crouched down to meet her daughter's gaze, her voice low and distinctive. "Wait a little longer, Winnie. We'll pick up our luggage first, then get you the yummiest candy apples, okay?"

Winnie's eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly.

Suddenly, shouts came from the lounge area on the right side of the arrival hall. "Dad, are you all right? Help! Someone, call for help!"

People rushed over, and commotion spread through the crowd. Trained with a doctor's instinct, Jasmine noticed the emergency instantly. She let go of her daughter's hands and hurried toward the sound.

"Mommy, where are you going?" Yale and Winnie called out together.

"Stay right here," Jasmine glanced back and ordered. "Yale, watch over Winnie."

She pushed through the crowd and saw an elegantly dressed elderly man around sixty collapse onto the leather sofa, clutching his chest.

His face turned cyanotic, and he gasped for breath while scratching at his clothes involuntarily, which were clear symptoms of a myocardial infarction.

His attendants were thrown into panic. A young man stammered as he dialed 911. "S-Send an ambulance quickly. We're at Terminal 3 of the airport."

"Stand aside," Jasmine spoke softly, yet her voice carried undeniable authority.

She stepped forward and dropped to one knee. While she supported the elderly man's neck to keep his airway unobstructed, she checked his carotid artery. His pulse was faint, barely detectable.

"Does he have a history of heart disease?" Jasmine looked up and asked the young man.

"Yes. He has medicine for coronary heart disease in his bag." The man fumbled frantically to search for it.

Jasmine quickly unbuttoned the elderly man's suit jacket and shirt collar, her movements swift and precise.

"Everyone, step back. Keep the air circulating." She scanned the crowd with a sharp gaze.

Onlookers moved back instinctively.

"Go to the service desk and get the AED. Airports are always equipped with one," she ordered an airport staff member.

The staff member froze for a second, then turned and ran off at full speed.

Jasmine began cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She laid the man flat on the ground, placed her stacked hands on the lower part of his sternum, leaned forward, and started compressions following standard procedures.

She kept a steady rhythm and firm pressure. Her red dress spread across the floor like a blooming crimson rose. Though fine beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and loose strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, her eyes remained utterly focused.

"Grandpa, don't leave me." A girl in her early twenties cried and tried to rush forward.

"Hold her back," Jasmine said without looking up. "Don't let her disturb the rescue."

Yale had led Winnie to the front of the crowd. He handed the laptop to Winnie and watched the whole scene calmly. Winnie hugged her teddy bear tight, staring at her mother without blinking.

After thirty compressions, Jasmine leaned down to give rescue breaths. She pinched the man's nose, tilted his chin up, and delivered two mouth-to-mouth breaths before resuming compressions.

Every movement was smooth and professional. The noise around gradually died down. Some people took out their phones.

"Are you filming? That doesn't seem right," someone whispered.

"This is saving a life. That's truly admirable."

"She's so skilled. Is she a doctor?"

Camera flashes went off, pointing toward the woman in red crouching down. Jasmine paid no heed, or simply did not care. Right then, the fading life beneath her hands was her only concern.

A few minutes later, the staff member returned breathlessly with the AED.

Jasmine took the device, tore open the package, and attached the electrode pads to the man's bare chest with practiced ease. The machine spoke. "Analyzing heart rhythm. Shock advised."

"Everyone, stand clear," she shouted sharply.

The crowd moved further back in a rush.

Jasmine pressed the shock button. The elderly man's body jolted.

The AED ran another analysis. "Continue cardiopulmonary resuscitation."

She restarted compressions instantly. Sweat trickled down her jaw and dropped onto the floor.

Seconds ticked by.

As many thought all hope was lost, the man gasped for air, and his eyelids fluttered.

"Heartbeat detected," the AED announced.

Jasmine checked his carotid artery at once. His pulse returned, weak but steady. His chest rose and fell on its own, and his cyanotic complexion lightened a little.

"He starts breathing."

"Wow, that's amazing."

Cheers and applause broke out among the onlookers. A few still kept filming.

Jasmine ignored the commotion. She checked the man's pupil response and positioned him properly while waiting for the ambulance. Her expression stayed calm throughout. Only her ragged breathing showed how much the emergency rescue had taken out of her.

"Mommy is awesome," Winnie murmured, loosening her grip on the teddy bear.

Yale frowned at the phones still recording. His fingers moved inside his pocket, where he kept a mini touch device.

The wail of an ambulance drew near.

Airport medics rushed over with a stretcher.

Jasmine stood up and gave a quick briefing. "Suspected acute anterior myocardial infarction. Cardiac arrest lasted around four minutes. Spontaneous circulation was restored after one AED shock alongside CPR. Blood pressure is likely low. Urgent PCI is required."

She spoke rapidly with precise terminology.

The medics hesitated briefly. "Are you a doctor?"

"I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon," Jasmine replied briefly, then stepped aside to let the team take over.

The patient's family gathered around to express their gratitude. Jasmine waved them off and walked toward her children.

Her scarlet skirt swept across the floor, leaving a poised figure behind.

The moment she turned around, Jonah Blackwell came to a halt at the exit of the VIP passage, roughly 150 feet from the scene.

Dressed in a tailored iron-gray suit, he cut a tall, broad-shouldered figure. He had only returned from overseas negotiations, accompanied by three assistants and two bodyguards.

He had planned to leave via the VIP passage, but the commotion caught his eye, or rather, the silhouette of the woman in red.

Glare from the glass walls blurred her features. Only that streak of red burned bright in his sight.

He caught the curve of her neck, loose strands of hair, and her focused profile as she crouched to perform first aid. His heart skipped a beat.

A hazy memory from five years ago surfaced unbidden. The dim room, the woman's sobs, blood-stained sheets, and a streak of red kept flickering in his mind. Then, a sharp headache struck.

"Mr. Blackwell?" Blair Prescott, his assistant, noticed that something was wrong with him. "Are you all right?"

Jonah pressed his temples. When he looked up again, the crowd was dispersing. The woman in red walked toward the baggage claim with the two children, her figure fading among the crowds.

He stared in that direction, brows furrowed.

"Look into that woman who gave first aid just now," Jonah said in a low voice.

Blair looked surprised. "Mr. Blackwell, but..."

"Do it," Jonah ordered firmly, his gaze fixed on where she had vanished. "Find out who she is."

An inexplicable, almost absurd intuition gnawed at his reason. He had seen her before, in a time and place he had tried to bury.

*****

Meanwhile, at the baggage claim, Jasmine retrieved two large suitcases. Yale held his laptop again and typed quickly.

"Mommy, thirteen accounts uploaded footage, five with location tags," Yale reported calmly. "I have handled everything. I blurred your face, deleted the original files, and planted interference code to prevent recovery."

Jasmine ruffled his hair. "Well done."

Winnie looked up, "But Mommy, you did the right thing saving him. Why delete the videos?"

Jasmine crouched down to meet her daughter's clear eyes, her tone softening. "I don't want too many people to recognize me for now. You will understand when the time comes, Winnie."

She glanced beyond the towering glass walls.

Marrowbay's skyline glinted in the afternoon sun. She had left this city six years ago, thinking she would never return. Now it welcomed her back with bustling energy.

The suitcase wheels rolled forward.

She held one child by each hand and headed for the exit. Her red skirt swayed like a silent banner.

Back at the airport, social media pages that should have displayed the rescue footage now only showed error codes.

The dramatic scene faded into a vague memory for most travelers.

Only Jonah, who had paused at the VIP passage, kept that flash of red etched in his mind. Their paths would cross dramatically before long.

Chapter 2 The Mysterious Female Doctor

At nine o'clock in the morning, on the 68th floor of the Blackwell Group headquarters, inside the CEO's office, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the bustling central business district of Marrowbay.

The river glinted with golden ripples under the early sunlight, while the glass facades of skyscrapers cast cold streaks of light. This was a hub of power, where every breath carried the aura of calculated luxury.

Jonah stood by the window, his figure straight.

He had slept poorly the night before. It wasn't insomnia. He rarely had trouble sleeping. Even if he did, his grueling work would wear him out and knock him out cold.

But last night was different. The profile of the woman in red was like a glowing nail etched into his vision, haunting him repeatedly in the dark.

Shards of memories dating back five years rose up unbidden. It had been ages since this happened.

A restrained knock came at the door.

"Come in," said Jonah.

Blair pushed the door open with a tablet in hand, looking uneasy.

Having served Jonah for seven years, he had rarely seen his consistently composed boss order an investigation into a video played on the airport's large screen, especially when the person in the footage was seemingly a random stranger at the airport.

Blair set the tablet on the large desk and lit up the screen. "Mr. Blackwell, I've found something regarding the matter you asked me to look into.

