Day N in the Goldsmiths mansion. Clara no longer kept exact count. Each day passed the same way, frighteningly regular and monotonous, like repetitive pages in a boring book. She adhered to every rule, moved according to the schedule, and maintained a quiet and submissive exterior.
Observation and analysis continued silently in her mind, but the search for information seemed to progress at a snail's pace. This mansion was too discreet, too professional at concealing secrets.
After the solitary dinner, when Butler Reid had announced the next day's schedule and retreated with the familiar silence of the staff, Clara felt an overwhelming weariness wash over her. It wasn't just physical exhaustion from a day of maintaining proper composure, but also mental depletion from constantly being on guard, constantly thinking in an environment filled with invisible pressure.
She returned to her bedroom. The room was still opulent, the bed still soft, but it offered no comfort. It was just a larger, more luxurious cage. Taking off her day clothes, Clara stepped into the bathroom and immersed herself in the hot jacuzzi tub. The warmth spread through her body, temporarily pushing away the clinging coldness. But when she closed her eyes, the images of the staff's emotionless faces, Butler Reid's sharp gaze, and the feeling of being watched returned.
After bathing, she got into bed. The large bed seemed to swallow her small frame. The silence in the room made the feeling of isolation even more pronounced. Anna had been all too familiar with loneliness in her cramped rental room, but the loneliness amidst this dazzling luxury was worse. It was the loneliness of a soul adrift in a world that wasn't hers, surrounded by superficial things that offered no solace.
She turned over, trying to find a comfortable position. Her eyelids felt heavy. The exhaustion from both lives – the old life full of tragedy and the new life full of danger – pulled her into sleep.
And then, everything changed.
The luxurious space of the Goldsmiths' mansion dissolved. She found herself curled up on the rickety single bed, the thin blanket not enough to keep her warm. The familiar musty smell filled her nostrils. Her mother's dry cough came from the next room. Her younger brother's thin, hunched form under the dim yellow desk lamp. She was home. She was Anna.
The dream was brutally vivid. It wasn't an ordinary dream, but a full, genuine recreation of her old life, her pain, and her helplessness that had pushed her to the brink.
She saw herself working late shifts at the convenience store. Returning home late at night, her legs aching, her meager salary not enough to cover expenses. The pitying (or sometimes contemptuous) gazes of wealthy customers as they bought things she couldn't even dream of affording. The helplessness of seeing electricity and water bills rise day by day, while the rent remained a huge, hanging burden.
She saw her mother's thin, pale face. Illness tormented her mother, but she still struggled to do small chores, just to not feel useless. Anna's heart ached for her mother; she wanted to do something to ease her suffering, but she had nothing to offer but futile effort.
Then there was her brother. He had once been the only joy in the house after their father died. But depression dragged him into the darkness. He was silent, wouldn't talk, and locked himself in his room. Anna tried to reach him, tried to comfort him, but every effort was like punching cotton. Her brother's distance was like a knife twisting in her heart. It wasn't just a sister's pain, but also fear: could she pull him out of that darkness, when she was barely treading water?
And the memory of her father. His gentle smile, the strong shoulder that had once been her support. Then the day he died suddenly in a traffic accident. Her mother's world and hers collapsed. The family's pillar was gone. The burden fell onto her mother's shoulders, and then onto hers. The pain of losing her father still ached, an unhealed wound, the reason life had become darker than ever before.
In the dream, Anna relived sleepless nights, staring at the dark ceiling, hearing mice scurrying in the attic, feeling the crushing loneliness. She saw herself searching for work after graduation, sending hundreds of applications only to receive harsh rejections or chilling silence. The vast society outside didn't need her, someone without experience, connections, or money.
She saw herself sitting by her sick mother's side, holding her hand, tears welling up as her mother coughed. Saw herself standing outside her brother's door, listening to the silence from within, her heart heavy. Saw herself looking at stacks of bills, the meager bank balance, and feeling that the future was just a deep black hole.
Helplessness. That was the feeling that engulfed her in this dream. Helpless before her mother's illness, helpless before her brother's depression, helpless before poverty, helpless before a society that offered her no chance. All efforts were meaningless. All attempts were like throwing stones into the sea.
The dream brought her back to that moment. The last night in the real world. She sat in the rental room, surrounded by darkness and despair. The sleeping pills are on the table. They weren't her mother's medicine anymore; they were her escape. She was too tired to fight. Too tired to hope. She just wanted to stop, to sleep a deep sleep and never wake up again.
The bitter taste of the pills went down her throat. The weariness enveloped her body. Darkness falling...
Then the dream vanished.
Clara woke, gasping, her heart pounding wildly. Around her was still the opulent room of the Goldsmiths' mansion. Gentle morning light filtered through the curtains. She was lying on the soft bed, not the old one from the rental room.
Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. That dream... it was too real. It brought her back to the tragedy that had shaped who she was. The poverty, the loss, the helplessness, the loneliness. All those things had created the withdrawn, quiet Anna, who trusted no one and always had to rely on herself to survive.
But that dream also solidified Clara's determination. 100 billion USD. The chance to return. It wasn't just a reward; it was salvation. Salvation for her mother, for her brother, and for herself. She could not go back to that life, a life of helplessness and despair.
The mission to kill Jonathan Goldsmiths, however terrifying, was now the only path for her to escape both this gilded cage and the tragedy of the past. The dream had reminded her of the price of failure and the priceless reward of success.
The Goldsmiths' mansion remained silent as a tomb. Outside, Butler Reid was probably preparing to appear to announce the new schedule. But in Clara's mind, the image of the squalid rental room and her loved ones still lingered, haunting.
She had to succeed. At all costs.