The Shadow Extends

The rain in Seattle seems endless. But at this moment, inside a private medical center surrounded by high walls and dense woods on the outskirts of Bellevue, the sound of the rain is completely shut out.

This is one of the most prestigious and expensive private medical facilities in the Seattle area, offering absolute confidentiality and top-tier medical services to only a select few clients.

The entire top floor has been transformed into a private VIP ward area comparable to a five-star hotel suite. The corridors are covered with sound-absorbing carpets, the lighting is soft, and the air is filled with a subtle blend of disinfectant and expensive aromatherapy. It is so quiet that you can hear the slight hiss of the air conditioning system.

Outside the largest suite at the far end of the corridor stood two burly bodyguards in black suits, each wearing a communicator. Their faces were expressionless, their sharp gazes sweeping across the empty corridor like two guardian deities.

Inside the heavy solid wood door, however, there was a suffocating coldness.

The ward was unbelievably spacious and luxuriously decorated, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meticulously maintained garden, raindrops silently sliding down the glass. But the person lying on the expensive medical bed in the center of the room seemed completely out of place in this comfortable environment.

Brandon Walton, who was a reckless and arrogant playboy in a nightclub just hours before, is now lying obliviously under the pristine white sheets.

His head was wrapped in thick gauze like a mummy, with only his tightly closed eyes, swollen and deformed nose, and bluish-purple chin showing.

The monitor wires connected to his face displayed a steady waveform on the screen, indicating stable vital signs, but it was merely a matter of "being alive." His hands were also wrapped in bandages, and his exposed fingertips would occasionally twitch unconsciously. Beside the bed, several sophisticated medical instruments emitted a monotonous and slight hum.

A man in a well-tailored dark gray cashmere suit, with an upright Back View, stood quietly at the foot of the bed. He didn't look at the medical equipment, but silently, almost stared, at his unconscious son on the bed.

The man was about fifty years old, with his hair neatly combed, some gray at the temples, a stern face, and features as sharp as if carved by a knife. His gray eyes were so deep that they seemed bottomless, and at that moment they held the suppressed calm before an impending storm.

He is Richard Walton, the current head of the Walton Family in Seattle.

Old Walton stood there like a cold stone statue, only his slightly rising and falling chest and his tightly pursed lips betraying that his inner peace was far from what appeared to be. A suffocatingly low pressure filled the room, as if even the dust floating in the air had solidified.

He stood there for an unknown amount of time—perhaps a few minutes, perhaps a dozen minutes. Richard Walton finally exhaled a long, chilly breath, extremely slowly and almost imperceptibly. He took one last look at his son's face, marred by bandages and scars, and then, without any further movement, turned and walked away.

His footsteps were almost silent on the carpet, but as he walked toward the door, the two bodyguards, who were like guardian deities, tensed up almost imperceptibly.

He didn't look at the bodyguards and walked straight to the next room, which had no sign and looked no different from the other wards. A bodyguard stepped forward and silently opened the door for him.

The scene inside the door was completely different from the luxurious ward next door.

This place resembles a makeshift, cold treatment room. The walls are stark white, and the lighting is a cold-toned shadowless lamp, illuminating the room in a stark white light, revealing every detail. The air is filled with an even stronger smell of disinfectant, but it still cannot mask a faint, almost imperceptible smell of rust.

In the center of the room hung a shirtless man. It was Alex. His hands were bound behind his back with rough hemp rope, which passed through an iron ring in the ceiling, suspending him so that his toes could barely touch the ground.

His body was covered in whip marks and bruises, with hardly a patch of unblemished flesh. His lip was split open, and one eye was swollen shut, leaving only a slit. Blood and sweat mingled, leaving streaks of grime on his filthy body. He hung his head, emitting weak, painful groans, each breath aggravating his wounds and bringing a new wave of excruciating pain.

Opposite Alex, tied to a cold metal chair, was another person— Jenny.

She appeared slightly better off than Alex, but the fear and despair in her eyes were even more intense. Her hands were tied behind her back in the chair, and her wrists were chafed raw.

Even more shocking were her hands—the nails of all ten fingers had been ripped off, leaving only a bloody, mangled nail bed, with tiny beads of blood still seeping from some places.

Her mouth was also split open, and her cheeks were swollen high. Upon closer inspection, it could be seen that she was missing at least two teeth from her lower jaw. Her body trembled uncontrollably from pain and fear, and tears mixed with blood dried on her face, leaving streaks.

A man in a white coat, rubber gloves, and a mask, obscuring his face, was expressionlessly wiping several oddly shaped small tools gleaming on a metal tray with a gauze soaked in disinfectant. Scattered around the edge of the tray were a few bloodstained, irregularly shaped fingernails and two molars streaked with blood.

There were two other people in the room, also dressed in black suits, but their demeanor was different from the bodyguards at the door—more somber and reserved, like two venomous snakes lurking in the shadows. They stood with their hands at their sides in the corner of the room, their eyes lowered, as if they were two lifeless pieces of furniture.

Richard Walton walked in. He didn't look at Alex hanging there, nor at Xiaoyu in the chair, nor even at the plate of bloody tools. He went straight to the man in the white coat and stopped.

The man in the white coat stopped wiping and bowed his head slightly.

Richard Walton spoke, his voice low, steady, and seemingly devoid of emotion, yet carrying a chilling coldness that seeped into his bones:

Did they say so?

