Chapter 88

The darker the night, the more the brilliance of the stars stands out.

The sky was like a curtain of deep velvet, dotted with sparkling jewels.

The villa, painted in dark blue and white, carried an air of classical elegance. The furniture inside was neatly arranged and proper, exuding a dignified atmosphere. Yet, the villa's ambiance was excessively solemn, almost aloof making visitors instinctively wary, as if they were treading sacred ground.

The only people inside the villa were little Lois and Lieutenant General Sam Lane.

Sam spent some rare quality time playing with his daughter. Her laughter bubbled as he tickled her and spun her around, her giggles ringing out like music.

Moments like these, warm and full of joy, were precious to Sam. As a man often consumed by military duties, he rarely had time to spend with his daughter, so he cherished every second.

However, the little girl was young and full of boundless energy. During the day, even in his absence, she had run around tirelessly, crawling, jumping, and exploring every corner of the house. By nightfall, exhaustion had finally caught up with her.

She soon grew limp in his arms, soft and sleepy. Resting against his chest, she drifted off as he gently patted her back.

Sam smiled softly, carrying her to her bed and laying her down carefully. Her little lips twitched in her sleep as if she were dreaming of eating something delicious. The sight made Sam chuckle quietly.

Leaning down, he kissed her forehead gently. But his stubble brushed her skin, making her wrinkle her nose in discomfort and turn over with a small pout.

He adjusted her quilt, ensuring she was snug and warm. Shaking his head with a fond smile, he marveled at how utterly adorable she was.

She was his treasure, so precious that he felt as though even the lightest touch might hurt her.

He pressed down lightly on the door handle, closing the door softly behind him. Hearing the faint click of the latch, he sighed with relief that he hadn't disturbed her sleep. Straightening his back, he walked away with steady, deliberate steps, his military training reflected in his firm posture.

Climbing up to the study on the third floor, he entered and turned on the soft, warm lights. Sitting down at his desk, he prepared to review the documents in front of him.

Suddenly, a strange sense of déjà vu washed over him.

The sensation was fleeting but disconcerting, as though he had experienced this exact moment before. The feeling lingered, tickling the edge of his awareness.

Sam froze, his body momentarily still.

His eyelids trembled slightly as he blinked. Tiredness crept into his gaze, and for a moment, he wondered if he was imagining things.

The warm lighting in the study created a serene, almost soporific atmosphere, lulling him toward sleep.

He exhaled deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose to shake off the fatigue. Slowly, his focus returned to the documents spread across his desk.

The frustration gnawed at him.

Even with all this evidence, it still wasn't enough to bring down General Vic. The pieces were too weak, too fragmented.

Letting out another sigh, Sam set the documents aside and stood up. He walked to a small cabinet, retrieving a bottle of brandy. Pouring himself half a glass, he opened the window to let in the cool night air.

The breeze kissed his face, fresh and crisp, carrying a subtle chill that brought a welcome sense of clarity.

The night outside was breathtaking. The vast sky stretched endlessly, studded with countless stars that glittered like diamonds.

Raising his glass, Sam drank the brandy in one gulp. The burning heat coursing down his throat snapped him back to reality, grounding him in the moment.

For a while, he simply stood there, soaking in the stillness of the night.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to the clock on the wall.

It read 23:10.

Time flies so quickly, he thought, lost in his musings.

His mind wandered, contemplating his next move. Perhaps he could seize Barmulodi, the biological warrior from General Vic's control.

To Sam, Vic was wasting the opportunity. If Barmulodi were to remain alive, he could provide invaluable research data to the U.S. military.

After half an hour of deliberation, Sam made up his mind. He turned off the light in the study and left.

Descending from the third floor, he paused outside his daughter's room. Gently pushing the door open, he peeked inside.

Lois was still sound asleep, her small form curled under the covers. But for some reason, Sam couldn't shake an inexplicable feeling.

It was as though something was... off.

His imagination conjured the faint image of a white figure, a ghost-like presence lingering in the shadows.

He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought. Nerves. Just nerves, he told himself.

Satisfied that all was well, he closed the door quietly and headed to his bedroom. Soon, he was fast asleep.

---

Elsewhere, Bardi was working.

He had deleted portions of Sam's memory but had been careful not to alter too much. Drastic changes to memory could create inconsistencies, a strange sense of familiarity, like déjà vu, that would unsettle the mind.

Instead of rewriting the memory, Bardi implanted subtle subconscious suggestions deep within Sam's psyche. These suggestions would quietly take root and influence his actions without him realizing.

In time, Sam would instinctively move to protect Bardi and his operations, unknowingly advancing Bardi's agenda while believing it was his own idea.

The seeds were planted. Now, they would grow.

Having finished with Sam, Bardi turned his attention to Deathstroke.

Deathstroke was already awake, though immobilized. His eyes, filled with a mix of fear and defiance, darted around the room. Like Sam, Deathstroke couldn't speak, hear, or move. The three information probes embedded in his head made him look almost ridiculous, like a warped version of a children's cartoon character.

Unlike Sam, Deathstroke's physical and mental resilience made the process far more challenging. His mind was sharper, his thoughts more chaotic—a whirlwind of intensity that took longer to extract.

"Extract his memory," Bardi ordered.

Standing with his hands clasped, his right thumb brushing lightly against his left palm, Bardi fell into deep thought.

For Deathstroke, Bardi had different plans. He would remain an enemy but an enemy with a purpose.

When Hera's voice finally rang out with, "Extraction complete," Bardi's eyes lit up.

The future of Deathstroke had been set.

"Downplay my alien identity in his mind," Bardi began, his tone methodical. "Let him know just enough to fuel his resentment toward me. Amplify his pride, his competitive drive, and his desire to prove he's superior to me."

Deathstroke would become the perfect adversary, someone who would constantly challenge Bardi, unknowingly advancing his plans in the process.

Bardi continued, laying out the foundation of Deathstroke's future.

"Deathstroke will escape from here after I leave, just as I've planned. He'll establish himself as the king of mercenaries, building an empire in Africa. He'll recruit countless soldiers, gathering power and resources for one sole purpose: to kill me."

"I'll send people to fight him, to challenge him. He'll oppose me relentlessly, stealing and adapting my technologies to strengthen himself. He'll prolong his life, always seeking ways to surpass me."

"In the end, he will know me better than anyone else in the world. He'll understand the meaning behind every action I take.

"And one day, when the world's heroes unite to stand against me, they'll come to him."

"They'll ask him to join them. Or perhaps he'll approach them first."

"Because... he'll know me best."

"And then..."

***

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