The night Ethan decided to become the villain, the city looked indifferent—glass towers glowing softly, traffic flowing as if nothing fragile was about to be erased.

He stood alone in a dimly lit operations room, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded, eyes fixed on six screens at once. Financial records. Security logs. Travel manifests. Call traces. Every digital footprint Alyssa had left over the past seventy-two hours pulsed before him like exposed nerves.

This was not protection anymore.

This was erasure.

“Once I start,” muttered the technician beside him, fingers hovering over the keyboard, “there’s no clean rollback.”

Ethan didn’t look at him.

“Then don’t keep it clean.”

The man swallowed....