The robbers did not immediately carry out their plan with Jaxon. They left him sitting in the center of the lobby, bound and humiliated, but unharmed.

Addison realized their task was psychological warfare.

They wanted to sow doubt in people’s minds, to make the mask of the ideal CEO disappear piece by piece.

The lobby was filled with whispers of “killer”, but Jaxon looked straight at the hostages, who looked at him accusingly in return

Addison could not bear to look at Jaxon in this position. When the robbers moved away, she went to Jaxon, took him by the arm and led him to a corner away from the accusing eyes and whispers.

“Don’t listen to them,” she whispered urgently. “I know you’re not what they’re saying.”

“Thank you,” Jaxon said quietly. “I swear to you, I’m not a killer.”

The accusations crashed over Jaxon like waves against stone. Addison pushed through the huddled hostages and grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the corner shadows.

“You’re not sitting there like bait,” she declared, positioning herself between him and their staring audience.

“Addison, they’ll hurt you—”

“Let them try.”

She saw Ghost was watching their movement from across the marble expanse but made no move to intervene. His scarred mask tracked their progress with calculated interest.

“Defiant,” Addison heard Viper’s loud voice. “I like that in a woman.”

“Focus on perimeter security,” Ghost commanded without looking at his subordinate.

The bullhorn outside exploded.

“This is Detective Ray Hawkins, NYPD Crisis Negotiation Team! We demand immediate communication!”

Ghost strode to the windows, his tactical boots echoing against marble with military precision. Police spotlights carved harsh angles across his white mask, making the painted scars seem to writhe and shift.

“Detective Hawkins!” he called back, voice cutting through glass and steel. “Humanitarian supplies first. Food, water, medical necessities for thirty civilians.”

“What are your demands?” Hawkins shouted through electronic amplification.

“Justice for the dead.”

“Give us specifics!”

“Seven soldiers and their families,” Ghost replied, his mask turning toward Jaxon’s corner. “Betrayed five years ago.”

“We need proof of these allegations—”

“The proof sits bound in this lobby.”

Firebird’s laptop screen blazed with scrolling code as her fingers danced across keys like a pianist executing a complex symphony.

“All external communications terminated,” she reported. “They’re operating completely blind.”

“Security systems?”

“Under total control. Every camera, every sensor, every electronic pulse belongs to us.”

“Time frame for law enforcement response escalation?”

“Six hours before tactical teams attempt breach,” Firebird calculated. “Standard hostage protocols.”

“More than enough time,” Ghost said with deadly satisfaction.

Addison followed with her eyes how Brick positioned himself near the vault, his assault rifle sweeping across cowering hostages with mechanical precision.

“Anyone moves wrong, they drop,” he announced conversationally. “Simple rules.”

“Please don’t hurt us,” the elderly woman near the counter begged through tears. “We’re just customers.”

“Then you’re witnesses,” Ghost replied. “Act accordingly.”

The standoff stretched through a tense hour as police tactical vehicles multiplied outside, emergency lights strobing through windows until supply boxes finally appeared through the entrance under heavy escort.

“Distribute efficiently,” Ghost ordered. “No conversation with hostages. Hand out to everyone in turn.”

The wrapped sandwiches landed in Addison’s hands like a grenade for her and bonded Jaxon. She tore it open and immediately doubled over, retching as mayonnaise fumes assaulted her system.

“God,” she gasped, shoving the food away violently. “I can’t—”

“You have to eat,” Jaxon said from beside her. “You need strength.”

“This isn’t justice!” Jaxon shouted from his corner. “This is terrorism!”

“Is it?” Ghost approached with predatory grace. “Or are the consequences finally catching up?”

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done—”

“Think?” Ghost’s laugh was the winter wind. “I don’t think anything, Wellington. I know.”

Detective Hawkins’ voice crackled through the monitored phone line again. “We’ve provided supplies. What do you need to resolve this peacefully?”

“Confession,” Ghost replied, his masked face fixed on Jaxon. “Truth about the military contract.”

“There might be another way to get the confession you’re seeking.”

“I’ve already chosen my way.”

“Listen, I would negotiate a confession,” Hawkins said with tactical understanding, “but I can’t do it while you’re holding hostages at gunpoint.”

“”The hostages stay until someone volunteers the truth.”

Ghost ended the call and made another circuit through the darkening lobby, night pressing against windows as he stopped near Addison’s corner where that sweet mint scent filled the space between them like invisible smoke.

“Water consumption should increase during stress,” he said, crouching beside her. “Dehydration compounds existing vulnerabilities.”

“Get the hell away from me,” Addison snarled, pressing herself against the wall. “I don’t want anything from you.”

His gloved hand moved toward her shoulder.

“Dehydration compounds—”

“I said get away!” She lashed out, striking at his approaching hand with violent rejection. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Ghost’s hand stopped mid-motion, hovering inches from contact.

“Defensive reflexes,” he observed with approval. “Good survival instincts.”

Ghost stood up slowly, his scarred mask reflecting her face like prophecy written in bone and shadow.

“Stay away from my fiancée!” Jaxon’s voice erupted from beside her with territorial fury that shattered the charged atmosphere.