"At seven forty-three this morning, a video appeared on Marrowbay's local community feed, titled Gifted Female Doctor Saves Elderly Man from Heart Attack at Marrowbay Airport.

"Thirty minutes after posting, it ranked seventh on local trending lists. Forty-five minutes later, the hashtag named [Hero Doctor at the Airport] entered the national trending board. It is now forty-eighth and still climbing."

Jonah turned around. He did not look at the tablet at once, but fixed his gaze on Blair. "How did it gain popularity?"

"The video is striking." Blair pulled up the data. "It was shot up close. Though the female doctor's face is not fully clear, her scarlet dress, professional first aid skills, and the moment the elderly man regained his heartbeat make for powerful footage.

"Several local influencers shared it first, followed by medical popular science accounts praising her professional operations. Discussions are now leaning toward her being a beautiful, kind-hearted top doctor."

Jonah stepped forward and picked up the tablet. The video began to play automatically.

Amid the terminal's buzz and the crowd's startled cries, Jasmine, clad in red, appeared on camera.

She crouched down instantly. Her chest compressions were flawless in rhythm, depth, and recoil. Every detail revealed years of practiced muscle memory. As she gave rescue breaths, she tilted her head aside. Loose hair fell forward, her jawline taut and angular.

Next came the part where she used the AED. She peeled off the electrode pads, followed the instructions, and delivered the shock.

Her expression barely changed throughout the whole process. Only sweat dripping down her forehead and her heaving chest showed how demanding the rescue was.

The video ended as the man breathed on his own and medics arrived. In the final seconds, she stood up. Her red skirt swirled neatly as she turned away from the camera.

She walked steadily, holding two children by the hand, until they vanished into the crowd.

Jonah pressed his thumb on the screen, dragged the playback slider back, and paused. The frame froze on her side face as she leaned down for rescue breaths.

Soft light from the glass walls fell on her cheek. Her long lashes lowered, and her nose stood straight.

As Jonah looked at Jasmine at this angle, a dull thud echoed in his chest once again.

Blair lowered his voice, sounding hesitant. "Mr. Blackwell, the tech team did a preliminary analysis. Her face is blurred skillfully, looking like a natural distortion from camera shake and lighting.

"Still, we cross-referenced it with the hospital surveillance footage you had me seal away five years ago."

He paused, watching Jonah's expression closely.

Jonah's eyes turned deep and icy as he ordered, "Go ahead."

Blair drew a deep breath. "This woman in the video bears over 70% resemblance to the woman in the Marrowbay Medical Center's old footage from five years ago.

"Her side profile, jawline, even how she steadied the patient's shoulder with her left hand while giving first aid? All matches closely. We can't make out her eye color. Yet their intense, stern looks are exactly the same."

A heavy silence fell over the office.

Cold air hummed from the central air vents. The air carried a blend of cedar fragrance and paper ink. The city bustled outside, yet the thick double-pane glass shut out all noise completely.

Memories drifted back to five years ago.

At Marrowbay Medical Center, an unexplained fire broke out in the VIP maternity ward on the third floor of the inpatient building in the early hours.

Fire reports pointed to aging circuits as the likely cause. Two medical staff members lost their lives, and a pregnant patient staying there went missing. Her body was never found, and she was listed as presumed dead.

The Blackwell Group was the hospital's largest investor. After the fire, Jonah took personal charge and suppressed most media coverage.

However, the internal investigation was never concluded. No one knew he had sealed the surveillance footage from the corridor outside the maternity ward, taken the night before the blaze.

In the footage, a heavily pregnant woman in a hospital gown walked slowly past the camera, leaning against the wall. She glanced back toward the monitor.

Even in the blurry black-and-white frame, her eyes shone strikingly bright. Despair, resentment, and a burning hatred lingered in her gaze.

Later, all records of the missing woman were deliberately erased. Even the name she used for admission was fake.

Jonah pulled strings to dig for clues, but only uncovered fragmented hints. She was suspected of being linked to a bankrupt family and a past medical scandal. Rumors also suggested an indirect connection to his overbearing mother.

His mother, Vanessa Blackwell, refused to discuss the matter, only saying coldly, "Mind your own business."

Over the years, the vague figure would occasionally cross Jonah's mind when he was exhausted or on the verge of losing control. He had dismissed it as hallucinations and memory distortion brought on by stress.

But yesterday at the airport, that figure in red pried open the long-sealed door of the past.

"Do we have any identity details about the woman in the video?" Jonah spoke in a flat tone.

Blair shook his head. "Not yet. The video went viral, but there are no clear frontal shots. It was posted by a regular tourist who claimed to have shot the clip by chance. The IP was traced to a nearby city.

"We contacted airport staff. They said chaos broke out at the scene, and no information was taken from the rescuer.

"The elderly patient is Silas Whitaker, founder of Grandreach Holdings. He remains in the ICU. His family is deeply grateful but has no idea who the doctor is."

Jonah set down the tablet and walked back to the window. His fingers tapped lightly against the cool glass, again and again.

"Keep investigating," he repeated his order from the previous day, with more specific instructions this time. "You have two tasks.

"First, use all available resources to identify her. Focus on recent entry records, especially flights arriving from Strandholm. Traveling with two children makes her easy to track."

He paused, his gaze sharp. "Second, pull all files on the fire at Marrowbay Medical Center. I need to review everything again. We may have missed clues about the missing pregnant woman back then."

Blair tensed. "Mr. Blackwell, about that hospital case, Vanessa will not—"

"Carry out the order," Jonah cut him off firmly. "Report any obstruction directly to me."

"Yes, sir." Blair gathered the tablet and left quickly. The door clicked shut, separating the office from the outside world.

Jonah stood alone before the vast glass wall, looking down at the streams of traffic and tiny figures below.

The city kept running, bound by its rules. Wealth and power flowed through the concrete metropolis like blood. Standing at the apex of power, he always took charge and weighed every variable.

But the woman was a shooting star that suddenly cut across his chessboard. Her fiery radiance could not be overlooked, and her path remained utterly unpredictable.

Jonah picked up his phone and opened the video he had watched countless times. He paused on the final frame, her retreating figure. The red skirt looked like an unhealed wound.

"Who on earth are you?" he murmured. His voice faded into the empty office without an echo.

*****

Meanwhile, in the top-floor penthouse of Riverfront House, Marrowbay, sunlight streamed through the 270-degree curved floor-to-ceiling windows, brightening the spacious living room.

The space featured minimalist modern decor dominated by black, white, and gray, softened by furnishings in muted tones.

A white grand piano stood in one corner, while the opposite wall was lined with bookshelves filled with medical classics, tech journals, and children's books.

The penthouse offered a stunning view of the winding river and the rolling city skyline in the distance.

Jasmine changed into soft, off-white loungewear. Her long hair fell loosely over her shoulders. She hung her clothes in the walk-in closet. Her movements were calm and unhurried, carrying the quiet steadiness of someone who had weathered great turmoil.

In the living room, Yale sat cross-legged on the carpet with his laptop on his knees. The screen was split into over a dozen windows, where streams of data rolled nonstop.

Winnie lay on the nearby sofa, swinging her legs and still clutching her teddy bear. She was absorbed in an illustrated medical book for children, which featured colored diagrams of the heart marked with Newlandish and Laedwish terms.

Yale spoke suddenly, his fingers gliding across the trackpad rapidly. "Mommy, one video from yesterday's incident slipped through."

Jasmine paused mid-action. "Huh?"

"The shooter saved the footage to a local SD card and uploaded it offline. They only posted it after connecting to the internet at their hotel this morning," Yale explained matter-of-factly. "My monitoring crawlers detected it forty-seven minutes after release.

"By then, three local influencers had shared it, creating initial spread points."

"What's the situation now?" Jasmine said.

"The hashtag [Hero Doctor at the Airport] is now 46th on the national trending list." Yale pulled up a real-time data panel. "Total views have exceeded eight million, and discussions keep growing.

"Ninety-two percent of comments are positive, praising your professionalism, composure, beauty, and kindness. Seventeen percent of users are guessing your identity and workplace."

Winnie looked up with wide eyes. "Mommy, so many people are complimenting you."

Jasmine walked over and stroked her daughter's hair, her gaze fixed on her son's screen.

A red "Hot" tag sat beside the trending hashtag. The video topped the entry with comments pouring in nonstop.

[She looked so cool crouching down to save that elderly man. What an incredible woman.]

[Her techniques are impeccable. She must be a seasoned clinician, probably a top expert in cardiology.]

[Has anyone found out which hospital she works at? She has such an extraordinary aura.]

[She's in a red dress and heels. Wow, she stays so graceful while saving someone's life.]

