Reborn in 24 TV SHOW

Knee strikes, jabs, and uppercuts—Owen blocked them all. He countered with an elbow strike, but the woman deflected it with her forearm. Seizing the opportunity, Owen moved in close, only for the woman to suddenly deliver a powerful kick aimed at his chin.

If that kick had landed, Owen would have been either dead or severely injured. He hastily blocked it and retaliated by slamming his knee into her abdomen. The woman's leg was held in place by Owen, forcing her to take the hit. She let out a pained grunt.

Sensing an opening, Owen followed up with another strike, but the woman twisted away in time to evade it.

As she spun, her long chestnut hair whipped around freely, no longer tied up. When she turned back to face Owen, she lunged at him with a stabbing motion. In the brief moment of her spin, she had pulled a hairpin from her head, now wielding it like a dagger.

Fortunately, Owen had remained cautious and didn't chase her too closely. He abruptly halted his charge and dodged to the side. The woman pressed her advantage, however, her hairpin thrusting forward like a viper—quick, precise, and relentless. Owen backpedaled, narrowly evading the strikes, with their roles now reversed.

As he retreated, Owen's hand landed on a magazine. He quickly rolled it into a makeshift weapon.

With the improvised tool in hand, the fight shifted in his favor. The rolled magazine's length gave him a significant advantage over the hairpin. Each time she struck, Owen intercepted her before she could land a blow. Over the next exchanges, she found herself unable to score any hits, while Owen managed to strike her several times.

The woman launched another attack. Owen countered, but it was a feint—she abruptly dropped low and swept his legs out from under him. Caught off guard, Owen fell to the floor.

She immediately lunged at him with the hairpin. Lying on his back, Owen saw no way to dodge in time. He quickly raised his legs, bracing them against her body, preventing her from closing the distance. She then shifted her aim, trying to stab his thigh, but Owen kicked her wrist, causing the pin to fly from her hand. He followed up by thrusting his legs outward like springs, sending her flying backward.

The woman landed gracefully on the sofa, while Owen flipped to his feet. Determined not to waste the opportunity, he charged at her, only to receive a retaliatory kick. Unlike before, she was now wearing high heels, and the impact left two small imprints on his chest. The blow made him wince in pain—this woman packed a surprising amount of power.

Both combatants paused and finally separated. It was then that Owen got his first clear look at her. She was stunning—tall and slender, with porcelain skin and large, intense eyes that gleamed with deadly intent. Her long hair, now freed from its restraints, cascaded around her shoulders.

But no matter how attractive she was, she remained an enemy. Owen pulled out his gun. The woman performed a backflip off the sofa, taking cover behind it. When she reappeared, she too was holding a handgun, aimed directly at Owen.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside the room. Neither of them fired, maintaining a tense standoff.

Both of them realized by now that this was likely a misunderstanding. Despite their prolonged fight, neither had made a sound to alert anyone. Even when injured, they had refrained from crying out or causing any significant disturbance.

Owen stood at the front of the sofa, holding his gun with one hand. The woman remained crouched behind the sofa, gripping her weapon with both hands. The footsteps outside grew louder, then gradually faded into the distance. Slowly, the woman rose from behind the sofa, her gun still trained on Owen.

"Go our separate ways?" she proposed.

"Go our separate ways," Owen agreed.

The agreement was reached swiftly. Both lowered their weapons at the same time and holstered them, though their eyes never left each other. Moving cautiously, the woman backed toward the door. Once there, she turned and slipped out.

Owen exhaled deeply. This woman was no ordinary opponent. Her combat skills were excellent, and the gun she carried had clearly been hidden in the room beforehand. Given her disguise as a server, Owen deduced her identity—she was likely an assassin.

She must have smuggled the weapon into the building earlier, knowing the club's security measures would be strict. She had then infiltrated the event under the guise of a server to retrieve it, only to cross paths with Owen by sheer coincidence.

Shaking his head, Owen realized that the encounter had cost him valuable time. Amanda was still missing, and he needed to move quickly.

However, before he could act, the door opened again. The woman returned, swiftly closing the door behind her. She motioned for silence and pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.

Owen was about to question her when rapid footsteps echoed outside. His radio crackled to life, a voice speaking in French. After repeating the message, the speaker switched to English: "Chekov is dead. Everyone, hold your positions. Curie, take your men and secure the entrance to the fourth floor. Anyone unfamiliar on the fourth floor is to be treated as hostile and shot on sight. Also, remove the women—they're a security risk."

The footsteps outside receded. Owen's eyes lit up at the mention of "the women." Amanda was likely on the fourth floor.

The woman seemed to have reached the same conclusion. The increased security suggested her target might also be on the fourth floor. She turned to Owen, who met her gaze.

"Fourth floor?"

"Fourth floor."

"Cooperate?"

"Cooperate."

Brook Estate

When Bryan arrived at the estate, a party was in full swing. Guests and their partners were steadily arriving. At the entrance, each guest was required to present an invitation. Bryan's "invitation" was his security bureau ID.

The security guard examined the ID but couldn't verify its authenticity. However, he doubted anyone would dare impersonate a bureau official at such an event. He returned the ID and waved Bryan inside.

The party wasn't particularly high-profile. Bryan blended in easily. Guests gathered in small groups, engaged in conversation. Bryan casually approached a server and struck up a brief conversation, quickly learning the identity of the party host.

Saint Jiali, a Jewish businessman, owned a shipping company. He appeared cultured and well-mannered, expertly moving through the crowd and exchanging pleasantries. Wherever he went, laughter and cheer followed.

As Bryan observed the host, he also analyzed the layout of the estate—a professional habit.

Before long, he noticed someone whispering to Saint Jiali. The host then eagerly greeted a guest in Middle Eastern attire, warmly embracing him. The two men chatted amiably as Saint Jiali led the newcomer to the second floor.

The second floor was open to guests, and Bryan followed discreetly, pretending to admire the décor. He overheard snippets of conversation: "auction" and "start."

Stopping at a corridor, Bryan watched as the two men entered a room. In the brief moment the door opened, he caught a glimpse of armed guards inside.

Once the door closed behind them, Bryan gazed down at the party below, pretending to scan the room. When no one seemed to be watching, he quickly made his way to the door. He suspected the men had been discussing the auction and decided to investigate further.

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