"That black car just sat there. No one came out. You remember, don't you? When Adelia pulled a baseball bat from her bag and approached the car, intending to smash the windows."
"But as it turned out, the person inside was a staff member from ASpire Entertainment. We were stunned—but our shock only deepened when we realized it wasn't just the staff in there. The members of CATYOURS were inside, too."
"The staff member himself looked even more horrified to see you still sprawled on the asphalt. He rushed over to you immediately. What was his name… Mr. Brian, right?"
"Do you want to know what Mr. Brian said when Adelia and I insisted on accompanying you to the hospital?"
However, before Margaret could even part her lips to answer, Adelia's voice cut through the air between them first.
"He shouted in a tone of pure panic and agitation, 'You don't need to come! Let me handle Miss Visclonew!'"
Adelia mimicked the intonation so vividly, it was as if the shadow of the man named Brian was standing before them once again—his face pale, movements frantic, eyes darting around for a foothold amidst the chaos. She even replicated his frantic expression in chilling detail.
"Rachel and I were stunned, of course. We stood there frozen for several minutes before the ambulance doors finally slammed shut."
"Brian, that staff member, and the CATYOURS members got back into their car and trailed the ambulance from behind, leaving us both reeling from what we had just heard."
Her tone remained laced with sarcasm. Her voice dipped slightly, not because she was stifling emotion, but because she was busy chewing her meatball with the rhythm of someone who was famished.
"I started thinking..."
Rachel interjected.
She grabbed a bottle of chili sauce nearby, the cap popping open with a small click.
The thick, dark red sauce dripped slowly, landing precisely on top of the meatball on her plate. She tilted the bottle with careful precision, ensuring just enough came out to sharpen the flavor without overdoing it, as her voice followed,
"If someone calls you 'Miss' in a tone that is panicked yet dripping with deep respect, it means they know you."
"I immediately thought… he, Mr. Brian, must be someone you know—perhaps a neighbor, a relative, anyone. But because his tone was so deferential, it was unlikely he was from your neighborhood. He must be someone who knows you from a circle where he feels obligated to show you respect."
"An impossible thought crossed my mind. I suspected Mr. Brian knew you because of your connection to ASpire Entertainment. There's no way a grown man would show such excessive respect to a high school student like you if it weren't for that."
"From the way he addressed you, I felt not just respect, but an overwhelming fear. It strengthened my suspicion that he had just made a catastrophic mistake… because he had harmed you, knowing exactly who you were to the agency."
Margaret's back stiffened instantly, as if her bones were being rearranged by a jolt of electricity.
A faint glint appeared in her eyes. It wasn't the sound of the sauce bottle hitting the wooden table with a short clink that did it, but the weight of Rachel's logic hitting the center of her mind—accurate, sharp, and impossible to deny.
A faint slurp echoed from Adelia's direction.
She leaned down slightly, ensuring the very last drop of iced tea in her glass was gone before releasing the straw from her lips.
The sound snapped Margaret's attention back instantly; her instincts flared, sensing that the floor had once again shifted back to Adelia. After dabbing her lips with a napkin, Adelia lifted her head, her gaze locking onto Margaret's.
"Do you want to know what the receptionist at Bohanesa Hospital said when we asked where your room was?"
She drew a breath, as if pulling back the curtain on a dusty memory, then continued.
"The moment I mentioned your name, the receptionist looked startled. Hesitantly, she said, 'I'm sorry, but no one is allowed to visit except for the victim's family.'"
Adelia's voice shifted mid-sentence.
It was no longer her own; she borrowed a foreign tone—the voice of the receptionist she had encountered.
Her pitch went higher, trembling slightly, as if the fear was still lodged in her throat. Even her facial expression morphed; her brows arched excessively, eyes widening, and her lips pulled into a stiff, rigid line, mirroring the panic etched into her memory.
"Rachel and I understood the rules, and we didn't mind them at all. But what made the situation feel bizarre was the sheer terror on that receptionist's face. It wasn't just her expression—her shoulders were actually shaking."
