8

Paul stared nervously at the study door, hardly daring to breathe. The sound of footsteps pausing outside felt like a hammer striking his heart, each second of silence stretching endlessly, his nerves stretched to their breaking point.

After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps slowly retreated, fading into the distance until they were gone. Only then did Paul let out a long breath, his back already soaked with cold sweat, clinging chillingly to his clothes.

But he had no time to dwell on that. His mind raced over the eerie moment, wondering who had been outside and whether they'd overheard his call with Townsend.

He cautiously opened the study door, poking his head out to glance around. The hallway was empty, unnervingly quiet, lit only by the dim yellow glow of wall sconces, their flickering shadows hiding countless secrets.

Paul tiptoed out, reaching the living room just as Beatrice, Ava, and Tracy sat on the sofa, whispering among themselves. The moment they saw him, their conversation halted, and three pairs of eyes turned to him, their scrutiny sharper than ever. Paul felt transparent, as if they could see straight through to the secrets buried in his heart.

Forcing a smile, he approached them and asked, "What are you all talking about so mysteriously?"

Beatrice glanced at him, her eyes tinged with distance, her tone flat: "Nothing much, just some casual chit-chat."

Ava, less easily appeased, gave him a sly smile and raised an eyebrow: "Krook, you were in the study for so long. Busy with something important? Or is there a secret you don't want us to know about?"

Paul's heart lurched. He quickly deflected: "What secret? Just dealing with some company paperwork—things have been hectic lately. Don't overthink it."

Tracy let out a soft huff, cutting in coolly: "Krook, that sounds a bit dismissive. We've been together long enough to tell when you're being honest. Your behavior's been so strange lately—rumors from the company, and now you're all secretive at home. What do you take us for?"

Paul was struck speechless, feeling like he was sinking into quicksand—the more he struggled, the deeper he sank. Cornered by their relentless pressure, his mind was a tangled mess, unsure how to respond.

"I… I didn't mean anything by it. It's just stress—maybe I've mishandled some things and caused a misunderstanding. I'll be more careful, I swear. Trust me."

His voice carried a hint of pleading, desperately hoping they'd let it go. But deep down, he knew it was a futile wish.

Beatrice sighed softly, her eyes full of disappointment. "Darling, the way you're acting now, it's hard for us to trust you like we used to. We don't want it to be this way, but you need to give us a reason we can believe."

Paul opened his mouth to explain further, but no suitable excuse came to mind. He realized the trust between him and these women had cracked—a deep fissure growing visibly wider, threatening to shatter everything he'd worked so hard to maintain.

Just then, his phone buzzed. Glancing down instinctively, he saw a message from Townsend: "How's it going? You'd better stabilize things fast. I'm hearing some rustling—don't let it all fall apart now."

Paul's face went pale, his hands trembling as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. But the subtle movement didn't escape Ava's sharp eyes.

"Oh, Paul, who's that? You look so nervous—something you can't tell us about?" Ava pressed, her gaze unrelenting, determined to get answers.

Paul stammered, "N-no one… just a friend, something trivial. Stop prying."

His words lacked any conviction, and the women's stares grew more skeptical, exchanging knowing looks.

To Paul, it felt as if they'd silently reached a consensus: they had to uncover the truth about this "Krook."

Outside, the night was pitch black, the wind howling as it rattled the windows, as if something desperate were trying to break in—or as if it were playing an ominous tune to the trust crisis brewing within the villa.

Gazing out at the dark void, Paul felt despair and helplessness wash over him. He was cornered, surrounded by suspicious eyes.

The truth, teetering like the sword of Damocles above his head, could fall at any moment, plunging him into an abyss from which there'd be no return. Powerless, he could only struggle on in the darkness, clinging to the faint hope of a miracle.

Meanwhile, in a secret chamber three floors beneath the office building, the real Krook sat in dead silence and shadow.

A single dim yellow bulb cast a feeble glow, barely illuminating a small patch around it. The walls bore faint, mottled marks, whispering untold secrets of the past.

Krook sat on a simple cot, his eyes burning with anger and resolve. His fists clenched tight, knuckles whitening, his mind racing with plans to escape this prison and expose Townsend's vile scheme to the world.

Suddenly, heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed outside. Krook knew it was Townsend, bringing his meal.

Everything here—every detail—was handled by Townsend personally.

This secret was known only to him and Paul.

Krook snapped to attention, his eyes locked on the sealed door, ears straining for any sound, wondering if this might be a chance to find a flaw.

A small slot at the door's base slid open, and a tray was pushed through. Townsend's voice followed: "Hmph, Paul, eat up. Don't try anything funny."

Krook snorted coldly, retorting, "Don't get too smug. Once I'm out, none of you will escape!"

Townsend laughed mockingly. "Out? Keep dreaming. Stay put—no one's finding you here." His footsteps faded away.

Krook eyed the tray, an idea sparking. This tray might be useful.

He grabbed the spoon, scraping it hard against the tray's edge, producing a grating "scrape-scrape" sound. He aimed to carve a plea for help—perhaps his rough location or a simple "SOS."

As he focused on his task, a faint murmur of a phone conversation drifted from outside, barely audible.

Krook's heart tightened, praying it meant something was stirring out there—maybe someone was investigating his disappearance. He felt an urgent need to hasten his escape, not wanting to miss a potential rescue.

Unbeknownst to him, Townsend had already replaced him with Paul.

He kept carving, finishing the message. Then, carefully, he moved to the vent below the ceiling. It was narrow, but just wide enough for the tray.

With great effort, Krook pushed the tray upward through the vent, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes shone with determination as he silently prayed someone would find it—a lifeline to the outside.

After securing the tray, he began inspecting the chamber further, running his hands along the walls for loose bricks or hidden mechanisms.

At one corner, he felt a brick shift slightly under pressure. His heart leapt—could this be his way out?

He crouched, working to pry it loose, when urgent footsteps—more than one pair—suddenly approached. His pulse raced. Had Townsend noticed something, or was this just a routine check?

He stood quickly, sitting back on the cot as if nothing had happened, his eyes wary on the door, hands slick with sweat…

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Paul struggled under the women's suspicious gazes, oblivious to Krook's desperate fight for freedom and truth in that hidden cell.

Two threads of fate, pulling taut in separate realms, were on the verge of colliding as the truth neared the surface. A greater storm brewed in the shadows, waiting to erupt.