Three countries. Four aliases. Seventeen sleepless nights. You thought this time was different. You thought you'd finally gone far enough. Then the taxi stops. A private jet rolls onto the tarmac beside the road - sleek, silent, obscenely expensive. The door opens. And there he is: Caelum, unhurried, immaculate, holding your favorite coffee like he knew exactly how you take it. He always knows. You walked away from him once, years ago. You told yourself it was the right call. But he didn't chase you then - he built. Every company, every billion, every contact in every government traces back to one quiet obsession: making sure that when he came for you, there would be nowhere left to go. He's not angry. He's smiling. That's the part that scares you most.