Rain hammered the clinic windows like a barrage of small, metallic teeth, threatening to shatter the glass that separated Mercy Street Clinic from the decaying Chicago pavement outside.

The metal ladder was cold and slick with condensation. Below them, the elevator shaft echoed with distant sirens and the low rumble of the city storm. Above them, heavy gunfire resumed, followed by the deep, terrifying roar of explosions.

"I can't go any further, Selene!" Ivy sobbed, her foot slipping on a steel rung three stories down. "My ribs... it hurts too much!"

"Yes, you can," Selene urged, reaching up to steady Ivy’s foot. "Look at me, Ivy! You survived Preston. You survived his beatings. You are not going to die in a drain shaft! Keep moving!"

They reached the level 14 service hatch just as a loud metal crash echoed from above. Selene kicked open the ventilation grate and dragged Ivy out into a concrete service hallway lit by flickering yellow maintenance lights.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open.

Selene froze, pulling Ivy behind her, her hand reaching for a heavy metal spanner wrench resting on a utility cart.

Two men stepped into the light. But it wasn't Viktor.

The man in front was middle-aged, wearing a heavy wolf-skin collar coat over a dark suit, his face scarred across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were cold, dead, and calculating.

Mikhail Rostov.

"Dr. Mercer, I presume," Rostov said, his Russian accent thick and dripping with menace. "And little Ivy. You two have caused me an extraordinary amount of financial inconvenience tonight."

Two armed mercenaries raised their silenced submachine guns, pointing them straight at Selene’s head.

"Where is the ledger, Doctor?" Rostov asked softly, pulling a pearl-handled pistol from his coat. "Give it to me, and I might let you live as my private physician. Refuse, and I will tear this building down until I find your cold fingers wrapped around that phone."

Selene stood tall, holding the metal wrench, her blood running cold, but her eyes burning with defiance. "You're too late, Rostov. Damen already has the files."

Rostov laughed—a dry, chilling sound. "Damen Volkov is currently buried under twenty tons of concrete on the penthouse floor, my dear. He is dead. You are alone."