Satisfying Result

The television in front of me displays news coverage on the aftermath of Mr. Chekhovsky's fatal accident. The reports confirm that the authorities have finally identified the second body as Timothy Chang.

A few days ago, they recovered the helicopter's black box, and today, crime scene investigators officially declared the incident a technical failure—blaming it on mechanical malfunctions.

I turn off the television and slowly recline on my couch. A sharp pain shoots through my spine, making me grimace—but despite the discomfort, my lips curl into a satisfied smile.

There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing that your intricate, high-risk plan has worked perfectly.

Well, I couldn't have done it alone, of course.

The corpse they found wasn't Timothy Chang.

It was actually an unidentified homeless man—discovered by one of Bob's men in an alley a day before the execution. The man had no known family, no medical records, no history in any system. That made him the perfect stand-in.

Bob took the body from a public morgue and burned it using the same aviation fuel as Mr. Chekhovsky's helicopter, ensuring that the burn pattern was consistent. The corpse was charred beyond recognition, making visual identification impossible.

The only way to confirm his identity would be DNA or dental records—which is where Thief came in.

She hacked into the national medical database, inserting fabricated records that matched the corpse's DNA and teeth to Timothy Chang.

As always, she executed it flawlessly.

Bob's role didn't stop there.

He was the one who loaded the corpse into the helicopter before takeoff. He also switched the passenger-side oxygen with carbon monoxide, ensuring that Mr. Chekhovsky would gradually weaken before I even made my move.

And, of course, the explosions—those were Bob's work, too.

His men custom-built the detonators, designed to damage specific flight components without obliterating the aircraft mid-air. The explosions severed just enough cables to disable the main and tail rotors, making it appear like a catastrophic mechanical failure rather than deliberate sabotage.

Let me tell you a little about Robert Abara—aka Bob.

His father was an immigrant from the Black Continent, but Bob was born and raised here.

Unlike Andy and Thief, who owe me a life debt, Bob and I met by chance.

I stumbled across him in an alley—gun in hand, standing over a man he had just shot.

That man was his sister's rapist.

Bob almost killed me that day, afraid I'd report him to the police.

Instead, I helped him cover it up—disposing of the body, eliminating evidence, erasing any trail that could lead back to him.

I guess that's why, when the time came, he decided to help me, too.

Bob isn't a mastermind. He's not the type to orchestrate plans—but when given an objective, he executes it without fail.

He leads one of the most well-known gangs in the city—a group that targets the wealthy, robbing corrupt politicians, businessmen, and elite criminals. Maybe that's why we get along.

Or maybe… he sees something in me that I don't even see in myself.

Killing Mr. Chekhovsky was easy.

Erasing my tracks? That took months of groundwork.

I needed him to completely trust me—to never doubt my words—so that when the moment came, he'd listen to me without hesitation.

The police didn't come to his office because they found Mr. Sternov's body.

They came because of Mikhail's report.

Mikhail, in an attempt to clear his own name, filed a report against Mr. Sternov, blaming him for betraying their father. That's why he kept calling Mr. Chekhovsky that day. He wanted to shift the blame.

But it was already too late.

By then, Mr. Chekhovsky had rewritten his will, cutting Mikhail out entirely and giving everything to Yvette.

I didn't need to set up Mikhail—just drop a hint in front of his men that his father was already suspicious of him.

That was enough.

Mr. Chekhovsky never trusted Mikhail in the first place. And when he found out his son tried to have Yvette killed, his paranoia took over completely.

Everything fell into place.

There was only one variable I couldn't predict.

The crash impact.

I hadn't expected the explosion to knock me unconscious.

If not for Thief's tracking device, I might have never woken up.

When I didn't respond to their calls, Bob immediately tracked my parachute signal—only to find me floating in a lake, over ten miles away from my intended landing zone.

We had a full medical team on standby, anticipating something might go wrong. The surgeon they hired was the best in the state. He performed emergency spinal surgery and told Bob I would need at least six months to recover.

When I stood up and walked out of that makeshift hospital, the doctor was speechless.

He insisted I rest longer, but I refused.

I'd been gone too long already.

The sound of a door opening pulls me back to the present.

I try to sit up, but before I can, Jennifer is already standing in front of me.

"Hi, babe," I greet her with a sheepish smile.

"Where the hell were you?!" she snaps.

Her hands rest on her waist, her tone sharp. She's trying to keep her expression stern, but her teary eyes betray her.

"You said you'd be gone for a week. It's been almost two weeks, and you didn't even call!"

"No **'Hi, babe, I missed you'? No kiss?" I tease.

"No," she pouts. "Do you even know how worried I was? Andy wouldn't tell me anything! What is this project? Is it dangerous? Illegal? Is that why you won't tell me?"

I grab her waist, pulling her closer. "I missed you," I murmur, kissing her stomach.

She arches away.

"Answer me first."

I use her waist as support, deliberately wincing as I stand.

Her expression changes instantly.

"Wait… are you hurt?"

I nod, giving her a weak smile.

"I had a car accident," I lie.

Her eyes widen. "What?!"

"I was in a coma for about a week," I say, this time telling the truth.

"I just woke up today and left the hospital."

"WHAT?! Why would you do that?!"

"Because I knew you'd be worried not knowing where I was. My phone was destroyed in the accident—I couldn't contact you."

"You're stupid!" she scolds, but the anger is gone.

"You need to go back to the hospital."

"I'm fine. I just need a few days of rest," I assure her, wiping her tears with my thumb. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

"No… I'm sorry. I didn't know…"

"It's okay." I kiss her softly. "Now… did you miss me?"

She smirks. "You know the answer."

"I don't."

Instead of answering, she kisses me deeply.

I pull her onto my lap, tugging at her blouse—but when I shift my hips, pain shoots through me.

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "I can't."

She looks confused, then glances at my body before returning her gaze to my eyes.

"You're injured?"

I nod, ashamed.

"You better rest," she whispers, kissing me gently.

"But I miss you…" I grumble like a spoiled brat.

She laughs. "I'll take a shower and join you in bed."

By the time she returns, I'm already asleep.

But as she slides into bed, I instinctively pull her close—holding onto the only warmth I need.