[Are those twins her kids? They're super cute.]

[Please share her information. I'd love to book an appointment with her. Hey, I'm kidding.]

"Can you take care of this?" Jasmine asked.

Yale nodded, his expression remaining neutral, yet his eyes fully focused. "Yes, but it will take time and require more in-depth measures."

Yale explained clearly, "The content has spread across four layers. First, it's the original poster and early sharers. Second, it's marketing accounts and news outlets that followed up.

"Third, it's the organic traffic pushed by platform algorithms. Fourth, it's users who have downloaded and saved the videos locally.

"I can delete the original files and post records for the first two layers directly. For the third, I need to disrupt platform algorithms to lower the topic's weight and recommendation frequency. The fourth is the trickiest, as it involves personal devices."

"What's your plan?" Jasmine looked at her son.

Yale typed and pulled up a complex program interface. "I've finished writing a targeted cleanup protocol.

"First, trace the MD5 codes of all released videos, then erase the original files from server backends across all platforms and replace them with error codes or irrelevant content.

"Second, flood the related hashtag with massive junk content to dilute valid posts and make algorithms label the topic as low-quality.

"Third, launch targeted network interference on devices confirmed to have downloaded the clips. A hidden program will activate the next time they connect to Wi-Fi or cellular data, overwriting and deleting local cache files."

He looked up at his mother. "I need your authorization for the third step, Mommy. It means crossing a slight line."

Jasmine fell silent for a few seconds.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint hoot of ships on the river in the distance.

"Do you not want others to know we are back?" Winnie whispered, hugging her teddy bear tighter.

Jasmine crouched down and pulled her daughter into her arms, then stroked her son's soft hair.

"It is not that I want to hide our return." Her voice was gentle yet heavy with resolve. "The timing is not right yet. I need to sort out certain matters first, and observe how some people react from the shadows."

She turned to Yale. "Carry this out, but stay careful. Don't leave a single clue, and keep losses to a minimum."

"Understood." Yale nodded and pressed the Enter key.

The program launched at once.

Data streamed across the screen at a much faster pace. Nodes lit up green for completed removal and red for ongoing processing. The curve tracking the topic's popularity visibly declined.

Jasmine stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The midday sun shone bright. The city, familiar yet strange, stretched out below her. Six years had passed. Streets had changed, new landmarks had risen, and old memories lay hidden beneath a polished facade.

But she remembered everything.

She remembered the old tree in the backyard of the Sullivan residence, the scent of ink in her father's study, and the lullaby her mother used to sing.

She recalled the sudden news of a plane crash, creditors shouting outside the gate, and the panic of fleeing far away under her new name.

And she would never forget the cold maternity ward, the searing pain, and the flickering flames that filled her sight at the end.

Nor could she forget Jonah's cold, deep eyes, which she had caught a glimpse of through smoke and chaos.

Jasmine let out a slow breath. Her blurred reflection showed on the glass.

Revenge demanded patience and precision. It was like surgery, cutting through layers of pretense to strike straight at the root of the problem.

Now she had taken the first step.

She was back, armed with expertise, her two most trusted companions, and old scores waiting to be settled from six years ago.

Her phone vibrated.

She picked it up and saw an encrypted message from a contact codenamed Jokul: [Arrived in Marrowbay. All documents ready. When shall we meet?]

Jasmine replied: [Eight tomorrow evening. At the usual place.]

She set the phone down and glanced back at the living room.

Yale remained fully focused on his screen. Winnie had curled up on the sofa and fallen asleep, her teddy bear slipping aside. Warm sunlight draped over the children, gilding their hair.

They were what she swore to protect, and the reason she had to grow strong.

Outside, the city buzzed on as usual.

On the trending list, the hashtag [Hero Doctor at the Airport] kept slipping down quietly, as if an invisible hand was erasing its traces.

Still, ripples had already spread. The one who needed to see it had seen it all.

Chapter 3 A Fateful Encounter

At twenty past eight in the morning, sunlight poured through the soaring glass atrium of Marrowbay Hospital's inpatient block. Pale golden light danced over the immaculate, mirror-like cream marble flooring.

The scent of disinfectant mingled with the faint fragrance of fresh blooms, drifting through the bright, spacious corridors.

Medical staff hurried to and fro, the wheels of supply carts rolling in a steady rhythm.

Soft murmurs from patients, chimes from electronic calling screens, and the distant hum of medical devices blended into the hospital's unique soundscape, alive with the rhythm of life.

Jasmine halted in front of the sign for the Cardiothoracic Surgery ward.

She wore a tailored light gray pantsuit that accentuated her poised figure, paired with a silky white blouse unbuttoned at the collar to reveal her delicate collarbones.

Her hair was pulled back neatly, and she wore subtle makeup with a touch of natural rose lipstick. She held a dark brown leather briefcase in one hand, while the other rested casually in her trouser pocket.

Her bearing was calm, as if she were patrolling her own domain.

At the end of the corridor, Cole Brennan, Director of Cardiothoracic Surgery, approached with several deputy directors and senior attending physicians. Nearly fifty years old, Cole kept his hair neatly combed, his warm smile showing sincere respect.

"Professor Sullivan, you must have had a tiring journey. Welcome." Cole stepped forward quickly and held out his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Brennan. No need for formalities." Jasmine extended her hand for a firm, brief handshake. "Just Jasmine from here on out."

Her voice was soft and steady, carrying a soothing presence.

"That would not do. You deserve all due respect," Cole smiled and stepped aside to introduce the others. "These are our core team members.

"Dr. Ethan Cooper specializes in coronary intervention. Dr. Lucas Mercer is an expert in major vascular surgery. Dr. Atlas Kent is our youngest attending physician, and he performs epicardial surgery with remarkable skill."

Jasmine nodded to each of them, her clear, focused gaze lingering briefly on every face. Those who met her eyes unconsciously stood a little straighter.

Cole said as he led the way, "Professor Sullivan, we have prepared your office right next to mine. It faces south with a wonderful view.

"As you requested, we installed the latest computer with a dual-screen monitor connected to the hospital's imaging system and medical record database. Besides, your proposal for renovating the hybrid operating room has been approved. Construction is set to start next month."

"Great work. Thank you." Jasmine gave a slight nod.

The corridor was wide and well-lit. Most ward doors stood open, revealing busy nurses and family members talking in low voices. Green plants outside the windows swayed gently in the morning breeze.

The group walked toward the director's office.

As they rounded the corner beside the nurses' station, another group came from the direction of the administrative meeting room opposite.

At the head stood a tall man in a bespoke navy suit. He wore no tie, with the collar of his shirt unfastened.

Far from looking slack, Jonah exuded a stern, reserved aura. His prominent brow ridge, straight nose, and sharply defined jawline were striking.

He tilted his head slightly, listening as the hospital director, Tyson Hargrove, whispered updates beside him. He replied briefly now and then, his deep eyes revealing no emotion.

Jasmine's footsteps faltered almost imperceptibly.

At the very same moment, Jonah lifted his head as if sensing her presence.

Their gazes locked across a distance of 15 feet amid the smell of disinfectant.

Time seemed to slow down. The surrounding noise faded away, leaving only a heavy silence as their eyes met.

Jonah's pupils contracted faintly the instant he recognized Jasmine's face. It was the woman in the red dress from the airport video.

But here she stood in a tailored skirt suit, her hair immaculately styled and face lightly made up, her eyes utterly composed. She was familiar yet unrecognizable next to the fiery figure in the video who crouched down to save lives.

Still, this strange sense of recognition swept over him with greater intensity. It felt far more vivid than that fleeting sight from yesterday.

It was not merely her looks, striking as they were with sharp, compelling features. What struck him deeper was her upright posture, the tilt of her chin, and the cool, assessing glint in her eyes as she glanced over.

It was like a needle long sunk in the depths of his memory, drawn to the surface by an invisible force.

Jonah came to a halt.

Tyson, along with several deputy directors and admin staff behind Jonah, came to a halt. They looked at him in confusion, then followed his gaze toward the group from Cardiothoracic Surgery across the way.

Cole recognized Jonah at once and greeted him more deferentially, "Mr. Blackwell, are you here for an inspection? We could have made preparations if we had known in advance."

Jonah paid no heed to his pleasantries. His gaze stayed fixed firmly on Jasmine.

Seconds ticked by. The air in the corridor grew heavy, and a silent tension hung between the two groups.

Eventually, Jonah spoke. His deep, resonant voice sounded taut, as if he were holding back his emotions. "Have we met before?"

It was less a question and more a probing statement of certainty.

Tyson fell into surprise, turning to Jasmine in bewilderment.

