Ophelia Moore certainly wasn't about to sit and wait for death in the archive room.
Waiting for death was never the Moore family way.
A second before the door handle turned, she swiftly bolted the heavy mahogany door from the inside.
Immediately after, she heard cursing and violent pounding from outside.
“Open up! You damned rat, you think hiding in there will save you?”
The security guard’s crude insults pierced through the door panel.
Ophelia ignored him.
Her mind was currently filled with the sea of red crosses on that ledger—a dark abyss representing death.
She had to survive.
She had to bring this blood-stained information into the light.
She frantically scanned the small, suffocating archive room, which reeked of old ink, finally spotting a ventilation duct near the edge of the ceiling in the corner.
That was her only way out.
Stepping onto a rickety shelf, she struggled to unscrew the cover using her fountain pen.
It was fortunate that she had a slender figure.
The vent was just wide enough for her to squeeze through.
However, the moment her head entered the dark tunnel, Ophelia felt the world’s deep malice.
Her chest almost got stuck on the edge of the outer metal frame.
In that instant, the air was forced out of her lungs, and the feeling of suffocation turned her face bright red.
Fortunately, as we all know, human fat is malleable.
Ophelia gritted her teeth and let out a silent scream in her heart.
A little squeeze, and she managed to reduce her volume enough to pass.
The second she slid deep into the duct, the archive room door below was violently blown open.
Scalding steam and the roars of security guards flooded the room, but they found nothing but a chamber full of dust.
After finally escaping Wayland Capital’s headquarters with the heavy documents, she was not greeted by sunlight.
Instead, she found endless shadows and pursuit.
When Ophelia returned to the newspaper office covered in dust, she thought she would receive support.
But the words of the Editor-in-Chief became the final straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Your identity has been found out, Ophelia.”
The Editor-in-Chief bit down on an unlit cigar, his expression as gloomy as a winter day in Landon.
It was a bolt from the blue.
Wayland Capital’s reach was even longer than she had anticipated.
“Now, the entire Landon police force and those uniformed thugs from their security department are looking for you on every street.”
The Editor-in-Chief looked at the stubborn girl and sighed.
“Until the investigation yields results and the evidence is made public, you absolutely cannot return to the office.”
“From this moment on, officially, the Landon Post will no longer recognize you as an employee. You are ‘fired.’”
Ophelia’s face was pale, but she didn't cry.
She knew this was the newspaper’s way of protecting itself.
“However…”
The Editor-in-Chief took an envelope from his drawer.
“From a personal perspective, I can only offer you some ‘illegal’ help within my power.”
He pressed the item into her palm.
“Take this. Your press card is still valid; at least it will let you look like a human being when necessary.”
The envelope was heavy.
Inside were fifty gleaming Velen gold crowns.
This was an absolute fortune.
It was enough to buy two years’ worth of food for an ordinary family—or a one-way ticket to hell.
Ophelia didn't say another word. She gave a deep bow, turned, and vanished into the smog outside the office.
She rushed home as fast as she could.
The suffocating sensation of racing against time made her head throb with anxiety.
She had no time to explain the truth. Almost by force, she ushered her panicked parents onto a carriage bound for their relatives in the countryside.
Then, she returned to the empty house.
She cut off her long hair.
She applied a fake beard.
She put on a rough, ill-fitting suit.
In that moment, Ophelia Moore died in Landon; in her place was a small man with a fierce gaze.
She boarded a train for Moon Bay.
Her plan was simple, perhaps even naive:
If she couldn't find answers in Landon, the center of power, then perhaps she could find the truth in that man-eating sea.
She only needed to find the people involved from three years ago and pry out the secrets behind those names.
But she never imagined that Wayland Capital’s information sharing was faster than the logic of the era.
In an age where a train’s speed could still be matched by a sturdy horse, Wayland’s various factions had shared their information in just a few hours.
When the train reached the Rockaway transfer station a few hours later...
Ophelia looked through the window and saw several figures in black uniforms waiting quietly on the platform.
They were Wayland’s hounds.
They held sketches in their hands, their eyes as cold as hunting dogs.
In that moment, Ophelia felt like her heart was going to stop.
