The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 405

He paused, carefully watching Garrison's reaction. "Should we... start pushing for the official market release of Vitas-1?"

Garrison's pen froze on the paper.

He didn't answer immediately. He twirled the pen between his fingers, the metal cap lightly tapping against the open data ledger on his desk.

The afternoon sun cast rigid, striped shadows over his face, hiding his eyes and making his thoughts entirely unreadable.

Quinn Foster's death had been a professional hit, executed with the terrifying precision of an elite syndicate. She had stolen a vial of The Vitas Strain, and then she had been silenced—it was absolutely no coincidence.

And the invisible hand pulling the strings remained in the shadows.

For five years, his lab had been ransacked, his son had been kidnapped, and Professor Han and Diego Solano had been murdered...

Now, Vitas-1 had succeeded on Sloane. It was an undisputed medical miracle—and a ticking time bomb. Pushing it to the market right now was the equivalent of screaming to the entire world, 'We have something worth billions.' The unseen forces hunting him would smell the blood in the water and descend like starving sharks, using every vicious tactic imaginable to suppress, steal, or destroy it.

He had to wait. He had to wait until the true mastermind was finally forced into the light.

He had to wait until the police could dismantle the entire syndicate for good.

"Hold off for now," Garrison finally said.

The pen tapped the desk once more. The sound was quiet, but absolutely resolute.

Dawson studied his mentor's face and nodded without pushing the issue. He knew that whenever Garrison said 'hold off,' it wasn't out of hesitation. It was a calculated move. Behind every delay lay a terrifying reality Garrison refused to speak aloud.

"Understood, Boss."

Dawson gathered the signed documents, bowing his head respectfully.

"Get the hell out of my way!"

Rosemary backhanded him aside and charged straight for Garrison's desk. A crowd of curious patients and orderlies was already gathering in the hallway, their hushed whispers swelling like a rising tide. The nurses couldn't stop her, and they didn't dare use force—she was, after all, the director's mother.

Garrison slowly stood up from his chair.

Whatever color had returned to his face drained away instantly. He walked around the desk and stood firmly in Rosemary's path, raising a hand to halt her charge. His movement was incredibly restrained—his palm stopping mere inches from her shoulder, drawing a rigid boundary without actually touching her.

"Mom, Sloane is dead." He kept his voice low, sounding exhausted, like he was reciting a worn-out script. "She died five years ago. What are you doing here?"

Before the words had even settled, a sharp crack echoed through the room!

Rosemary slapped him violently across the face.