Another fine bone china teacup shattered at his feet, tea splattering across the expensive carpet. “Has she admitted her mistak- es?” “How many times has she pleaded with me?” His voice was icy, devoid of emotion, but his clenched fists betrayed his current
agitation.
His personal assistant stood before the desk, fine beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, his voice trembling almost imper-
ceptibly. “Mr. Valerius… the prison… they said…”
Alistair snapped his head up, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Said what? Stop stuttering.”
The assistant swallowed, then forced himself to report. “They said… Miss Hawthorne… vanished into thin air.”
“Vanished?” Alistair twisted his lips into a cold smirk, as if he’d heard a ludicrous joke. “What new trick is she playing now?” That woman, she was faking her madness! Her tricks were endless, one despicable scheme after another.
However, the assistant quickly handed over a document and a security camera recording. “This is the prison report and surveillan- ce footage… The footage shows Miss Hawthorne suddenly disappearing from her cell, without any warning.”
Alistair picked up the tablet and played the video. In the footage, the woman, clad in a tattered prison uniform, huddled in a corner. Then, like a glitching television screen, she flickered a few times, before completely vanishing from the frame. The timestamp
froze on the exact second she disappeared.
His pupils constricted slightly, but then he scoffed, throwing the tablet back onto the desk. “Hmph, parlor tricks. Go investigate! Even if you have to dig three feet under the earth, bring her back to me!” He refused to believe it. Absolutely refused. If she could die and be reborn, this time she must have used some illicit means to escape again.
The assistant’s face grew even more troubled. “Mr. Valerius, we’ve already checked… All the prison guards who had contact with Miss Hawthorne…” His voice trailed off. “In their memories, Clara Hawthorne simply does not exist.”
Alistair suddenly stood, his chair scraping back with a jarring screech. “What did you say?” How could this be possible? He paced his office in agitation, snatching up the phone and dialing the prison warden directly. “Where is Clara Hawthorne?”
The warden’s puzzled voice came through the receiver. “Mr. Valerius? Who are you referring to? Our prison… we have no inmate by
that name.”
Alistair’s fingers, gripping the phone, turned white. He slammed it down. He stormed to his computer, pulling up all surveillance footage related to Clara Hawthorne. He watched it frame by frame, from the moment she was brought into the prison. However the images that should have clearly shown her humiliation, pain, and despair were now corroded by an invisible force. The edges of the footage blurred, pixelated. The parts showing her were slowly, irreversibly disappearing.
What was happening?
11.37
What in the name of the Grand Architect was happening?!
His gaze swept across his desk, falling upon a framed photograph. He had deliberately kept it there–a picture of Clara Hawthorne, still showing a hint of defiance and stubbornness. It was meant to be a constant reminder of how utterly loathsome this woman was. But now, the clear face in the frame was beginning to blur at the edges, its colors fading little by little, as if it had never exist-
- ed.
Alistair stared desperately at the fading photograph. For the first time, an uncontrollable, unfamiliar panic swelled in his heart. “Cl- ara Hawthorne…” he whispered her name, his voice betraying a hint of something he himself did not recognize.
Clara Hawthorne had been gone for thirty days. Alistair sat in his empty office. Mountains of files lay before him, untouched. The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his stubble rough. Not a trace of his former aloof, refined
demeanor remained.
“Where is she?! Thirty days of searching, has she learned to vanish into thin air?!” He swept the files from his desk onto the floor. Rapers scattered everywhere.
His assistant stood nearby, trembling. “Who, Mr. Valerius? Which Miss Hawthorne are you referring to?”
Alistair froze. “Who else? Clara Hawthorne!”