Jasmine met Jonah's stare and lifted the corner of her mouth in a faint curve. It was no genuine smile, merely a polite, distant gesture.

Her voice rang clear and crisp. "Mr. Blackwell, that line is rather outdated."

Without another glance at him, she turned back to Cole. "Mr. Brennan, let's head to the office. I'd like to go over this week's surgical schedule."

She acted completely at ease, as if their brief standoff had been nothing more than running into a stranger who had mistaken her for someone else.

Looking awkwardly between the two, Cole quickly smoothed over the moment. "Right away. Mr. Blackwell, this is Professor Jasmine Sullivan, our newly appointed specialist and a member of the International Association for Cardiothoracic Surgery. Today is her first day on the job."

Jonah never took his eyes off Jasmine.

Her profile was sharp and refined, with a straight nose. Her long lashes cast soft shadows over her lids. From where he stood, he could spot a tiny pearl stud in her earlobe, its glow warm and gentle.

Jasmine didn't look back.

"Jasmine," he said slowly. Saying the name left a strange, bitter tingle on his tongue, stirring an emotion he could not fully comprehend.

Jasmine kept walking without slowing down. She only tilted her head slightly and told Cole, "Let's go."

Jonah's words and presence seemed utterly irrelevant to her.

The two groups passed each other.

As their shoulders nearly brushed, a faint, elusive scent drifted to Jonah's nose. It was not perfume; strong fragrances were prohibited in the hospital.

It was a natural scent. Strong perfumes were prohibited on hospital premises.

It was a natural scent, a faint whiff of perspiration, brought on by walking in formal attire, blended with an undercurrent reminiscent of cold spring water and white musk, likely from body wash or her natural aroma.

The scent was barely perceptible. But to Jonah, it struck like a silent thunderbolt, splitting his consciousness wide open.

His body tensed almost imperceptibly out of instinct. He held his breath for a moment, then drew in a deeper breath, almost greedily.

His heart thudded violently in his chest.

A powerful, unfamiliar physical reaction surged forth like a dormant volcano erupting, heat coursing along every nerve ending. It was not desire, but rather a reflexive longing and sense of comfort etched deep in his memories.

A dull headache threatened to surface, but it was strangely soothed by this subtle sensation.

His eyes followed the pale gray figure involuntarily.

Jasmine turned into another corridor with Cole and the others and soon vanished from sight.

Activity resumed in the corridor.

Tyson eyed Jonah cautiously. "Mr. Blackwell, do you know Professor Sullivan?"

Jonah did not reply right away. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, still tingling from the strange flutter he had felt moments earlier.

After a few seconds, Jonah tore his gaze away. His expression turned impassive once more.

"No," he said in his usual frigid tone. "Let's proceed to the next area."

Jonah walked forward with steady steps. Only Blair, who had served Jonah for years, caught the fleeting daze in Jonah's eyes and noticed his hands clasped behind Jonah's back, knuckles faintly pale.

*****

The private consultant's office sat next to the director's office in the cardiothoracic surgery ward.

Facing south, it was bathed in ample sunlight, furnished with a desk, bookshelves, a reception sofa, and a workstation for reviewing medical scans. Two lush green plants sat on the windowsill.

After exchanging a few polite remarks, Cole took his leave, leaving Jasmine to settle in.

The door clicked shut, and she was alone. The polite, distant mask on her face slowly faded away.

Instead of sitting down, she walked to the window and looked down.

Near the circular flower bed in front of the main building, a group of formally dressed men escorted the figure in the navy suit toward the parking lot.

Jonah walked at the front, his upright, stern form keeping an unspoken distance from those around him.

Her fingers brushed lightly over the windowsill, cold to the touch.

That brief encounter in the corridor had shaken her more than she had expected.

Six years had passed. She had pictured this reunion countless times, rehearsing calm, restrained, mocking responses. She had thought herself fully prepared, every defense in place.

But when Jonah's eyes locked onto hers, those eyes, deep yet seemingly lit by hidden flames, her heart skipped a beat.

It was not fear.

Her feelings were tangled beyond full comprehension. Hatred lay at the core, intertwined with other emotions long buried by reason, emotions her body still remembered instinctively.

And then there was his question. "Have we met before?"

Beneath the inquiry in his eyes lay a faint, genuine confusion, not feigned. He truly seemed to hold a vague impression of her.

This was not part of her plan.

Jasmine exhaled slowly, turned, and seated herself behind the desk.

A stack of documents lay on the surface, including her appointment letter, hospital introduction, department organizational chart, and this week's surgical schedule.

She picked up the schedule and scanned it.

A repeat open-chest valve replacement was set for the next afternoon. The case was complicated, and Cole was due to perform the operation. A pencil note read: [Professor Sullivan could be invited to observe or offer guidance.]

Her fingertip tapped lightly on the name. Then she picked up the internal phone and dialed Cole's office.

"Mr. Brennan, regarding the second valve surgery tomorrow afternoon," her voice regained its crisp, professional calm as she said. "I'll take the lead. Please send over all the patient's imaging and medical history to my office now."

On the other end, Cole fell briefly silent before responding with obvious delight, "It's wonderful. It would be the patient's great fortune to have you operate, Professor Sullivan. I'll have the documents sent right away."

She hung up and leaned back in her chair, gaze drifting to the vast sky outside.

Now that their paths had crossed again, she would make him watch right here, in the hospital he owned and controlled, in the field he prided himself on most, exactly who Jasmine was and why she had come back.

*****

Outside, Jonah's motorcade had pulled through the hospital gates.

Inside the car, he sat back against the leather seat, eyes closed, fingers pressing against his throbbing temples.

Over and over, he replayed the image of her blue-gray eyes, cold, distant, yet swirling with hidden depths, and that scent.

He suddenly opened his eyes and spoke to Blair in the front seat, "Dig up everything on the new specialist, Jasmine Sullivan, at Marrowbay Hospital. I want her entire history, from birth to present, every detail, especially where she was six years ago."

Chapter 4 Her Talent

It was ten o'clock in the morning on the third floor of the Central Laboratory at Marrowbay Hospital.

Sunlight streamed through the large window at the end of the corridor, casting diamond-shaped patches on the sleek anti-static floor. The air carried a faint mix of disinfectant and chemical reagents.

Researchers in white lab coats hurried about or gathered around instruments to talk in low voices. The atmosphere was calm and focused.

Winnie wore a butter-yellow dress, covered by the smallest lab coat her mother could find for her. Its hem nearly dragged on the ground, and its sleeves were rolled up multiple times.

She held her brown teddy bear in one arm, while the lab worker, Vivian Lennox, held her other hand.

"Winnie, this is the Central Laboratory," said Vivian, a young, round-faced female researcher, in a gentle tone. "This area is for cell culture, and that side houses the genomics platform.

"Your mother is in a meeting upstairs. Mr. Brennan asked me to show you around first. Please keep quiet so we do not disturb everyone working here."

Winnie nodded obediently. Her big eyes wandered around curiously.

When they passed the PCR room, she glanced at the thermal cycler inside through the glass window. Next came the electrophoresis room. She stared for a moment at the gel imaging system glowing with soft blue light.

She looked entirely absorbed. Unlike most children who only watched for fun, she seemed to be identifying and memorizing the equipment.

Vivian thought the girl was simply fascinated by the lights on the devices and smiled to explain. "These instruments are used for macromolecule experiments. You will understand them once you learn biology later, Winnie."

"I already know," Winnie said softly. She pointed toward the electrophoresis room. "The voltage for the gel run is five percent too high. It will cause slight band smearing."

Vivian froze. "W-What?"

Winnie blinked. "According to Molecular Cloning: A Laboratory Manual, Fourth Edition, page 387, the optimal voltage is five to eight volts per centimeter. The screen showed eight point four volts."

Vivian was utterly stunned. She instinctively looked at the monitor inside the electrophoresis room. It indeed read 8.4 V/cm.

The little girl, who looked no older than six, had stated the exact figure. She quoted the laboratory's authoritative reference book, down to the page number.

"Winnie, have you read that book?" Vivian asked.

"There is a copy in Mommy's study," Winnie replied casually. "That is the Third Edition, though. The Fourth Edition adds optimized protocols for CRISPR-Cas9. I read that part via electronic resources at Strandholm University Library."

Vivian stood speechless. She knew Jasmine was a world-renowned expert, but she never expected her daughter to be so knowledgeable, too.

"Can we go look over there, Vivian?" Winnie pointed to the far end of the corridor, where a sign read Hematology Research Laboratory.

"Oh, yes. Let's go." Still dazed, Vivian led Winnie forward.

Several large devices were running inside the Hematology Research Laboratory. A silver flow cytometer stood out prominently. Beside it was an older model of an automatic blood cell separator.