"I was about to ask what had frightened her so badly when suddenly, the sound of fast, hurried footsteps thundered from behind us. At that moment, we were completely paralyzed."
She ended the sentence with a slow shake of her head.
Her mind jumped back to that split second that had nearly frozen her heart in place. She had held her breath then, her eyes blown wide in shock—not the kind of shock you laugh off later, but the kind that leaves a haunting, hollow silence in your head.
"Mr. Victor—the CEO of ASpire Entertainment—appeared with a face so pale and panicked, he looked as if he were possessed,"
Rachel interjected.
Her voice remained flat, nearly devoid of inflection, while her gaze was cold—not a threatening cold, but a stillness that was far too controlled to be taken lightly.
"Only then did the receptionist reveal your room number, her voice still thick with terror. Even as she double-checked her computer, her entire body was trembling. Once he had the information, Mr. Victor bolted toward the nearest elevator."
"But before we could even catch our breath, the sound of hurried, frantic footsteps echoed again. This time, from our side."
"A doctor appeared. He was towering—at least one hundred and ninety centimeters tall. He wore glasses and a full white lab coat."
"When he reached the desk, he demanded answers in a tone laced with panic, agitation, and sheer anxiety. His jaw was so tight the veins in his neck were bulging. I could feel him suppressing a violent rage."
"The receptionist's fear only intensified. she could only answer his questions with stiff, frantic nods. Moments later, the doctor rushed toward the same elevator Mr. Victor had taken, heading straight for your room."
Rachel ended her sentence with a heavy sigh, her hand reaching for the glass of iced tea that was still half-full. She took a sip—not a deep one, just enough to find a pause.
"So… that's how it is. We already knew everything—even before we knew the rumors about you were spreading."
"Adelia and I concluded that Mr. Victor was your father—which meant my initial hunch was correct: you were tied to ASpire. As for that doctor… he clearly wasn't just anyone. He didn't just know you; he acted as if he possessed knowledge of you that no one else had."
"His panic peaked when the receptionist mentioned that a Doctor Berry Hatwon had been assigned to your case. His face twisted with pure resentment. It was as if he wanted to seize control of your care—as if he felt he knew your body better than anyone else in that building."
"That's why we aren't truly angry. Or… maybe we were, just a little, at first."
"We understand. There must be a reason why you never revealed your true identity. That is why you never shared much about yourself with us. And besides, we don't have the right to demand that knowledge, do we? Everyone is entitled to their privacy. Not everything in this world is meant for others to know. We truly understand that."
"But…"
She paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her tea.
And in that moment—just as Margaret remained stunned, or more accurately, frozen—her entire body turned rigid.
Then, without warning, Adelia tapped the table with a light strike—not hard, but enough to shatter the stiffness gripping the air.
That faint clink made Margaret flinch, her body letting out a soft, stifled groan. Meanwhile, Rachel, who had been calmly sipping her iced tea, suddenly choked. Her eyes went wide for a fleeting second before she managed to catch her breath and compose herself.
"Back to my first question..."
Adelia's tone hardened.
"Why didn't you pick up the phone when Rachel and I called? Why didn't you reply to even a single message we sent?"
"Do you have any idea how worried we were? We couldn't even visit you in the hospital. We didn't even know where you lived."
"You weren't avoiding us, were you, Margaret?"
"Or… were you worried back then that we would interrogate you about the rumors?"
"Or maybe…" Adelia paused, her voice dropping lower. "Were you afraid that Rachel and I would become like the people out there? The kind who, once they find out who you really are, only want to use you?"
Her voice was quiet, yet it was crystal clear that her annoyance hadn't fully dissipated. Every word she uttered felt measured—a delicate balance between simmering anger and the deep-seated worry she tried to hide.
The accusations falling from her lips weren't stinging or painful; they weren't like a whip meant to lash out. Instead, they were like a veiled plea, seeking answers, demanding clarity, and calling for an explanation without having to force it.