My steps were unsteady as I broke into the journalist's house. The air inside was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old paper and dust that hadn't been disturbed in an eternity. I rushed like a madman toward that locked room he had pointed out; I rammed the door with my shoulder, and it swung open with a piercing creak that shattered the silence. The room was empty, its cold stone walls echoing my rapid, ragged breathing. But my eyes fell only on the front wall; there, under the pale glow of a flickering lamp, a sentence was inscribed like a final testament: "The answer is always before you."
I stood there stunned, sweat dripping from my forehead despite the biting chill of the place. I began to think... did he mean the truth was exposed? Or was it hidden right under my gaze? I began to feel the stone, my trembling fingertips tracing the rough texture of the wall, up and down, until I felt a slight variation in the surface. There was a precise square shape hidden directly beneath the sentence. I pressed it, my heart hammering against my ribs, and discovered it was a masterfully concealed hollow. I pulled back the stone slab to find a secret cavity containing an ancient wooden box.
I opened the box with shaking hands, and the "Black Book" appeared. I flipped through its pages in a daze; these weren't just papers—they were deeds to hell itself! The book contained the minutest details of the nobility's scandals: photos, correspondence, and filthy financial records. Even worse, all these corrupt figures, including Mortimer, were nothing but pawns on a chessboard protected by a terrifying organization led by a man named "John Dread."
I had barely closed the book when I felt shadows approaching; the organization's men appeared as if they had clawed their way out of the earth! I was thrust into a hysterical chase, running through narrow alleys as the cold bit into my lungs, clutching that book like it was my only lifebuoy. I was trying to reach the police station, and in that critical moment, under the dim glow of a tilted streetlight, I met "Chris."
Chris watched me with a piercing gaze, and when he saw the book and was stunned by the sheer volume of information within, his features shifted entirely. I handed him the book, and as he flipped through the pages with suppressed fury, his eyes landed on the section dedicated to the nobles whose hands were stained with the blood of the innocent. Among them was the nobleman who had murdered his brother, "Ronald." I saw Chris's jaw tighten, the veins in his neck bulging like strained ropes. Then, he spoke in a decisive tone that brooked no argument:
— "You stay here, Edward. I'm going to save them myself."
I jolted from my place, screaming as rage scorched my throat: "I'm going too! That's my daughter, Chris! A piece of my soul is trapped in there—I will never leave her!"
Chris looked at me with a cold stare, one that made me feel utterly insignificant. He replied sternly: "I said I am going! You can't do anything because you're weak, and the weak in these confrontations are nothing but obstacles."
I grabbed his shirt, tears boiling in my eyes: "Even if it costs me my life, I will save her myself! I must appear before her as her hero for once. I don't want her to remember a father who surrendered to the darkness!"
That word... "Hero"... was like a lightning bolt striking Chris's soul. In that moment, I saw the glint in his eyes change, as if he had drifted away from reality to drown in an old memory. He remembered the schoolyard during recess, sitting with his brother Ronald under a withered tree, talking about a world cloaked in the blackness of injustice.
Chris had said bitterly back then: "It's a cruel world, Ronald. You have to be a strong person so no one dares to bully you. You shouldn't rely on me every time to protect you, for I won't always be there for you. No one knows what the future holds for us."
Ronald replied with a calm smile, carrying a purity Chris hadn't understood at the time: "I know I'm weak, Chris, but whatever I do, I cannot bring myself to hurt anyone, even an enemy. I just feel there is a barrier in my soul preventing me from hurting others. So, why don't we be a great duo? I'll be the brains who plan, and you be the brawn who executes."
Chris replied sharply, fueled by fear for his brother: "Why be a duo of brains and brawn when each of us can possess both intelligence and strength? The world has no mercy for weak minds, Ronald. You have to change."
But Ronald placed his hand on Chris's shoulder and spoke with an embarrassing sincerity: "You are my hero, Chris. Do you know why? Because I know you carry the responsibility of the entire family on your shoulders as the eldest son, and I know how great you are in your heart and your courage."
Chris remembered how embarrassed he felt then, and how he tried to flee the moment, saying: "Stop this talk, Ronald, enough of this. Come, let's play and just leave the future for the future." Ronald replied with a clear laugh: "Fine."
The memory cleared, and Chris returned to the bitter reality. He looked at me—at Edward—but this time with a flicker of pity that masked a suicidal decision. He said in a low voice: "Not today, Edward. I'll be the hero this time."
With incredible speed, a movement my eyes couldn't track, Chris spun behind me like a predatory shadow. He wrapped his iron arm around my throat, cutting off my breath with a precision that prevented death but brought forced sleep. The world around me vanished, and I fell unconscious.
Chris brought a sturdy rope and bound me tightly to the bed to ensure I wouldn't follow him. He stood over me while I was senseless, wiped his tired face, looked at me one last time, and said quietly:
— "You need your rest for now. We'll talk in the morning again, if the sun rises upon us. Goodnight, my friend... goodbye."