When Derek Faulkner stepped into the VIP suite, the atmosphere didn't just cool—it froze.
Two pairs of eyes immediately locked onto him, sharp as bayonets and twice as cold. On the left, his mother-in-law, Patricia Hartwell, stood like a sentinel of the working class, her worn orange safety vest reflecting the harsh clinical lights. On the right, Serena Ashford sat by the bed, her exhaustion manifesting as a wall of silent, vibrating resentment.
Derek had spent ten years on the Northern Front, staring down the barrels of enemy cannons and walking through the Deadlands without flinching. He had faced the Five Warlords and emerged as the Supreme Warlord, a man whose name was whispered in the corridors of High Command with terrified reverence. But in this small, quiet hospital room, he felt