She immediately blended into the crowd of people getting off, using her small stature to slip out through the door of another carriage.
Originally, this train was supposed to go from Galloway City to Bamford, near Hastings Port.
But in her panic, she could only act like a frightened mouse, scurrying onto another train nearby.
A train bound for Hope County.
She thought she could shake them off this way.
Who would have known that the fellows from Wayland Security Department would use some strange witchcraft or prohibited supernatural items?
Even when the train reached Hope County, the other party followed her like a shadow.
She didn't dare leave the station.
She couldn't start a life as a fugitive.
That would be irresponsible to herself and even more so to her family—once she vanished or died, the conspiracy behind those red crosses would never see the light of day.
Thus, she had to grit her teeth and switch trains again on the Hope County station platform.
She boarded this train heading from Hope County to Hastings Port.
And it was here.
Driven to a dead end and having just shaken off the few people who were nearly grabbing her coat tails, her only option was to shamelessly hide in the nearest first-class compartment.
It was the only safe house she could think of.
The clients in these compartments were either wealthy or noble. As arrogant as Wayland’s lackeys were, they wouldn't dare rashly offend a gentleman who looked to be worth a fortune without absolute proof.
Provided, of course, that this gentleman was willing to ‘bestow’ a little mercy.
However, the young ‘capitalist’ in the compartment clearly wasn't interested.
This gentleman’s gaze was as cold as a block of ice.
But Wayland’s men were closing in.
Ophelia had no choice but to find a place to crawl into.
At that moment, she felt like a stray cat with nowhere to hide, crawling under the paws of a tiger.
Two full days of continuous flight.
To maintain her male persona, she had to bind her body tightly. To ensure her frame didn't stand out, she had even used some self-harming methods of suppression.
This pressure, combined with prolonged psychological stress, left her feeling short of breath and tight-chested.
She knew that although Wayland’s people had been diverted for now, it didn't mean the alarm was cleared.
She had to prepare for the next stage of her disguise.
While those in Landon knew her identity, as long as she could first let the pursuers get used to this ‘shabby male’ image...
Then, at the next intermediate station, if she could switch back to a female outfit, she might be able to use that cognitive dissonance to buy herself a final chance at survival.
Now.
The heavy footsteps outside the compartment door finally faded into the distance.
Having hidden in the shadow of the seat for half the day, Ophelia truly couldn't hold on any longer.
Her face turned from pale to a slight shade of purple, and cold sweat soaked the shirt underneath.
It was a signal of her physiological limit.
Even though the young overbearing president across from her had strictly forbidden her from staying here...
Ophelia had made up her mind.
She would just have to be thick-skinned.
Compared to being caught and becoming a red cross on a ledger, this level of embarrassment was trivial.
She had to catch her breath here.
At the very least, she had to let her investigation plan proceed.
And so.
With trembling hands, Ophelia began to undo the restraints that were nearly snapping her ribs.
She first pulled her shirt out of her waistband and took a long breath of the perfume-scented air, which triggered a violent coughing fit.
Next.
She turned around and reached behind her back.
There were several tight strips of cloth there, binding her chest so hard that her heartbeat felt sluggish.
She wasn't trying to change clothes here.
She just wanted to loosen them.
To let those severely compressed areas recover a bit of blood flow.
However.
From Elias’s perspective across from her...
The visual impact of this scene was of nuclear proportions.
A woman disguised as a man had crawled out from under his seat, and the first thing she did was start unbuttoning in front of him.
Elias felt his brain cells dying off in droves.
“What are you doing?”
“Don't!”
Elias almost wanted to pull his gun.
Not to kill anyone, but to give himself some courage.
Ophelia froze at his shout. She turned her head and looked at Elias’s handsome face, which was distorted with horror.
Only then did she realize.
In the eyes of any normal gentleman, her current behavior probably looked no different from some professional habit of a specific industry.
“No, no, no!”
Ophelia hurriedly stopped her movements, though the sudden motion made the cloth strips behind her pull even tighter, causing her to gasp in pain.
Her face flushed red, and she clarified in a shrill voice:
“It’s not what you think!”
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