Marcellus sat on the sofa, the luxury watch on his wrist reflecting dazzling light under the lamp. His high-end suit accentuated his broad shoulders and tapered waist, highlighting his impeccable physique. Even while seated, he exuded an air of aloofness and restrained allure.
Bramwell glanced at him and thought to himself how Marcellus's appearance was identical to Cyrus's in photographs, yet their temperaments were completely different. Noticing Bramwell's gaze, Marcellus, still faintly smelling of alcohol, asked politely, "Officer Bramwell, how long have you been undercover around Arabella?"
"At first, I positioned myself under one of her trusted subordinates. I planned to take things slow, but circumstances changed, and I had to replace my leader as her subordinate," Bramwell replied, mixing truth with lies. It was difficult to define right and wrong when dealing with someone like Arabella. He was no exception, nor was Taras. The difference was that Bramwell had faltered, while Taras remained steadfast in his pursuit of justice.
Marcellus nodded without replying. He wasn't particularly familiar with Bramwell; everyone had their own stance in this game. The Faceless Ghost distrusted him, while Taras insisted on believing in him. For Marcellus, it didn't matter. After so many years, he was confident in his strength and ability. Whatever Arabella planned, he was sure he could keep her with him.
Bramwell, however, broke the silence. "General Ackerley, you look a bit tired. Since I'm on duty tonight anyway, why don't you head back early and rest?"
Marcellus glanced instinctively at the bed hidden behind the drawn curtains. He would never reveal his obsessive, maddening desires for Arabella in front of others. For years, he had maintained his icy composure and restrained himself. But now, with her so close, just within reach, he found his patience unraveling after only a few days.
"It's fine. Since I'm here, Officer Blackthorn, you can rest now," Marcellus said, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable undertone of dismissal.
Bramwell immediately caught on to Marcellus's subtle hint to leave. Masking his thoughts, he nodded and rose to his feet, then paused as if suddenly remembering something. "General Ackerley, why not freshen up in the adjacent suite and change into some clean clothes?"
Marcellus considered the suggestion and found it reasonable. "Then I'll trouble you to wait for a moment, Officer Blackthorn. I'll be right back," he replied softly.
Once Marcellus's departure was certain, Bramwell's expression shifted abruptly. He was uneasy about Marcellus's unexpected visit—if Arabella were awake, Marcellus might notice something and complicate matters. Worried, Bramwell darted to the bedside and pulled back the curtain, intending to question Arabella. To his surprise, she had fallen back into a deep sleep.
He let out a quiet sigh of relief, reassured that Arabella's sleep was genuine and not a pretense. Quickly, he released the curtain and returned to the sofa. As he settled back into his seat, a sudden thought struck him. The ease with which Arabella controlled her physical state felt oddly familiar, yet he couldn't immediately pinpoint why.
It wasn't until he left the hospital and the cold wind hit his face that realization dawned on him. Surprise flickered in his eyes as he looked up at the VIP suite. The conclusion he had pieced together was too shocking, almost unbelievable.
Meanwhile, in the hospital room, Marcellus had already changed into a beige cardigan and matching casual trousers. Someone of his stature had to be ready for countless engagements every day, visiting various places and attending different events. Naturally, his secretary made sure to prepare seven or eight outfits and accessories for him daily, fitting every possible occasion.
The bedside light had been dimmed, yet Marcellus could still clearly see the fine, delicate hairs on Arabella's pale face. In the soft orange glow, her peaceful, sleeping form reminded him of a luscious, fragrant fruit, one he had an almost primal urge to bite into. While a tempest raged in his heart, Arabella was a rare island of sweetness and warmth.
He sat by her bedside for a long time, uncharacteristically at peace. In truth, it made sense. Between people, words could spawn countless outcomes. But he and Arabella were always destined for a deadlock. Only in moments when there was nothing left to say did things feel like this—calm on the surface, turbulent beneath.
He and Arabella had only experienced such a peaceful moment twice in their lives. The first had been a stolen moment—taken from his brother, Cyrus. That year, Arabella had been imprisoned in the mountains and injured in her first encounter with a tiger. Cyrus had been so distraught that he begged their father to treat her injuries. Enraged, their father had locked Cyrus in solitary confinement for over half a month.
Marcellus couldn't explain what he had felt then—his heart seemed to pound until it was about to burst. Without betraying his thoughts, he used his savings to buy a trove of medicine, then disguised himself in his brother's clothes and ran through the night to the mountain where Arabella was held. He had often trailed behind Cyrus to secretly observe him and Arabella. As such, he was intimately familiar with the places they used to meet.
It was the only unguarded spot in the mountains—a sheer cliffside considered impenetrable, guarded only by a tall, electrified fence. But to Arabella, the cliff was no obstacle. She had long mastered its challenges, dangling from branches and climbing with the agility of a monkey. By the time Marcellus arrived under the cover of darkness, he had missed Cyrus and Arabella's usual meeting time. His heart raced with anxiety, torn between fear of being late and dread of Arabella seeing through his disguise.