A group of researchers huddled around the separator, frowning at the data on a computer screen.

"The results are still off," said a male researcher wearing glasses as he pushed them up his nose. "The recovery rate of CD34+ cells in the healthy control group is only sixty-five percent of the standard value. The data is unusable."

"The instrument was calibrated last week," another female researcher replied while operating the control panel. "We followed the standard separation protocol. The centrifugal force, duration, and buffer formula are all correct. I cannot figure out what went wrong."

Vivian walked over with Winnie and greeted them quietly. "Hi, Mr. Bishop, Ms. Walsh."

The researchers looked up. They stared in surprise at Vivian and the little girl in an oversized lab coat.

"Vivian, who is this?" Nolan Bishop asked.

"This is Professor Sullivan's daughter, Winnie. Professor Sullivan is in a meeting upstairs, so I'm showing her around," Vivian explained.

"Professor Sullivan? The renowned cardiothoracic surgeon who recently joined us?" Nolan, the man with glasses, softened his tone. Still, he disapproved of a child being in the lab. "You may look around, but do not touch any equipment. These instruments are highly precise."

Winnie nodded. Her gaze drifted straight to the blood cell separator.

She scanned the liquid crystal display on the control panel, which showed the running program parameters: [Centrifugal force 2,000×g, duration 18 minutes, buffer flow rate 30 mL/min, collection threshold set for a specific light scattering channel...]

She hugged her teddy bear tighter.

"Excuse me," Winnie spoke up in a soft voice. Everyone turned to look at her. "The unit for centrifugal acceleration is marked incorrectly."

Silence fell over the room.

"What did you say, little one?" Lucia Walsh let out a chuckle.

Winnie pointed at the parameter "2000×g" on the screen. "This value refers to multiples of gravitational acceleration.

"According to the technical manual for the Thermo Fisher Genesis II, the third gear is labeled ×g force.

"If you enter 2,000 directly, the system reads it as 2,000 times the gravitational acceleration for relative centrifugal force. Its sensor calibration factor is 0.98, so the actual centrifugal force generated is 1,960×g."

She paused, seeing the stunned looks on the adults' faces, and added, "For CD34+ hematopoietic stem cells, 18 minutes at 1,960×g will reduce cell viability by roughly 12 percent.

"Chapter 6 of Hematology Experimental Methods states that the optimal settings for maximum recovery are 1,850×g for 15 minutes."

Not a sound could be heard in the laboratory.

The researchers exchanged glances. Their amused expressions faded into astonishment, then utter disbelief.

Nolan recovered first. He hurried to the control console and pulled up the instrument's technical documents, a thick collection of Newlandish PDF files. He quickly navigated to the calibration parameters section.

A line of fine print in the overlooked Appendix C confirmed it: [Factory calibration factor: 0.98 (applies to all centrifugal force gears).]

No one had noticed this detail in the three years they had used the standard program.

"Oh my God," Lucia muttered. "So our low recovery rate all along is because the actual centrifugal force was too high and damaged the cells?"

Nolan did not reply. His fingers trembled slightly as he entered new parameters: [1,850×g and 15 minutes.] He loaded a new blood sample from the healthy control group and started the program.

All people held their breath and stared at the screen.

Fifteen minutes later, the data was updated. The recovery rate of CD34+ cells reached 92.3%.

A muffled exclamation escaped someone in the crowd.

Nolan spun around to face the quiet little girl still holding her teddy bear. His voice shook. "W-Winnie, how do you know all this?"

Winnie tilted her head. "Mommy told me cells are fragile and need gentle care, like babies. Besides, this device runs on an old version of the operating system. The new firmware automatically corrects the factor, but the update reminder was never dealt with."

She pointed to a faint yellow triangular warning icon in the corner of the screen. It was the firmware update alert, left unnoticed for so long that it was covered in dust.

Nolan's face flushed with embarrassment. He had run experiments on this machine for three years and published four papers, yet he had never spotted the icon.

Vivian spoke, a little hesitant. "Winnie, did your mother teach you all of this?"

"Mommy says you have to be thorough when learning," Winnie answered earnestly. "Observe, remember, and verify."

The door of the research lab swung open.

Hayden Boone, the Director of the Hematology Department, walked in. He had heard that Jasmine's daughter was touring the lab and came over to greet her. But he immediately sensed an odd atmosphere the moment he stepped inside.

"What's going on here?" Hayden asked with a smile. "Nolan, why are you all gathered around? This must be Professor Sullivan's daughter. She's so cute."

Nolan grabbed Hayden at once, his voice brimming with excitement. "Mr. Boone, this little girl found the parameter error on our Genesis II. None of us noticed the problem for three whole years."

Hayden froze. "What?"

Five minutes passed.

After hearing the whole story, Hayden looked at Winnie in a completely new light. He beheld a prodigy, not an ordinary child. It was utterly astounding and defied all common sense.

"How old is Professor Sullivan's daughter?" he asked Vivian in a low voice.

"Six years old," Vivian replied dryly.

Hayden took a deep breath and crouched down, trying to keep his tone calm. "Winnie, can you tell me if you see any other issues?"

Winnie glanced around the lab and pointed at another flow cytometer. "The laser optical path of that device is slightly offset. The linearity of the forward scatter channel has a 3.7% deviation in the low signal range.

"It needs recalibration with standard beads. Besides, the carbon dioxide incubator by the window has a temperature fluctuation exceeding the rated ±0.3°C. Records from the past twenty-four hours show two spikes of 0.5°C, which may severely affect certain stem cell lines."

The room grew quieter with every word she spoke.

When she finished speaking, Hayden stood up, his face grave.

"Vivian," he said, "take Winnie to the lounge and get her some milk and snacks. I need to make a call."

He planned to contact Cole, Tyson, and Jonah, who had just left the hospital not long ago.

This child was far from ordinary. She was a prodigy.

*****

Meanwhile, in the penthouse of Riverfront House, the living room was dead quiet.

Sunlight slanted through the east windows, casting bright streaks across the wooden floor. The air was filled with the faint scent of the cold spring aromatherapy that Jasmine always used.

Yale sat cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of the room. Three devices were lined up in front of him, including a silver-gray laptop, a palm-sized black portable server, and a paper-thin flexible secondary screen.

He wore noise-canceling headphones. His face remained impassive as always, while his eyes stayed fixed on the streams of data scrolling rapidly across the main screen.

The screen displayed the real-time firewall monitoring interface for the internal network of the Blackwell Group.

He had not hacked into it, at least not at first.

Ten minutes earlier, he had been writing a script to organize his mother's medical documents. He also ran routine vulnerability scans on several key networks of Marrowbay, which he referred to as security checks.

When his scan reached the server cluster of the Blackwell Group, he detected an abnormally heavy surge of data packets.

It bore all the hallmarks of a Distributed Denial of Service attack, mixed with sophisticated intrusion attempts.

Yale tapped the touchpad and pulled up the attack trace analysis.

The attacking IP addresses spanned seventeen countries and regions worldwide. Most were zombie machines, while the command nodes were hidden behind three Darkweb servers protected by multiple relays.

The attackers used skilled tactics with clear targets. They were after the Blackwell Group's core financial server and the patent database of their R&D center.

"They are so amateurish," Yale muttered softly.

He switched the interface and began to take action.

He first quietly inserted a self-developed traffic filtering algorithm into the firewall rules of the Blackwell Group. Acting like a smart sieve, the algorithm distinguished normal access from malicious traffic within nanoseconds.

It diverted harmful data packets to a virtual sinkhole server, a high-bandwidth cloud container he rented temporarily to absorb the malicious traffic.

Millions of data packets per second bombarded the system, yet they vanished silently against Yale's algorithm, as if hitting an invisible barrier.

The load indicator on the main firewall quickly shifted from dangerous red to safe green.

Yale did not stop there.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, moving so fast they left faint trails. Lines of code were generated, tested, and deployed in rapid succession on the secondary screen.

He began to trace the attack.

Following the reverse path of the traffic, he bypassed layer after layer of proxies and relays. The attackers were cunning. They used no fewer than six encrypted tunnels and set up anti-tracking honeypots at key nodes.

To Yale, this was merely a slightly complicated maze.

Five minutes later, he pinpointed the real source. It was a physical server located in Eastowen. Intrusion logs showed that over the past seventy-two hours, this server had also targeted three other medical tech firms that competed with the Blackwell Group.

It was clearly corporate espionage, or the work of a hired professional hacking group.

Yale tilted his head and thought for a few seconds. Then, he took an extra step.

He did not merely block the attack or collect evidence. Instead, he embedded a small self-destruct logic bomb deep in the firmware of the server from Eastowen.

