Impersonation

The heavy sound of the door closing was like a tombstone sealing a grave, cutting off the world inside from the world outside.

Inside the living room, silence reclaimed the space, with only the faint noise of the city drifting in from outside the window to prove that time was still moving.

A few seconds after Professor Vanason left, the bedroom door on the other side of the living room opened from within.

Sacia Taylor stepped out, her long platinum-blonde hair shimmering with the luster of cold metal under the dim indoor light.

Her expression was even more detached than before, and those azure eyes swept across the living room, finally landing on the man who had just impersonated the officer "Clovin."

"Your words just now had several obvious loopholes, Malcolm."

Her voice was cold and clear as she leveled a direct accusation at him.

"A laboratory accident caused by a top-secret scientific research project—that kind of excuse, when used on a professor of historical archaeology, doesn't hold water; it doesn't stand up to logical scrutiny.

Furthermore, you were so impatient to have him translate the notes that you even blurted out the truth about the real cause of Jeffrey's death—a detail waiting to be unearthed—which contradicted your earlier claims!

For a scholar terrified by the name 'Clovin,' such contradictions would easily breed suspicion once he calmed down."

The man known as Malcolm had already shed the mask of indifference that belonged to a "cold-blooded officer."

He tossed the forged black identification card, stamped with the emblem of a sword and shield, onto the lace-covered coffee table, the card making a faint "clack" as it hit the wooden surface.

"Things bought on the black market really do come in handy at critical moments. But... if I were caught by the real Clovin, I'd be dead," Malcolm shrugged, his movements becoming relaxed and slightly careless.

"Sacia, everything just now was enough. Fear is the best anesthetic; it can numb even the sharpest mind.

That Professor Vanason will only thank the gods now, grateful that he can still breathe the air outside this apartment. For a while, he won't dare to recall or investigate any details.

Even if he slowly senses something is off later, by the time he figures it out, we will have already achieved our goal. Does he really dare to knock on the door of Lepest to verify it?"

He scoffed with a hint of triumph. The name "Clovin" was the best pass and deterrent in the Empire; no one dared to verify its authenticity, especially after witnessing that... scene beyond reason in the study.

He walked with Sacia to the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room. Malcolm said, "Now, the focus is on the person Vanason just mentioned—Gallo Channing.

We were already observing him in secret back when Vanason first brought Jeffrey's materials to that kid."

He looked at Sacia and continued, "Fortunately, the kid is a businessman. As long as we pay, he'll work for us."

Sacia nodded slightly. She walked to the massive window and used her slender fingers to pull back a sliver of the heavy velvet curtain. Looking down, she saw Professor Vanason disappearing around the street corner, his steps unsteady and his spirit crushed, like an overly frightened rabbit.

"Yes." Her voice remained steady, but her pace slowed, taking on an analytical tone: "His learning ability and memory far exceed those of an ordinary person.

It's not just the astonishing speed; the key is... his ability to summarize, process, and analyze vast amounts of information!

Teacher Jeffrey's box of disorganized notes, filled with personal symbols and erratic thoughts—he was able to sort, archive, and accurately pinpoint Jeffrey's personal conjectures in an incredibly short time!"

She let go of the curtain, blocking out the light from outside, and turned around. The dim indoor light left half of her perfect face hidden in shadow, adding to her mystery.

"Our people have been tracking him for days, confirming his daily route to Lubo Lane and his home address.

A family in poverty, facing hardship, with a mother who is seriously ill and a young sister!"

Her gaze finally fell on the brown leather notebook that Malcolm had tossed onto the sofa, her eyes turning grave.

"Based on the current results, Jeffrey was successful; it was just that an accident occurred at some final, critical juncture. But everything we want is in here. As long as it can be translated...!"

"Then, you go and make contact with him." Malcolm handed the notebook to Sacia and instructed, "Keep your composure, Sacia.

Don't get targeted by the real Clovin!"

Sacia took the notebook, her fingertips feeling the cold, delicate texture of the leather.

She didn't speak, as if ignoring him, and carefully tucked the notebook into her small-looking handbag.

That evening, Gallo was walking back to Valen Street as usual.

The mental labor during the day had been exhausting, and he could clearly feel the fatigue in his mind.

In his pocket was a newly bought bottle of cough medicine; his mother's cough had eased, but it still needed treatment.

He then bought a small piece of braised meat and two sausages at the market.

He grumbled that these few items were truly expensive; the meat and sausages had cost him two Copper Nil.

An ordinary worker would never dare to dream of such a dinner on a day's wages.

However, thinking about the fifty-one Copper Nil and three Fenso he had earned today, Gallo felt fulfilled and wasn't even worried about his future life.

The high daily income allowed him to buy meat and fresh vegetables in the evenings these past few days. His explanation to his mother, Aisha, remained the same universal excuse: "The shopkeeper is very satisfied with my work, and since many books have been sold recently, he gave me a special bonus."

This fictional, generous bookstore owner had become the perfect shield for the source of income he couldn't explain in detail to his family.

However, just as he turned into a relatively quiet street, closer to home, that familiar feeling of being watched—like thorns against his back—quietly emerged again.

The sensation of being observed was clearer and more persistent than it had been in the bustling Lubo Lane during the day, carrying a sense of patience.

He deliberately slowed his pace and suddenly turned around at a corner piled with discarded wooden crates. Under the dim gas streetlamp, the street was empty, with only a few stray cats and dogs rummaging through trash for food, making rustling sounds.

The evening wind blew by, carrying a chill and kicking up dust from the ground.

Gallo's heart sank slightly. He quickened his pace, almost jogging back to 21 Valen Street. Only when he stepped onto the familiar, creaking narrow wooden stairs did the feeling of being watched recede like a receding tide.

Pushing open the wooden door to the attic, the warm air, scented with the aroma of stew, rushed to meet him, dispelling some of the chill from outside and the unease in his heart. The light from the kerosene lamp, though faint, was enough to illuminate this small, cramped, yet warm space.