Tina, still standing in the room, spoke again, her tone calm and unwavering. “Antonio, everything I’ve told you is true. I have no ulterior motives. You’re questioning me because it sounds impossible that anyone could know all these things… but didn’t you tell me yourself? Isn’t it your own revelations that gave me this knowledge? Was it you who told me about the creature? Was it you who told me about your mother’s death and your search for the killer? Was it you who told me about the seven missing scrolls?” Antonio’s jaw clenched, tension rippling across his face. “Yes… I told you those things. But that doesn’t mean I can trust you completely. Knowing these things doesn’t make you trustworthy. It only makes you knowledgeable—and knowledge can be used for good or ill.” Tina smiled faintly, a spark of mischief and reason intertwining in her expression. “Antonio, think about it logically. If I know all these details, there’s a reason. I’ve pieced it together from your experiences, fro

Antonio was still buttoning his shirt when the doorbell rang again, sharp and insistent, echoing through the quiet morning air. The sound cut through the stillness of the house like a blade, making him pause mid‑motion. He glanced briefly at the wall clock hanging opposite the corridor. It was early—too early. The kind of hour reserved for emergencies, not visitors. A faint crease formed between his brows as he lowered his hands and moved toward the door, every instinct already alert. As he reached the entrance, the doorbell rang once more, longer this time, as though whoever stood outside was determined not to be ignored. Antonio exhaled slowly and opened the door. He froze. Tina stood at his doorstep. She looked composed, almost radiant in the soft morning light. The rising sun brushed against her face, highlighting her features and giving her an almost unreal calmness. Her posture was confident, relaxed, and her lips curved into a familiar smile—one that, years ago, had the pow

Antonio remained quiet, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished mahogany desk. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t comment, didn’t even blink too often. Tina could see the storm brewing behind his eyes—the hesitation, the pain, and the lingering attachment he still had for Cynthia. Every subtle movement, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darted momentarily toward the city skyline outside, spoke volumes. It wasn’t disinterest; it was contemplation, a mind struggling to reconcile the past with the future, weighing loyalty against pragmatism.Tina watched him closely, her posture calm but deliberate, radiating patience and quiet authority. She had known Antonio long enough to understand the subtle nuances of his silence. She understood that when he didn’t respond immediately, it was not defiance but the slow, meticulous processing of information. Each pause, each delayed reaction, revealed the depth of his internal debate. Tina leaned back slightly, giving him the spac

The city skyline stretched beyond the glass like a living painting, but Antonio hardly noticed. His eyes were distant, staring past the towers and streets into the chaos of thoughts that had consumed him since yesterday. The images he had seen, the shock of discovering Cynthia in those photos, and the flood of conflicting emotions—they all churned inside him, leaving him restless and distracted. The office itself was unusually quiet, almost too quiet for a man who thrived on controlled chaos. Only the soft hum of the air conditioning disturbed the stillness. Antonio’s fingers drummed lightly on the polished mahogany desk, though he hardly registered the sound. His mind was elsewhere, cycling through disbelief, anger, and a creeping sense of betrayal. For a man who prided himself on being sharp, calculating, and always in control, feeling powerless in the face of uncertainty was intolerable. A soft knock on the door cut through the tension like a knife. Antonio barely registered it

The black vehicle remained parked long after Antonio’s car disappeared into traffic.Inside, the shadowed figure ended the call and stared ahead, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel.“Phase two,” he muttered again.Across the city, in a quiet house where the television flickered without being watched, Cynthia sat motionless on the couch. The argument from the previous night replayed in her mind in jagged fragments—Antonio’s disbelief, the coldness in his voice, the way he had looked at her as if she were a stranger.Her phone lay on the table beside her.No new messages.No apology.No attempt to understand.She inhaled slowly and reached for her laptop instead.If someone had fabricated those images, they hadn’t done it sloppily. The lighting, the angles, even the shadows were consistent. It was more than a simple Photoshop job. Whoever orchestrated it had resources.And motive.She opened the image files Antonio had forwarded earlier and began zooming in on details—t