The trigger was simple. Another attack on the Blackwell Group or the three related companies would activate the bomb. It would wipe all data on the server and anonymously submit full evidence of the crimes to local cybersecurity authorities.

He also left an image on the server administrator's desktop.

It was a hand-drawn cartoon child wearing goggles and making a victory gesture. Beside it was an ornate line of text: [Vulnerabilities fixed, culprits exposed. You're welcome, Babe Hero.]

After that, Yale applied several patches to the original Blackwell Group firewall, fixing three undiscovered security flaws. One was a zero-day vulnerability. If exploited, it could bypass authentication and gain direct access to the board's encrypted communication channel.

He packaged the patch code, disguised it as an automatic system security update, and pushed it to the group's server management backend.

The whole sequence was executed seamlessly, taking eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds in total.

Once done, Yale took off his headphones and checked the time.

It was time to prepare lunch. Jasmine would be back at noon, and Winnie was still at the hospital. His mother always told him to eat on time and keep a balanced diet.

Yale closed the laptop, stood up, and walked toward the open kitchen.

He looked tiny in the spacious living room, yet he walked steadily.

Outside the window, the city bustled on. No one knew a major cyber attack against a business giant had been quietly neutralized, let alone that the savior was a six-year-old boy who had handled the matter casually on the carpet of his mother's apartment.

*****

Meanwhile, in the director's office of the Hematology Department at the Marrowbay Hospital, Hayden set down the phone, his palms soaked with sweat.

He had briefed Cole on what had happened. There was a ten-second silence on the line before Cole spoke. "Hayden, keep this confidential for now. I will report to Mr. Hargrove and Mr. Blackwell."

Hayden knew full well who Jonah was. The Blackwell Group stood as the largest investor in the Marrowbay Hospital. The Genesis II blood cell separator, whose flaws Winnie had pointed out, was a donation from the group's medical equipment subsidiary.

There was no doubt Winnie was right; the test results had proven it. This meant the donated device had incorrect parameter calibrations, a problem that had gone unnoticed for three years.

It was far more than a simple equipment malfunction; a chain of accountability issues lay behind it.

What truly sent a chill down Hayden's spine was the girl herself.

At only six years old, Winnie had mastered professional manuals and spotted errors that seasoned researchers had missed for years. She was on another level entirely.

"Hi, Hayden." A soft voice came from the doorway.

Hayden looked up to see Vivian standing there with Winnie. The little girl had taken off the oversized lab coat, leaving her butter-yellow dress visible. She held her teddy bear in her arms and looked at him with clear, bright eyes.

Hayden struggled to keep his tone gentle. "Winnie, thank you for helping us find the mistake. You did wonderfully."

"Mommy says we have to tell adults when we find problems," Winnie replied earnestly. "Otherwise, patients' test results might be affected."

Hayden's heart skipped a beat.

This was no trivial lab error. Incorrect centrifugal settings damaged cell viability, skewed experimental data, and could ultimately lead to wrong clinical diagnoses and treatment plans.

The child understood not only technical knowledge, but also the grave responsibility that came with it.

"Your mother has raised you exceptionally well," Hayden said sincerely.

Winnie smiled, two tiny dimples showing on her cheeks, "Yes. Mommy is the best doctor, and the best mom."

Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Jasmine appeared at the door, still holding a folder as she had stepped out of a meeting. Her eyes softened the moment she saw her daughter. "Winnie, did you trouble anyone here?"

"No, Mommy." Winnie ran over and took her mother's hand. "I found a small issue with a machine, and Nolan and the others have fixed it."

Jasmine turned to look at Hayden.

Hayden rose to his feet at once. "Professor Sullivan, your daughter has done us an enormous favor. It is truly astonishing."

Jasmine remained calm, seemingly unfazed by her daughter's extraordinary deed. She stroked Winnie's hair and spoke to Hayden. "You flatter her, Mr. Boone. She simply loves reading and has a good memory. We will take our leave if there is nothing else."

"Okay. Please go ahead." Hayden nodded repeatedly and watched Jasmine and Winnie walk away.

In the corridor, Winnie tilted her head upward. "Mommy, what yummy food is Yale making for lunch?"

"He said he's going to try cooking pasta today," Jasmine smiled, "Let's go home and taste it."

"Okay." Winnie nodded.

Their voices faded gradually into the distance.

Hayden stood rooted to the spot for a long time.

He picked up his phone and stared at the number of Jonah's assistant sent by Cole, which he had saved. He hesitated and finally decided not to make the call.

But he knew this matter could not stay hidden forever.

Jasmine, along with her children, was bound to stir up unimaginable ripples across Marrowbay.

Chapter 5 The Sperm Donation Agreement

It was eleven o'clock at night in the penthouse of Riverfront House.

A glittering sea of city lights spread out below. Tour boats on the river trailed streaks of flowing light.

Scattered lamps still glowed in the skyscrapers of the distant business district, like eyes left open by a slumbering giant. Marrowbay had shed its daytime bustle, falling into a quieter yet more undercurrent-filled rhythm after dark.

Only a floor lamp was lit in the living room. Its warm yellow light cast alternating patches of light and shadow between the grand piano in the corner and the bookcase. The central air conditioner hummed softly, keeping the room at a steady temperature.

Jasmine was still awake.

She sat at the solid wood desk in the study. A thick kraft paper file bag lay open before her, holding yellowed documents, blurry copies, and scanned handwritten notes.

Over the years, she had gathered these pieces bit by bit through various channels, all related to the so-called accident six years ago.

Yet the most crucial clues were still missing.

It was like a jigsaw puzzle. The outer edges were complete, but the core part remained shrouded in fog.

She massaged her temples and glanced at an old photo on the desk. It was a picture of her with her parents, taken in the garden of the Sullivan residence.

Her father, Damon Sullivan, had an arm around her mother's shoulder, wearing a gentle smile. Her mother looked down at her with tender affection. Jasmine had turned ten then, dressed in a white dress and holding a plush rabbit.

Nine years later, a plane crash took everything away.

What followed were endless debts, cramped rental rooms, constant hiding, and a new identity. Then came the medical incident that pushed her to the brink.

'No, it's never an accident. It has been an attempted murder,' she thought.

Jasmine's fingertips turned cold. She closed her eyes, and every detail of the delivery room surfaced clearly in her mind—the cold edge of the metal bed, the harsh surgical lamp, the sharp pain in her abdomen, and the masked figures in surgical gowns.

Their eyes held none of the focus and compassion a doctor should have for a patient, only cold, mechanical indifference.

Then came the fire and thick smoke.

Weak from childbirth, she crawled through flames and darkness. A young nurse slipped an access card to her and whispered urgently, "Hurry out the back door."

Jasmine survived.

With two newborn babies, she hid like a fugitive in a foreign land for a full year.

Things changed when the alias Nine rose to fame on the Darkweb. Her medical papers were published in top international journals. At last, she gained the means to secure legal identities and a safe home for herself and her children.

Then, she was back. She came for the truth and to settle old scores.

Jasmine opened her eyes. Beneath the desk lamp, her blue-gray eyes held cold resolve.

She picked up the intercom and dialed the extension in the living room.

The call was answered after three rings.

"Mommy?" Yale's voice was clear and calm, nothing like that of a six-year-old woken from sleep.

"Yale, come to the study and bring your laptop," said Jasmine.

"Understood." He nodded.

Two minutes later, Yale appeared at the study door in dark blue pajamas, carrying his laptop. His hair was slightly messy, but his eyes were sharp and alert.

He seemed to have long expected that his mother would need his unique skills late at night.

"Close the door," Jasmine said.

Yale did as told. He then sat skillfully in the chair across the desk and opened his laptop. The screen's light fell on his young, unusually serious face.

"I need you to look into the Marrowbay Medical Center." Jasmine pushed a slip of paper toward him. "It's six years ago, between the early hours of March 12 and noon on March 13.

"Pull every record you can, like hospital admissions, surgical schedules, staff duty rosters, medication, and equipment logs. Focus on surveillance logs and visitor sign‑ins from the third‑floor VIP maternity ward."

Yale took the paper, glanced at the address and date, and nodded. His fingers already moved over the keyboard.

"The hospital's internal system was likely wiped. You won't find anything through regular channels," Jasmine added calmly. "Use deep‑search protocols. Take special routes if needed."

By special routes, she meant hidden Darkweb entry points and hacking tools. This was not the first time she'd asked her son to do this.

At Strandholm, Yale had already shown astonishing cyber talent. Jasmine never shielded him from the world's darker side. She needed him strong, able to protect himself and Winnie.

"Understood," Yale replied briefly, his gaze fixed entirely on the code scrolling across the screen.

