Clara staggered out of the archive room, heart pounding, smoke alarms still blaring faintly in the distance.
The Foundation building wasn't directly hit — but the nearby research wing had gone up in flames. People were screaming in the streets. Sirens echoed everywhere.
She wanted to run to Daniel.
She wanted to surrender.
She wanted to be done.
But the moment she stepped out into the parking lot—
A black van screeched to a stop in front of her.
Before she could react, three men in suits emerged, their movements precise, silent — professionals.
"Ms. Clara," one said politely. "Our employer wishes to speak with you. Personally."
Clara backed away. "I-I didn't call for you—"
"Exactly," he replied calmly. "That's why he did."
Two of them advanced.
She tried to scream, but a gloved hand covered her mouth.
A needle jabbed into her neck.
The world spun.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
Somewhere Unknown
Clara woke to soft music playing in the background — classical, elegant.
She was not tied.
Not beaten.
She was seated in a lavish room, bathed in warm golden light. Velvet chairs. Crystal chandeliers. A tea set steaming gently in front of her.
And across from her sat him.
The man behind everything.
Not a shadow.
Not a voice.
A real person.
Smiling.
Refined. Handsome. Calm.
Like a priest at a funeral.
He poured tea into a delicate porcelain cup.
"Jasmine," he said warmly. "Your favorite, isn't it?"
Clara could barely breathe.
"…Why are you doing this?"
He looked up, eyes gentle — disturbingly so.
"Because, Clara," he said softly, pushing the teacup toward her,
"you hesitated."
She flinched.
He leaned forward, voice loving — yet lethal.
"I don't punish loyalty. I punish doubt."
Clara's hands trembled.
"…Are you going to kill me?"
He smiled sweetly.
"No, dear."
"I'm going to make you choose."