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At two in the morning, the plane from San Francisco to Landon takes off.

Sylvan Cheney’s brow furrows tightly, his jaw strained, a chilling coldness covers his refined face.

He holds an envelope in his slender fingers.

The envelope has been opened, and it’s filled with freshly developed photographs.

A lot of them.

As Sylvan flips through them one by one, his face ashes, casting a gloomy atmosphere.

It is as foreboding as the sky before a storm: dark, dreary.

Charles Mcintosh stands by, silent, afraid to disrupt him.

The protagonists of the photos are none other than Jasmine Yale and Joe Heath.

The two of them are drinking and singing in a private room; Joe lighting fireworks for Jasmine; Joe sending Jasmine home.

In the photographs, the two of them are extremely intimate.

Especially the way Jasmine looks at Joe, her eyes are tender with affection and idolization.

A thick stack of photos, approximately twenty or so pieces.

Sylvan’s eyes are bloodshot.

After viewing all of them, he tears each photograph and hands them to Charles.

Sylvan does not speak, and Charles doesn’t dare to break the silence.

The air becomes exceptionally silent and still.

Sylvan closes his eyes slightly; his brows furled, his face unpleasant. He seems to be contemplating something.

After a while, he glances at Charles, his tone is icy-cold yet resolute.

“Charles, what, in your opinion, should I do to a disloyal and dishonest brother like Joe Heath?”

Charles’s heart skips a beat.

“Sir, CEO Heath probably doesn’t know that Miss Yale is with you.”

A smile of mockery tugged at the corner of Sylvan’s lips and lifts ever so lightly.

The air falls silent once more, now laden with an intense, potent undercurrent.

“You may leave now,” Sylvan orders.

“Yes, Mr. Cheney.”

Charles cleaned up the table and quietly withdrew.

Fourteen hours later, the plane lands in Landon International Airport.

It is four in the morning in Landon, covered in a hazy night light.

The surroundings are pitch-black.

The early winter brings an abrupt drop in temperature and a chilling cold whenever the wind blows.

As soon as they exit the plane, Charles handed Sylvan his coat.

Sylvan takes it, puts it on, and heads towards the Rolls-Royce parked outside the airport.

The arrival of Landon’s winter is premature, leaving the trees bare.

This deep cold night, so dark, the colossal darkness hangs over Landon’s night sky.

The Rolls-Royce speeds across the unoccupied land, its friction against the air emits a “whoosh” sound. The trees outside receded at remarkable speed.

The whole night is chilling cold.

Inside the car is dark, Sylvan’s sharp eyes are slightly alarmed, his jawline tense.

He takes out a lighter from his pocket and lights a cigarette.

The smoke curls up, and the night falls lower.

After going through half a pack of cigarettes, the Rolls-Royce stops in front of the entrance to Cheney Residence.

Cheney Residence is quiet. There’s not a sound.

Butler Santana received a call from Charles in advance and had been waiting at the door with other servants for a while.

The car stops.

The air is filled with a mist, dimly veiled.

The fog has rolled in, causing the streetlights to dim down a few shades.

The bodyguard stands by the car, Charles opens the car door for Sylvan.

Sylvan stands alone, wearing a long black coat. The night enfolds him, casting a longer shadow of him.

“Mr. Cheney,” Butler Santana’s respectful demeanor intensifies.

Sylvan raises his head to look at the third floor.

The entire floor is pitch-black.

A touch of cold light flashes within his sharp eyes.

“Where is Jasmine Yale?” he asked in a low voice.

In his voice, there’s an additional hint of a travel-wearied huskiness.

“Miss Yale is not here,” Butler Santana responds, bowing his head.

With those words being let out, Sylvan’s face darkens a few more shades.

Everyone lowers their heads, not daring to breathe.