Silence settled in the study. Only the soft clack of keys and the distant hum of riverboat sirens broke the quiet.

Jasmine did not rush him. She stood and walked to the window, gazing out at the still night.

Six years had passed. She didn't know if that once-exclusive private hospital still held evidence of what had happened. But this was the first step she had to take.

Time ticked by.

Yale's movements clearly met resistance. His brow furrowed slightly. His fingers moved faster and faster. The commands and logs scrolling on the screen were a blur.

"Their database was rebuilt after a fire," Yale said suddenly, his voice steady. "Original data was moved to offline cold storage, physically isolated. The online system only has a clean, rebuilt version."

"Can you access the cold storage?" Jasmine asked.

"I need internal clearance or physical access." Yale typed a few lines and pulled up a structure diagram. "But I found some residual index records in the backups of their old financial system.

"These records linked an external code to a biological sample storage facility."

Jasmine's heart skipped a beat. "Biological samples?"

"Yes." Yale quickly pulled up the decoded results. "The format is BSB‑ST‑XXXXXX. BSB stands for Bio‑Source Bank.

"ST is the Strandholm code. The rest is a six‑digit serial number. This ID appears on several procurement lists from Marrowbay Medical Center marked as special projects. The items are human sperm samples."

The air turned cold.

Jasmine's fingertips went ice‑cold. She turned slowly, her eyes locking onto the string of characters on the screen.

Six years ago, Jasmine had been driven to her wits' end. She came across an ad on an anonymous forum recruiting donors with superior genes for artificial insemination.

The party promised generous compensation, total confidentiality, and state-of-the-art medical procedures.

Burdened with crushing debt, she had just lost her father, while her seriously ill mother faced exorbitant medical bills. It was the only lifeline she could grasp in her despair.

She recalled that the private clinic was highly discreet, and its procedures were rigidly standardized.

She signed stacks of legal documents and underwent a full physical examination. Her eggs were retrieved and embryos cultured under general anesthesia.

She was told the sperm came from a thoroughly vetted anonymous donor with top-tier health, intelligence, and physical attributes.

She had never tried to find out who the donor was. To her, it had been biological material, payment for her mother's care, the other half of her future children's genes.

Yet she came to see the situation was nowhere near as straightforward as she'd believed.

"Can you trace this ID?" Her voice tightened.

Yale nodded and slid his fingers quickly across the trackpad. "BSB is one of Reedmere's largest commercial biobanks. It runs facilities in Strandholm, Hydropoint, and Willowbank. Its client database has high-level protection."

He paused and typed a long string of complex commands. "But its internal coding follows a fixed pattern. ST stands for Strandholm Center. The first two digits indicate the year, the middle two stand for project category, and the last two are serial numbers."

He focused intently while decoding the data.

Minutes later, a fully decrypted interface popped up on the screen.

It bore BSB's official blue and white logo. In the center lay an abridged version of a sperm donation and usage agreement. Its reference number matched the record from Marrowbay Medical Center exactly.

Jasmine stepped closer and leaned over to read.

The donor's name was redacted in Party A's column, leaving only a client code, TC-Jonah-0315.

The donation date was May 20, six years ago.

The donation location was Strandholm BSB Center.

Special clauses were marked in bold. [The donor waives all rights to inquiry and traceability. The donor has no access to information regarding sample usage, distribution, or any resulting offspring. Full one-time compensation has been paid.]

A tiny, easily overlooked note sat at the bottom in small print. [This agreement is governed by the standard bioethics clauses of the Blackwell Group. The Group's Legal Department holds the final right of interpretation.]

Jasmine almost stopped breathing. Blood seemed to rush to her head in an instant, then turned icy cold as it flowed back through her veins.

"TC-Jonah," she murmured. A bizarre yet perfectly coherent picture came together before her eyes.

Six years ago, Marrowbay Medical Center was an investment of the Blackwell Group.

The so-called accident took place there six years ago.

The sperm sample she used was sourced from a biobank under the Blackwell Group.

Now the donor code pointed straight to a name.

"Mommy." Yale's voice pulled her back from her daze. The boy looked up. His blue-gray eyes, inherited from her, lost their usual calm. Confusion, realization, and a heavy premonition mingled in his gaze.

He pointed at the code TC-Jonah-0315 on the screen, then at the Blackwell Group below. His brows drew tightly together.

"We might actually have a biological father," he said plainly after a brief hesitation.

Silence filled the room. Only the faint hum of the computer fan could be heard.

The city lights outside still glittered, yet they looked blurred and unreal, as if seen through frosted glass.

Jasmine stood straight. She unconsciously tightened her grip on the windowsill, her knuckles turning pale.

Countless images flashed through her mind.

They passed each other at the airport. In the hospital corridor, her gaze locked onto his unfathomable eyes. He frowned, studying her intently. "Have we met before?" The moment he drew near, her heart fluttered, tangled with an urge to pull away.

It was no illusion. It was a primal resonance rooted in shared genes.

Her children carried Jonah's genes. He was the very man she had sworn to track down and make pay, the one deeply entangled in the conspiracy from years ago.

God had played an utterly ruthless trick on her.

"Mommy?" A hint of worry crept into Yale's voice. He rarely saw her wear such an empty, frigid expression. It was neither anger nor sorrow, but a cold stillness akin to utter desolation.

Jasmine breathed out slowly. Her breath formed a faint wisp in the cool air before fading away.

She turned to face her son, yet her gaze drifted far beyond him.

"Keep this to yourself for now," she said, her tone cold and steady. "Do not tell anyone, not Winnie."

"I understand," Yale replied.

He hesitated for a moment and asked, "What about him? Will you tell him?"

"Him?" A faint, cold smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Not yet. Some games need a proper setup to be interesting."

She walked to the desk, locked the newly uncovered file and the old photo inside the bottom drawer.

The key clicked sharply.

It was as if she had sealed away the past and set in motion another round of complicated, dangerous strife.

"Go to sleep, Yale," she said, softening her expression slightly. "You have school tomorrow."

"Okay." Yale closed the laptop and climbed down from the chair. He glanced back at the door.

Jasmine still stood by the desk. Her back was straight, and she was like a frost-covered blade ready to be drawn.

The night outside was pitch-dark, and the truth had only begun to surface.

Chapter 6 The First Confrontation

It was nine o'clock in the morning at the multi-function conference hall on the top floor of the administration building of Marrowbay Hospital.

Beyond the large ring-shaped floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline stood sharp under the clear autumn sky.

Inside the hall, the dark blue carpet muted most footsteps. People filled both sides of the oval mahogany table.

One side seated the hospital management and senior clinical specialists. The other side held representatives from several medical technology companies bidding for the Intelligent Minimally Invasive Surgical System project.

A faint blend of coffee and printing ink lingered in the air. A tense, competitive atmosphere hung thicker.

The bid was worth several million dollars. Winning it would secure exclusive equipment supply for high-end cardiothoracic surgeries at Marrowbay and the three neighboring cities over the next five years.

Jonah sat as the lead investor, directly facing the main podium.

He wore a solid black suit with a white shirt buttoned all the way up at the collar, no tie in place. Simple platinum cufflinks peeked out from his sleeves.

He leaned back slightly in his chair with his long legs crossed. His fingers tapped lightly and rhythmically on the polished table. He glanced over the presentation materials from the opposing companies, revealing no hint of his stance.

Blair, sitting behind him, noticed that Jonah's gaze drifted repeatedly toward an empty seat in the specialist section. It belonged to Jasmine, the specially appointed cardiothoracic surgery consultant, who had not yet arrived.

The bidding conference proceeded halfway. All companies delivered standard technical presentations, and the question-and-answer session remained uneventful. Jonah's brows drew together faintly. He appeared dissatisfied with all the proposed solutions.

Just then, the side door of the conference hall swung open gently.

Jasmine walked in.

She was not wearing a white lab coat. Instead, she wore a well-tailored charcoal grey trouser suit over a silky white blouse. Her long hair was tied into a neat, low bun, exposing her smooth forehead and slender neck.

She carried a slim silver laptop and a dark navy velvet instrument bag. Her steps were soft, yet her presence commanded immediate attention. The low murmurs in the hall died down the moment she stepped inside.

Without paying attention to anyone, she walked straight to her vacant seat among the specialists.

She nodded briefly to Cole, who greeted her, then sat down and opened her laptop. Every movement was smooth and composed, as if she had stepped away only to handle an emergency surgery, not arrive half an hour late.

Jonah's eyes rested on her for a few seconds.

The overhead lights outlined her sharp, cold side profile. He watched her focused gaze on the screen, her lightly pressed lips, and the gentle curve of her fingers as she operated the trackpad.

Once again, his heart sank inexplicably, as it had in the corridor that day.

