2

The pacemaker in my chest was emitting a faint overload warning beep, each beat accompanied by a tearing agony.

I leaned against the sofa in the lounge at the end of the Peninsula Hotel corridor, trying to slow my breathing. That kneel in the lobby just now had drained the last ounce of my strength. The cuffs of my suit still held the stench of red wine from Victor's leather shoes—a sour smell that rushed straight up my nose, making me nauseous.

The rapid clicking of high heels pierced through the thick carpet of the hallway, heading straight for the lounge.

"Bang!"

The birch double doors were violently shoved open, hitting the wall with a muffled thud.

I looked up, but before I could even make out the person's face, a thick stack of documents was smashed right into my face. The sharp edges of the A4 paper sliced across my cheekbone, leaving a burning bloody scratch. The scattered pages fluttered to the carpet like snowflakes.

"Arthur, how much more of my life's work are you going to destroy before you're satisfied?!"

Vivian stood before me, her chest heaving violently, her flawless makeup unable to conceal the fury in her eyes.

Fighting through the spasms in my heart, I bent down and picked up the paper closest to me. It was an overseas bank statement, glaringly displaying a two-million-dollar transfer record. The payee's name was my pinyin initials, and the source of funds was labeled "Core Data Transaction."

Following that were several screenshots of encrypted chats, all detailing how to bundle and sell the core financial models for Vivian's company's upcoming NASDAQ IPO.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice hoarse as I looked up at her.

"Still playing dumb?" Vivian took a step forward, the heel of her stiletto viciously grinding into one of the papers. "The company's intranet was hacked, and the IPO drafts we were about to submit to the SEC were completely leaked. The security department traced the IP and the flow of funds, and it all points to you!"

I stared at the flawlessly forged transfer record, my gaze landing on the small print in the remarks column—[For the purchase of new anti-heart-failure specialty drugs].

A sense of sheer absurdity instantly washed over me.

"You think I sold out your company just to buy medicine?" Gripping the armrest of the sofa, I slowly stood up, looking her dead in the eye. "Vivian, have you forgotten how my heart ended up like this in the first place?"

These words were like a thorn, piercing into an untouchable forbidden zone.

Her expression instantly darkened; a flash of guilt crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a much stronger disgust.

"Don't use the past to guilt-trip me!" she gritted her teeth, pointing at my chest. "Yes, you saved me back then. But for the past five years, I've fed you, clothed you, found doctors for you, and even endured having a useless cripple like you as my husband! You're like a bloodsucking parasite, clinging to me just to drag out your miserable existence. And now, for your expensive medication, you want to destroy my life's work?"

"Parasite..."

I chewed on the word carefully, the agonizing cramps in my chest miraculously going numb. So, the half a heart I carved out back then was traded for nothing but a bill that could be liquidated at any time.

Leisurely footsteps echoed from the corridor.

Victor, dressed in his freshly changed haute couture suit, strolled in slowly with one hand in his pocket. He glanced at the documents scattered across the floor, then at my pathetic state, an imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Vivian, calm down." Victor walked up to her, resting his hand on her shoulder with supreme naturalness. "Arthur is in poor health and suffers from chronic illness. It's not completely incomprehensible that he'd have a moment of folly and take the wrong path just to buy his medicine."

"Victor, you don't need to speak for him." Vivian didn't dodge his hand; instead, she leaned into him submissively. "He's crossed my bottom line this time."

Victor sighed right on cue, turning to look at me with a tone full of "tolerance." "Arthur, there's actually still room to salvage this. I just used my family's intelligence network and found out the data hasn't been transferred overseas yet. The files are currently in the hands of a gang in East Brooklyn, and they plan to conduct a secondary transaction at an abandoned auto repair shop at midnight tonight."

He paused, a hunter's gleam flashing in his eyes.

"As long as we can get the hard drive containing the drafts back before midnight, the company's IPO plan won't be affected. Furthermore, for the sake of Vivian's reputation, I won't call the police."

What a perfectly lethal trap, killing two birds with one stone.

First, he uses hackers to steal the data, forging evidence to throw dirty water on me and completely severing the last thread of Vivian's guilt toward me. Then, he borrows the knives of the Brooklyn gangs, intending to completely wipe out a defenseless "invalid" like me in the dark alleys of downtown.

I looked at Victor's hypocritical face and offered no defense. Because I knew that in Vivian's eyes, even my breathing was wrong now.

"Did you hear him?" Vivian whipped her head around, her sharp gaze scraping across my face like a blade. "This is your last chance to atone."

"There's a blizzard outside," I stated calmly, simply pointing out a fact.

New York was facing a once-in-a-decade cold snap, with temperatures already plummeting to negative double digits. And right now, all I had on was a thin dress shirt soaked in cold sweat and a suit jacket. For my current broken body—running without nitroglycerin and with a pacemaker constantly alarming—walking into a Brooklyn blizzard was no different from suicide.

"So what?" Vivian's voice lacked a shred of warmth, as if she were looking at a complete stranger who had nothing to do with her. "You caused this disaster; you clean it up."

She strode over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lounge and forcefully pulled back the heavy curtains. Outside, howling winds and heavy snow ravaged the streets of Manhattan, the glass covered in a thick layer of frost.

"Victor has already sent the address to your phone." Vivian turned around and pointed toward the door. "Go to Brooklyn. Get the files back, or die out there."

The air in the lounge seemed to freeze at this very moment.

The pacemaker let out a long "Beeeep—", sending a jolt of electricity piercing through my heart.

I straightened my spine, didn't spare her another glance, and moved my stiff legs, walking step by step toward the door.

As I passed by Victor, I stopped. He lowered his head slightly, whispering in a voice only the two of us could hear, "Go in peace, Arthur. At tomorrow's IPO celebration banquet, I'll take good care of Vivian for you."

I ignored his provocation, pushed open the door, and walked out into the cold, gloomy night of the hotel's back alley.

The bone-chilling wind instantly pierced through my thin shirt. Icy snowflakes lashed against my face, stinging like razor cuts. Leaning against the brick wall, I began to cough violently; the fresh blood I coughed up landed on the pure white snow, a shocking sight.

The mechanical device in my chest was still vainly trying to maintain my fading vital signs.

I raised my head, gazing in the direction of Brooklyn. The blinding snow blurred my vision.

They thought driving me into this frozen wasteland would let me die silently in some corner like a stray dog.

But they forgot.

Five years ago, before I became Vivian's husband, the codename that struck terror into the global underground was forged on the extreme frozen tundras of Siberia, stepping over the corpses of countless enemies.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and, facing the blizzard head-on, walked into the endless night.