Chapter 425:

“Move aside!” Brad’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an undeniable, almost tangible pressure, his gaze sharp as a knife, piercing through Brock’s attempt to stop him.

With a swift motion, he brushed Brock’s hand aside and crossed the edge of the patrol boat. Despite the gap between vessels, he jumped straight toward the burning ship.

“Brad!” Brock yelled after him, his voice breaking with panic.

Brad paused mid-step, only for a breath. He stood at the edge of the ship. The sea beneath churned with fire and oil. Ahead, the blaze roared louder than anything else.

Wind pushed damp strands of hair across his forehead. His face was tight with strain. In his eyes, fear flared bright—raw and nearly out of control.

“I get what you’re saying,” he said. “But I need to see with my own eyes that she’s not in there.”

Brock caught that moment of weakness. It flashed and faded in an instant. Still, he recognized it. Brad was in love. And because of that, he said nothing more.

“Deploy the rescue boats. Clear a way through.” Brad spoke into the communicator, his words rough and pressed between clenched teeth. He didn’t look at anyone again. He turned and checked his gear, movements sharp but steady. Only the slightest tremor in his hand betrayed what he felt inside.

The air around them grew heavier. Brad didn’t step into the fire himself. That would’ve been suicide. He stood firm at the edge, as stiff as a sergeant, eyes sharp as he gave orders to the crew who actually went in.

He stayed right where the smoke met the air. The heat licked at his boots, but he didn’t flinch. His uniform remained crisp. His face didn’t show a thing—no panic, no doubt. Just a man staring at blueprints and calling the shots as if it were any other workday.

Only those closest to him felt it—the heavy cold that rolled off him, making the air feel wrong, like the chill had teeth.

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He didn’t blink much. He just kept staring into the flames. Every flare made his pupils twitch. Rescue teams kept coming back empty-handed. “Blocked passage.” “No signs of life.” “Found remains.” Same reports, again and again. He didn’t say much, but his fists stayed clenched so long that his nails cut right through the skin. Blood ran down his sleeve without anyone noticing.

Two days came and went.

He barely rested. Not even for a minute. He stayed on the deck while the fire lost its fight. When it finally gave out, they laid out the bodies—burned beyond recognition. All of them had to go through him.

The only break in the storm was this: all the burned bodies were men. Ronan’s twisted form showed up in the game room. Rylie and Marsha were still missing. But they weren’t among the dead.

What was truly disheartening was that the divers had only managed to retrieve some women’s clothing and partially charred disguise materials from the sea, with no trace of Rylie to be found.

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