Dear Ex-wife Marry Me

Ian was rolling with the real deal, a crew of ace players who breezed through the talent screening like it

was child's play.

Before long, fourteen of the bunch had made the cut and were herded into a spacious van, told they

were headed off for some intensive training.

Gazing out the window, Ian overheard the chatter inside.

"Man, I can't believe I made it. Gonna rake in some serious dough this time."

"If I bag three hundred bucks, I'm set for life. Mom and Dad would feel proud."

"Dude, imagine rolling up in your own ride. We're talking about Wall Street, the glitziest joint on the

planet."

Ian leaned back, his eyes growing dark. Not the glitziest, more like the most terrifying hellhole

imaginable.

The van kept pushing on, and besides Ian and his companions, no one had a clue where this so-called Têxt belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

intensive training was taking place.

After a solid four-hour drive, they came to a halt deep in the mountain ranges.

The driver hopped out for a quick pow-wow, and then barked at everyone with dialect to disembark and

line up.

Ian could catch the drift of the local lingo but the specifics of the driver's dialect eluded him. The

message was clear though: someone was coming to lead them, and they'd better put on a good show.

Fourteen were chosen this time, and fourteen arrived to take charge - one guide per recruit. The others

were buzzing with excitement, mistaking their guides for mentors ready to prep them for the big

leagues on Wall Street, to earn more cash.

Ian kept quiet, trailing along with the group. His people weren't by his side; they were scattered.

They trudged to a secluded cliffside where staff began roll call, and those named stepped forward.

After a headcount confirmed everyone's presence, they were waved through.

Ian caught on instantly; this was no research hub's epicenter but a remote appendage, undoubtedly

linked to the main complex.

Without a word, he followed down the entrance into a lobby, then through to a private room. Some said

a mandatory health check was a must, which included an injection of some kind.

Ian followed a figure in a hazmat suit into a room until they brandished a syringe. If that needle

punctured his skin, he'd never leave this place alive.

As the needle came at him, Ian grabbed the wrist, flipped the syringe, and plunged it into the man's

flesh. The man panicked instantly, mouth opening to scream, but consciousness suddenly fled him.

Ian swapped clothes with the unconscious man, then stepped out to find more hazmat-clad workers

dragging away the fainted. A worker approached, saw the downed man in Ian's room, and quickly

hauled him off.

Ian's gaze met another worker emerging from the next room, and in that single glance, he knew this

was one of his own. Without a word exchanged, they both slipped into the throng of workers silently.

These low-tier workers were plentiful and restricted to this zone, barred from wandering elsewhere.

In just an hour, Ian deduced the strict compartmentalization of the research base, something akin to an

upgraded version of Forbidden Island.

Forbidden Island might let you buy your way from Outer to Inner, but here, money was worthless.

Worse than worthless, it could spell your doom.

Philip stood outside the glass facade, contemplating the living weapon they'd bred. The weapon was

just eighteen or so, wildly ferocious, subdued daily with a custom tranquilizer. Read at

"Philip, interested?"