Chapter 3 - The Apothecary’s Discovery
The next twenty-four hours were the longest of Dante’s life. Every second he spent breathing the recycled air of his penthouse felt like a trap closing tighter around his throat. Marcus Vance visited him twice, discussing offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands with an unctuous, greasy smile that made Dante’s fingers itch for the grip of a firearm.
"You look different today, Dante," Marcus noted, narrowing his eyes as he adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. "There's color in your cheeks. Almost like you're anticipating something."
"I'm just tired of staring at these walls, Marcus," Dante replied smoothly, his tone flat and unreadable. "When you're trapped in this chair for as long as I have been, every day is a carbon copy of the last."
"Well, don't worry," Marcus chuckled, patting Dante’s shoulder with patronizing familiarity. "Dr. Thorne assures us your condition is entirely static. You'll be resting comfortably here for the rest of your days."
For the rest of your days. The words were laced with a quiet, menacing finality.
That evening, just as the digital clock on the obsidian desk turned to eight, Lily returned. She didn't use the front entrance; she slipped through the service elevator during the shift change, her face flushed with excitement. She walked into the study, checked the hallway to ensure it was empty, and pulled a folded piece of parchment from her sock.
Dante snatched the paper, unfolding it with trembling hands.
The handwriting belonged to old man Henderson, a brilliant biochemist who had been forced out of the academic mainstream decades ago. The notes were precise, clinical, and devastating:
Dante, The sample you provided contains a synthetic bio-toxin synthesized from pufferfish venom and modified organic neuro-inhibitors. It does not destroy nerve tissue; it blocks synaptic firing loops in the lower lumbar region. In layman's terms: it creates a 100% convincing simulation of permanent paralysis. If ingestion is halted, synaptic recovery begins within forty-eight hours, with full motor function returning over two weeks. Whoever has been feeding you this has been keeping you alive, but intentionally locking you in your own body. — H.
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Dante stared at the paper until the letters blurred. The betrayal wasn't accidental. It wasn't a medical anomaly. It was a systematic, calculated psychological torture designed to steal his empire piece by piece while keeping him alive as a pathetic figurehead.
And the architect of this crime walked the halls of his estate every single day.