Sweating profusely and gasping for breath, he finally saw a faint glow in the darkness and felt a wave of relief. He buried his head in his bag, avoiding looking directly at Arabella and too scared to speak, lest she notice something was amiss. Arabella was silent, her breathing barely audible. Though she had evaded the tiger during the day, its claws had grazed her. Blood had streamed from her wounds as she barely managed to retreat to the safety of the treetops.
He exerted force, using a folding extension tool to toss the backpack over the fence—this was the usual method Cyrus used to deliver things to Arabella. After tossing the bag, he instinctively stepped back, only to hear Arabella's hoarse voice: "Cyrus, why are you running?"
Cyrus? It seemed Arabella hadn't seen through his disguise.
His worries eased slightly, and as if driven by some strange force, he stepped closer and imitated his brother's voice, speaking softly, "Are you badly hurt?"
Arabella sat on a boulder by the fence, casually swinging a dim flashlight in her hand. With a bright smile, she said, "It's fine. This time the tiger chased me, but next time I'll be the one chasing the tiger. Don't worry."
Were his brother and Arabella always this carefree and happy when they talked? In that moment, he glanced at Arabella, a flicker of envy blooming in his heart. The envy was soon accompanied by a faint sense of loathing, and his words trembled as he spoke. "Don't push yourself too hard. You scared me out of my wits today. Luckily, I thought of a solution in time—"
Before he could finish, Arabella interrupted, her voice tinged with surprise. "So the loud gunshots in the distance were your doing? Clever of you to make noise and distract the tiger. If it hadn't been startled, I wouldn't have had the chance to drive it away and escape in time. I'd have been tiger food by now."
He shut his mouth, regretting his boast. Distracting the tiger was his contribution as Marcellus. During the day, his older brother only rushed off to find their father to save Arabella, but he was the one who, without hesitation, charged to the fence. He grabbed a guard's gun and fired wildly into the air, desperate to scare the tiger away. But now, disguised as Cyrus, this credit was falsely attributed to his brother, which left him deeply unwilling. Yet, if he didn't acknowledge it, he would regret losing this rare chance to grow closer to Arabella. At that moment, the turmoil within made him feel like he was on the verge of spitting blood from frustration. After a long silence, he bit his lip, reluctantly giving a quiet response.
Later that night, he stayed by the railing, chatting with Arabella. For the first time, he discovered her playful side. She laughed and folded origami animals out of medication pamphlets. That night was beautiful, like a dream that could shake the stars from the sky. Even if there was no moon, it didn't matter—Arabella, with the faint glow of her flashlight, was the most radiant moon in the heavens.
Perhaps it was because the memory of that night was too beautiful, making him sleep too deeply, or maybe it was because Taras was far more skilled than Marcellus. In any case, when Taras quietly pushed open the door to the hospital room, Marcellus was slumped on the soft chair beside the bed, his fingers intertwined with Arabella's, sleeping soundly. Taras's gaze darkened as he closed the door behind him, sealing off the light and leaving him intruding on this private world that belonged only to Marcellus and Arabella.
In that moment, what had always felt off in Taras's mind was finally confirmed—Marcellus's supposed cooperation with international police was merely a pretense. In truth, all he wanted was to possess Arabella, and he would never allow her to face a fair and public trial.
The news of Arabella's capture could no longer be delayed; it had to be made public soon, forcing Marcellus to comply under the weight of international scrutiny.
After Taras silently left the room, Arabella, who had been lying still in a deep sleep, suddenly opened her eyes. Her gaze flickered toward the sleeping Marcellus by her bedside, carrying a faint but chilling ambiguity.
At the same time, two members of the Night Owl Intelligence List were reporting the intelligence they had gathered to Nicholas.
"Master Unknown was always discreet in her actions, and no one could track her effectively. Despite our efforts, her whereabouts back then remained a complete mystery."
"So, what have you managed to uncover?"
"We discovered that just before Arabella entered the Manos Swamp, she had an attendant with her. He was the only one by her side, attending to her personally. We looked into his background, and strangely enough, it was as if he were a blank slate—a person who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. After Arabella entered the swamp, he vanished without a trace. It's possible he died in the swamp, as he was never seen again."
Nicholas nodded and pressed on, "What about others? Did that old guy in Yamae reveal anything?"
"Boss, that's exactly what we need to report. Shortly after that person disappeared, the old guy showed up in Yamae. To say there's no connection between the two would be too much of a coincidence."
Nicholas sat upright in his chair, silent for a long moment before bursting into laughter—wild, unrestrained laughter. When he finally stopped, traces of amusement lingered in the curve of his lips.
After dismissing his subordinates, Nicholas took out a photo of Arabella from his pocket—a picture of her with a cold, deadly gaze through an electrified fence. His eyes were filled with a tangled mix of love and resentment. He stared at it silently for a long time, and in the end, all that remained in his gaze was a fierce, burning obsession.
"So, in the end, you want no one. You just want us both to be destroyed, for us all to die."
Nicholas murmured, holding the photo and gently placing a kiss on it. "It's okay. I always knew a true warrior like you would be this way. Whatever I do for you, I'll gladly do it without regret."
