Just as the helicopter lifted off and reinforcements prepared to board, a golden ponytail bobbed in the shadows of the hull.
Like Rian before her, she was climbing the massive anchor chain up to the ship.
Her name was Amelia Miller, an award-winning investigative journalist from The New York Times.
She wasn't just a pretty face—Amelia had made headlines herself by infiltrating a notorious Mexican drug cartel for a story that later earned her a Pulitzer.
This time, she'd worked every connection she had to gain intel on the organ trafficking syndicate known as Isis.
Her break came when she convinced a wealthy tycoon—someone who had secretly bought a heart from Isis in the past—to hand over crucial leads.
From those leads, she discovered that Isis's flagship vessel, the Canglong, was anchored in international waters off the coast of Los Angeles.
So Amelia snuck aboard.
Her goal? To capture exclusive footage and blow the lid off one of the most sinister black-market operations in the world.
The moment she slipped into the engine room, she activated her chest-mounted camera.
No cameraman. No crew. Just her and the truth.
"This is Amelia Miller with The New York Times," she whispered into the lens. "I've just infiltrated the Canglong—a freighter operated by the Isis illegal organ trafficking syndicate."
"We're going to explore the interior and collect covert footage of criminal evidence."
She hadn't walked far when her flashlight landed on a corpse sprawled across the floor.
"Oh my God—there's a body!"
She crouched beside it, reaching out to touch the skin.
"Still warm," she murmured. "This person died just minutes ago."
"Was it infighting? Or has a vigilante infiltrated the ship?"
She kept the camera rolling, narrating in hushed tones. Building suspense.
And then—more bodies.
Following the trail of carnage left behind by Rian, she found dozens of dead men in uniform.
"Jesus above… there are over a dozen corpses already."
"They're all wearing similar gear. Definitely Isis personnel."
"Almost every one of them has a bullet wound right between the eyes."
"And there's zero sign of a firefight—no shell casings, no bullet holes on the walls!"
She turned back to the camera, eyes wide with awe.
"This wasn't a squad. This was the work of a single elite."
Her pace quickened.
And as she moved deeper into the ship, she began to see signs of actual battle.
"Looks like the infiltrator's been discovered."
She clenched her jaw. She knew the horrors Isis was capable of. And anyone brave enough to challenge them?
Had to be a hero.
Eventually, Amelia reached the ship's mess hall—and froze.
Ten bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, each one dressed in full military-grade gear.
"God… these are SEAL-grade kits!"
"Full tactical armor… night vision… the works."
"I'd bet my life these guys are ex-Navy SEALs."
She lowered her voice. "They were wiped out before they could even fight back…"
She wasn't a military novice. She'd spent her own money on tactical training. She knew what elite combat looked like.
And this?
This was surgical.
Amelia pressed on, making her way to the central cargo hold.
There, bathed in sterile white light, stood the ship's surgical suite—constructed from reinforced plastic film and hidden in the very heart of the ship.
In front of it: over twenty bodies.
"There was another battle here… and just like before, they're all dead."
She turned slowly, counting under her breath.
"Over a hundred, total…"
"Could this really be the work of just one person?"
"Or is there a covert Interpol task force aboard? An FBI black ops unit?"
She stepped closer to get more footage.
CLACK.
A cold metal muzzle pressed against the back of her head.
"Who are you?" a voice demanded.
Amelia gasped. Slowly, she raised her hands.
"Amelia Miller! New York Times! I'm a reporter, not a threat—I swear!"
She reached for her press badge with trembling fingers.
Rian's eyes narrowed. He'd seen her blip appear on his system's radar earlier—but since she was clearly unarmed, he'd held fire.
After checking the credentials, he holstered his weapon.
Amelia exhaled sharply. She turned around—and gasped again.
Damn. He's hot.
An angular Eastern face. Calm eyes. A battlefield's worth of poise in his stance.
This… this was him. The hero.
Her eyes sparkled with stars.
Rian studied her in return.
She was about 175 cm tall, with radiant golden hair, icy blue eyes, flawless skin, and a figure that belonged on a Hollywood poster.
But unlike typical starlets, she had grit in her eyes.
The look of someone who'd walked through fire and refused to burn.
A war-forged rose.
"LAPD," he said flatly. "Don't disturb the scene. Reinforcements are on the way."
Even in the face of beauty, Rian remained composed.
Amelia's eyes lit up again.
A lone cop…
Storming an organ-trafficking syndicate's HQ…
For love? Or justice?
She felt it in her bones—this story could win her another Pulitzer.
"Officer," she asked gently, "did you take out all of them by yourself?"
"May I interview you?"
Rian looked at her carefully.
He knew he'd crossed a line tonight. Too many dead.
But maybe—just maybe—if the world saw him as a hero… it would protect him.
This was a nation that worshipped lone heroes, after all.
"…Fine," he said.
And the camera light blinked on.