The man in the white coat, or rather, more like a "professional," nodded and replied in the same flat tone, "Yes, Mr. Walton. They said everything they knew."

"Tell me." Richard Walton's command was utterly concise.

The man in the white coat put down the gauze, picked up a tablet computer, pulled up the recording, and began to repeat it in a mechanical, monotone voice:

"Based on Alex Miller's testimony, the supplementary information provided by the female student named Jenny, and combined with the deleted but recovered surveillance footage we retrieved from inside the nightclub, the events roughly unfolded as follows."

"Last night, at Q Nightclub, your son Brandon Walton, along with Alex Miller, and Jennifer Lee (nicknamed ' Jenny '), an Asian woman they met on a whim, and her companion Chen Xiaoyu, were drinking in booth B7 of the VIP section."

"During this time, Brandon Walton and Jennifer Lee interacted intimately. Chen Xiaoyu appeared uncomfortable and tried to leave, but was persuaded to do so by Jennifer Lee and Alex Miller. While Chen Xiaoyu was away to the restroom, Jennifer Lee added an unidentified substance (presumably a GHB-type hallucinogen) to her drink."

"After returning to drink, Chen Xiaoyu experienced severe discomfort and attempted to leave again, but was physically restrained by Brandon Walton and Alex Miller. During the altercation, Chen Xiaoyu struck Brandon Walton on the head with a bottle, causing injury. Chen Xiaoyu then fled the booth."

"Brandon Walton gave chase and caught up with Chen Xiaoyu near booth B3. There were six to eight Asian men in that booth at the time. One of them, a strong and distinctive Asian man (described as approximately 183cm tall, with a buzz cut, an old scar on his right cheek, and a violent temperament), struck Brandon Walton twice on the head with a bottle, causing him to lose consciousness on the spot."

Alex Miller attempted to negotiate and threaten the other party, mentioning the "Walton" family. A young Asian man who appeared to be the leader (approximately 25-30 years old, about 178cm tall, black hair, with a cold demeanor, who did not directly lay a hand on him but was referred to as "boss" by the others) responded in English: "If he speaks again, I'll break all his teeth." Alex Miller dared not say another word.

"After the nightclub's security captain arrived with his men, they were intimidated and forced to retreat by the other members of the group. Subsequently, the group of Asian men calmly left with the unconscious Chen Xiaoyu."

No valid identification information was left at the scene, and the relevant surveillance footage was subsequently overwritten using professional methods, making recovery extremely difficult. Based on accent, behavior, and preliminary investigation, she is not a member of any known local gang. Jennifer Lee attempted to explain the situation to Alex Miller after the altercation and was slapped by him; her current whereabouts are unknown.

After the man in the white coat finished speaking, he handed over a tablet computer, which contained a summary of key points and blurry screenshots from the nightclub's surveillance footage. Although the faces were not clearly visible, the general body types and clothing could be discerned.

Richard Walton didn't take the tablet. His gray eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze seemingly piercing through the man in the white coat, landing on a point in the void. Only Alex's faint groans and Xiaoyu's suppressed, intermittent sobs filled the room.

"Chinese..." He repeated the word softly, as if chewing on it, or as if confirming it. His voice was very soft, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet room.

Silence descended once more. The air seemed to freeze, with only the cold light pouring down silently.

A few seconds later, Richard Walton seemed to snap out of some deep thought. He glanced one last time at the blurry screenshot of the "boss" on the tablet, and something cold and hard slowly settled in the depths of his eyes.

He didn't ask any more questions, nor did he glance at Alex or Xiaoyu, as if they were merely two tools that had completed their mission and were about to be discarded.

He turned around, his steps still steady, and walked towards the door.

The man in the white coat and the two men in black in the corner, as if receiving a silent command, raised their heads again the moment he turned around, their gazes falling on Alex, who was hanging there, and Xiaoyu, who was tied to the chair. Their eyes were indifferent, as if they were looking at waste to be disposed of.

Richard Walton walked to the door and placed his hand on the cold brass doorknob.

Just as he turned the doorknob, about to open the door—

Behind them, in the stark white treatment room, two extremely short yet incredibly shrill screams rang out almost simultaneously!

"Ah--!!!"

"No--!!!"

The sound was filled with extreme pain and the despair of dying, as if it had used up the last of its strength. But it lasted for less than half a second, then stopped abruptly, as if it had been cut off by a sharp blade.

Instead, there were two almost overlapping, muffled "plop" sounds, like something soft being deeply pierced by a sharp instrument.

Then came the dull thud of a heavy object falling to the ground, and the slow, sticky "drip-drip" of a liquid dripping onto the floor.

Richard Walton did not pause for a moment. He didn't even look back.

He pulled the door open, then silently closed it behind him, completely shutting out the abruptly stopped scream, the nauseating thud, and the ticking sound in the cold, pale, and lifeless space behind the door.

Outside the door, the corridor remained silent, the lighting still soft. The two bodyguards stood like stone statues, seemingly oblivious to his comings and goings.

He walked slowly towards the elevator, his gray eyes reflecting the misty rainy night outside the window, and the bustling yet cold city beneath it. The elevator doors slid open silently, and he stepped inside, pressing the button for the underground private parking garage.

The elevator descended. His cold, expressionless face was reflected in the mirrored wall.

"Chinese..."

He muttered to himself again, this time with a hint of cold amusement and an unmistakable killing intent, like a hunter locking onto his target.

The blood of nightclubs has not yet dried.

A new storm was already brewing in Old Walton's silence.