"Now we move to a special segment of this bidding conference," said Ronan Blake, the hospital's vice president and the host, as he took the microphone. "The Intelligent Minimally Invasive Surgical System will be operated by clinical doctors.

"We have invited Professor Jasmine, our cardiothoracic surgery specialist, to evaluate all proposals from a practitioner's perspective. She will also demonstrate her vision for the next generation of surgical systems."

Representatives from all companies sat up straight. Jasmine was a well-known figure in the industry, yet no one had witnessed her practical work style.

Jasmine stood up. She did not walk to the microphone on the main podium. She headed straight for a temporary demonstration area at the side of the hall.

A full-scale anatomical model of a human chest stood there, alongside a simulation console connected to the large display screen.

She placed the instrument bag on the table and unzipped it.

Inside were no ordinary demonstration props. Instead, lay real surgical instruments gleaming with a cold sheen, including delicate needle holders, vascular clamps, and tissue scissors.

Several custom-made scalpels with unique shapes also rested among them. The instruments glinted sharply under the lights, exuding a strong sense of professional authority.

"Before evaluating the systems, I would like to clarify one key point," Jasmine said.

Her voice carried clearly and calmly across the hall through the small microphone in front of her. "Intelligent technology is meant to extend doctors' hands and minds, not replace them.

"Any system that weakens the precision of force feedback or creates operational lag defeats its purpose, no matter how advanced its algorithms are."

She picked up a custom multi-joint minimally invasive forceps and attached it to the simulation interface on the console. The large screen instantly showed footage from the microscopic lens fitted on the clamp head, along with real-time curves tracking force feedback data.

"Most systems currently on the market have a 3 to 5 degrees of free play when simulating wrist rotation," she explained.

She twisted the control lever with an extremely subtle movement. The clamp head rotated in sync on screen, while the data curve beside it showed a slight delay and fluctuation.

"This margin of error can tear blood vessels or leave incomplete closure during the dissection of blood vessels measuring only millimeters in width." She spoke while operating the device.

The forceps weaved steadily and precisely through the simulated cardiovascular plexus on the mannequin, with not a trace of hesitation.

She never looked down at her hands, keeping her eyes fixed entirely on the large screen, as if her limbs and the instruments were one.

She continued, "I propose installing high-precision piezoelectric sensors on the drive joints to offset free play in real time. Instead of following preset paths, the core algorithm learns and counteracts the subtle tremors of each surgeon's movements dynamically."

She pulled up a concise algorithm framework filled with complex mathematical formulas and flow charts. "The system must support real-time learning, rather than running fixed programs."

She set down the forceps and picked up an ultra-thin scalpel.

"Next is the vision system." She flicked her wrist, and the scalpel glided across an extremely narrow gap on the model. The footage on screen stayed steady, free from the lens shake and focus flicker common to standard devices.

She explained, "Current 3D endoscopes have flawed depth-of-field simulation. Rapid lens movement causes visual distortion and misjudgment.

"The solution lies in bionic eye tracking. The system follows the surgeon's focus in real time, adjusting the convergence angle and focal length of dual lenses to replicate natural depth perception."

Her presentation featured no flashy animations or grand slogans. It was a straightforward, rigorous breakdown of technology paired with remarkably precise live operation. Her tone remained calm, yet every word pinpointed the flaws in existing proposals like a scalpel.

A hush fell over the hall. Technicians from the bidding companies paled or leaned forward eagerly, scribbling notes quickly.

Jonah's initial scrutiny gradually gave way to deep concentration. His gaze lingered firmly on Jasmine's hands.

Her fingers were slender with distinct knuckles and delicate skin. Her wrists stayed remarkably steady as she worked. Every bend and slight twist of her fingers followed a natural rhythm and controlled strength.

He fixated on how her index finger rested in the groove of the scalpel handle, middle finger pressed lightly alongside it, and thumb braced gently on the side.

A fragmented, almost disintegrating image suddenly flashed into his mind.

Glints of metal cut through the dark, damp air. Another slender hand, stained with blood, clamped around a pair of surgical scissors nearly identical to these in almost the same grip.

Her knuckles blanched from the sheer force. The woman's muffled sobs and his pounding heartbeat echoed as if they were right beside him.

The vision vanished in an instant.

But a sharp headache thundered at Jonah's temples. His breath hitched, and his fingers stopped tapping the table, pressing hard into his palm.

Blair noticed Jonah's odd state at once and leaned over to whisper. "Mr. Blackwell, are you all right?"

Jonah closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the turmoil in his eyes faded into heavy gloom. He did not answer, his gaze still locked on Jasmine at the demonstration station.

She finished an intricate simulated suture, tied the knot, and trimmed the thread. Her movements flowed seamlessly, as if she were operating on a beating real heart.

"That concludes my demonstration." Jasmine set down the instruments and wiped her fingers slowly with a disinfectant wipe.

She swept a calm look across the room. "I will submit technical specifications and the algorithm white paper to the hospital tender committee shortly. My standard is clear. I will endorse whichever bid can fully or nearly realize the ideas I have presented."

She paused and added in a faint tone. "Costs are for investors to consider. A doctor's primary duty is to safeguard patients' lives."

With a slight nod, she turned back to her seat.

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds before warm applause erupted. Both hospital staff and rival company representatives alike applauded her exceptional expertise and clear vision.

The tender meeting resumed, yet the atmosphere had shifted. Subsequent presentations paled in comparison to her outstanding benchmark demonstration.

Jonah barely spoke for the rest of the session. He listened quietly, his eyes drifting now and then to the figure in charcoal grey among the specialists.

Jasmine bowed her head to jot notes on her laptop, her profile serene, as if the stunning demonstration was another routine task.

The meeting drew to a close at half past eleven in the morning.

People stood up one after another, exchanging greetings and business cards. Jasmine gathered her belongings, declined Cole's invitation to lunch, and headed straight for the exit.

Thick carpeting muted all footsteps in the corridor. Sunlight slanted through the windows at the far end, catching drifting dust motes in its beams.

As she neared the elevator lobby, a tall figure blocked her path.

Dressed in a black suit, Jonah exuded a familiar cold aura.

He had clearly waited for her, with no assistants or other staff in tow. Backlit by the corridor light, his features were slightly blurred, yet his eyes shone sharply, fixed steadily on her.

Jasmine halted and met his gaze.

No surprise crossed her features. She stayed calm, keeping a cool, professional distance. "Mr. Blackwell, what's the matter?"

They stood so close that Jasmine caught the crisp scent of cedar on him, mixed with a faint trace of tobacco. Jonah rarely smoked in public, but he had clearly lit up recently.

Meanwhile, Jonah picked up the subtle scent of warm skin on her, left from her intense demonstration.

The faint aroma stirred a long-dormant corner of his memory.

The lingering ache in his temples returned, overshadowed by a strange, restless flutter in his chest.

Jonah ignored her question.

His gaze drifted slowly from her eyes down to her hands. She held the laptop and instrument bag loosely, yet the position of her fingers carried that unmistakable, deeply familiar manner.

Time seemed to slow down.

A few passersby spotted them and quietly stepped aside or lightened their steps.

Jonah finally spoke, his voice deeper and lower than usual, restrained yet distinct in the quiet hallway. "Dr. Sullivan, were you in Marrowbay five years ago?"

He stared intently at her, watching for the slightest reaction.

A nearly imperceptible flicker crossed Jasmine's eyes, gone almost instantly. The distant curve of her lips hardened slightly.

She did not answer right away. She tilted her head slightly and looked past his shoulder toward the bright autumn sky outside, as if pondering the question or finding it out of place.

After a few seconds, her gaze returned to his face. Her blue-gray eyes were clear, reflecting his taut expression. She let out a soft, cold laugh.

"Mr. Blackwell," she said evenly, her tone polite yet uninviting. "Where I was five years ago has no bearing on today's tender or my work with the hospital."

She held his penetrating stare and went on. "If you have concerns about my professional qualifications, my full resume is on file with the hospital's human resources department. As for everything else?"

Her eyes swept over him for a moment, cold and precise. "I am not obligated to report my private time or whereabouts to anyone."

With that, she stepped sideways and walked calmly past him. The steady thud of her heels on the carpet faded into the distance.

Jonah stayed where he was, making no move to stop her.

However, as she passed, her faint scent brushed his nose again. A sharper headache flared, alongside a hollow echo deep in his heart, buried for far too long.

He slowly clenched his hands at his sides until his knuckles turned pale.

At the end of the corridor, the elevator doors opened and closed, swallowing the charcoal-grey figure entirely.

The autumn sun shone brightly outside. Some truths, however, were far harsher than sunlight and far darker than night.