The gang members guarding the warehouse burst through the doors and were stunned to see a stranger—young, calm, and completely out of place—standing among their unconscious comrades.
Who was he?
How did he get in?
They had been stationed at the only entrance the entire time. No one could've entered without them noticing. Yet here he was, standing over the collapsed bodies of their boss and others as if he'd simply walked through the walls.
But once they recognized the bald man lying motionless on the floor, rage overtook their confusion.
"Who cares who he is—beat him up!"
Weapons in hand, they charged at John like wild animals.
Moments later, all that could be heard was a rapid series of thuds followed by groans. The would-be attackers lay sprawled out on the floor beside their boss, their faces bruised, their minds blank—completely unaware of what just happened.
John hadn't even broken a sweat.
He stood there, still as calm as ever, like he had just swatted away a few bothersome flies.
Yelena stared, speechless.
So this is Miss Queenie's god-brother?
She had been worried whether John could handle so many armed thugs alone. But clearly, she had underestimated him.
John approached her and said, "Let me untie you. Wait outside—I've got some business to take care of."
As he untied the ropes, John couldn't help but notice the elaborate, overly complex knots.
Whoever did this is clearly a hardcore fan of Eastern martial arts movies, he mused.
How did he know? Let's just say Kate's massive movie collection had its uses.
Among the gang, only one man remained semi-conscious—the bespectacled technician. He groaned, his eyes rolling back as he tried to stay awake.
John squatted in front of him and delivered two sharp slaps across his face.
"Wake up."
The man's eyes snapped open. Dizzy and terrified, he stared up at John.
"W-What do you want from me?!"
"I want you to talk. Start with your name."
John had deliberately left this man conscious. From his attire and actions, he seemed more than just hired muscle—likely someone important.
"I-I'm the head of the R&D department at the Damon Group… This whole thing was ordered by the Branton family. The Damon Group belongs to them…"
The man caved without resistance. Before John even threatened him, he was spilling every detail.
John's eyes narrowed.
The Branton family…
Wasn't Lester—his contact at the welfare home—married into that family?
Interesting.
John mulled over the connection briefly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a 20-centimeter-long silver needle.
The technician's eyes widened in horror. "Wait! I told you everything—I swear! Don't kill me!"
John smirked. "Relax. I'm not killing you. I'm just taking a drop of your blood."
Before the man could react, John pricked his finger and drew a single drop of blood. The man paled instantly, looking as though someone had dumped an entire bottle of foundation on his face.
"Pathetic," John sneered. "You're scared of your own shadow, and you thought you could pull off a kidnapping?"
But the real shock was yet to come.
John took out an ancient blue talisman, dripped the blood onto it, and then—right before the man's eyes—the talisman melted into John's palm and vanished.
"You… You're a monk?!"
The man stared in horror, his mouth agape. He had never imagined he'd mess with someone like this. It was like a nightmare come to life.
John leaned in coldly. "From now on, you'll do exactly what I say. If you try anything funny, I'll just…"
He opened his palm, revealing the talisman, and slowly began to close his fingers.
The technician let out a piercing scream and clutched his head. The pain was unbearable, like his skull was being split open.
"I'll obey! I swear I'll obey! I'll do whatever you say!" he begged, collapsing to his knees.
Satisfied, John let him be and walked over to the man's laptop. He quickly typed up a new facial mask formula and saved it to the system.
He turned to the terrified man. "When the Branton family asks, tell them you succeeded. Give them this formula. Understand?"
"Yes! Yes! I got it!" the man nodded frantically.
John gave a final nod, then turned and strode out of the warehouse.
The formula he left behind wasn't just fake—it was a time bomb.
For the first week, it would appear to work, mimicking the BEAUTY mask's effects. But after that, not only would the results fade, they would reverse catastrophically.
A person whose skin quality improved from a '4' to a '6' might find it crashing down to a '3' soon after.
The Branton family, clearly desperate, would likely rush to launch the product before Queenie Group's official release. That meant no time for proper testing. When the fallout hit, their customers would suffer—but Queenie's product would be ready to swoop in and fix what they broke.
Poetic justice.
Outside the warehouse, Yelena stood waiting, her injuries barely masking her curiosity.
"Mr. John… how did you handle them?"
"I gave them the formula," he replied casually.
"What?!" she gasped. "Why?"
She couldn't make sense of it. After everything that had happened—after they kidnapped her, threatened her, and demanded the formula—John just gave it to them?
John smiled faintly.
"Trust me. It's the kind of gift they'll regret receiving."