Chapter 18 - So Many Questions
"Why do I feel like Mister Reynold is going to murder, Mister Blake?"
"Are we seriously going to save Selene Sinclair?! The woman who smashed our chairmans' family heirloom?"
Inside the caravan of black SUVs, the gruff bodyguards of the Hamilton Group lamented among themselves.
"It was worse! I heard she even tried to buy him! For just one million at that!"
"We are all going to be murdered…"
Meanwhile, it was a quiet night at Atlantis Maximum Detention Facility.
Correction: It was supposed to be.
The guards looked more tense than ever—as if they were not watching over a prison, but a shady cult planning world domination.
They wiped their brows with cold hands.
Whispers skittered like rats in the corner.
And all eyes were locked on the gates, where a sleek convoy of matte black SUVs rolled in like the judgement day was on schedule.
The door of the car in the front opened.
Blake stepped out.
Dressed in so much black that one could almost not differentiate him from the black SUVs. Nevertheless, he looked like a storm that was about to crush everything.
Behind him, twenty bodyguards stepped out of their own vehicles one by one.
"Uh, sir," one of them whispered. "You sure this isn't… a bit much?"
Blake didn't turn. His gaze was locked on the prison entrance. Still. Calculating.
"Damage control," he said, flat.
The guard hesitated. "For what?"
Blake didn't answer.
He didn't need to. The headlines had already carved their version of truth into the public psyche.
BREAKING: SELENE SINCLAIR ARRESTED!
DID THE INFAMOUS HEIRESS ROB A BANK? OR JUST HER OWN FAMILY?
IS IT TRUE THAT SHE TRIED TO POISON THE BELOVED BIANCA SINCLAIR???
But this was not just about the headlines.
Blake's jaw flexed.
Selene Sinclair wasn't just an heiress or a scandal magnet. She was—regrettably—the largest private shareholder in Hamilton Group.
A boardroom ghost with no business background, no financial training, no track record. Just a pile of unexplained billions and a disturbingly dramatic personal life.
Blake didn't trust that combination.
He didn't trust her.
He didn't even like her.
And yet…
He'd answered her call.
She said nothing.
And still, he hadn't hung up.
Not even when Reynold's eyes—sharp enough to slice flesh—narrowed from across the room. Blake had felt the weight of that glare. Like judgment incarnate. But for some reason, his thumb stayed frozen above the screen.
And… he waited for something to happen.
Reynold would be furious when he finds out what Blake was doing.
'He might really murder me.' Blake thought with a heavy heart.
But Reynold wasn't Blake's real boss. Not technically. Not yet.
Blake still answered to the old man. The founder. The architect of Hamilton Group. A man who believed in contingency plans, and left Blake enough authority to be his own escape hatch.
And this? This was exactly that.
At the front checkpoint, a senior officer approached, clipboard in hand. Suspicious. Arrogant. Unaware.
Blake handed him a card—matte black, borderless, embossed with Hamilton code.
Ten seconds passed.
The officer's phone buzzed.
One glance later, his face drained like a faucet had been turned off inside him. He stepped back so fast he nearly knocked over a potted plant.
"W-Welcome to Atlantis Max, sir. Herbal tea?"
Blake didn't answer.
He walked in like the ground owed him rent.
The walk down to Cell Block B should've smelled like bleach and broken dreams.
Instead, it smelled like… butter?
Blake's eyes narrowed. He paused near a ventilation shaft and inhaled again. "Is that… lobster?"
One of his bodyguards sniffed as well. "Might be. Probably some psychological torture method. Starve the inmates while pumping gourmet aromas through the vents. Cruel. Genius."
Blake gave a slow, contemplative nod. That made sense. Atlantis Max had a reputation for being unreasonably cruel. Ruthless. Cold. All this made sense… in a way.
Until they heard a sound—jazz. Smooth. Live. Somewhere not far.
Blake stopped walking. "Why is there music?"
His top bodyguard blinked slowly. "I read about this. It's called Cultural Deprivation Reversal."
"That sounds made up," Blake said flatly.
"No, it's real," the guard insisted. "They overcorrect by exposing inmates to luxury they can't touch. Five-star scents, ambient music… maximum suffering."
Another added, "One guy reportedly snapped after smelling chocolate truffle for three weeks. Cried during his next court hearing."
Blake just stared forward.
All this while, the officers guiding them remained very silent.
They finally stopped outside cell 401.
The cell door creaked open.
Blake stepped in first—and stopped dead.
Selene Sinclair was lounging on a queen-size bed with silk sheets that absolutely should not have existed in a prison cell. She wore a silk robe that caught the overhead lights like moonlight in a Chanel ad. Her legs were crossed.
A single hand hung limply from the side of the bed like a painting titled 'Bored Heiress in Captivity'.
Beside her, a chef—a full-fledged chef, Blake noted with increasing confusion—expertly blowtorched a lobster tail while softly humming Debussy.
At the far end of the room, an inmate who could pass for a war criminal's tattooed uncle was knitting a pastel scarf with rhinestone accents.
"For her cat," the man grunted when he noticed Blake. "Gotta protect royalty from the chill."
Selene blinked her sleepy eyes when she noticed someone had arrived there.
"…Blake?" she mumbled, like he'd woken her from her afternoon nap. "Why do you look like a disapproving priest at my third wedding?"
Blake stared for five full seconds.
His brain struggled to reboot.
"You're drinking… shimmering water," he said finally, watching the bottle in her hand sparkle like liquid crystal.
"Hydration Is important," she said simply, sipping. "Also, it's cucumber-lavender."
His fingers twitched. "There's a violinist on the guard tower."
"It's therapeutic. Helps with the trauma."
"Trauma… Miss Sinclair?" Blake asked quietly, though his gaze could have frozen the sun. "You're the most pampered prisoner in the solar system."
Selene placed her glass down and yawned.
"Well, anyway, what brings you here?"
The twenty bodyguards behind Blake looked like they wanted to commit arson. They went against their chairman. Took so much risk. All because… all because they thought they were going to save someone in need.
But now?
Blake fixed his glasses with an annoyed expression and said coldly. "We came to rescue you, Miss Sinclair."
Selene paused.
Then blinked. Slowly. Genuinely confused.
"…Why?"
And for a moment—just a moment—her voice cracked. Only a little. But it cracked.
Because no one had ever asked that before. No one had ever shown up for her before. Not after she was kicked out of the Sinclair Mansion. Not like this.
Blake clenched his jaw, looked away. "You called. You didn't say anything…. And well, it seemed like you needed help."
Selene stared at him.
"Well… that was a mistake."
Blake's expression darkened.
He had expected disaster.
He'd prepared for breakdowns, bribes, and damage control.
Instead…
And now Selene looked at him like he was the weird one.
Silence.
Then, Selene sighed.
And smiled. Quiet. Slightly sad. But proud.
One of the deeply disappointed bodyguards cleared his throat and demanded. "Can you please explain what the hell is going on here, Miss Sinclair? There's no way you could have just bribed the people here—"
Selene looked away.
"Well, let's just say I bought the prison."
The others just stared.
"Why is she lying?"
A few hours earlier…
Selene sat in the back of a prison van, wrists cuffed, knees bouncing. It was dark. Cramped. The kind of space where you could practically smell the scent of death.
Rain slapped the roof in dull rhythm.
And Selene… was losing her mind.
Only one option seemed best. Fight. She had knocked down a National Taekwondo Champion with ease, fighting the prison guards should not be too impossible…
Right?
"But then I will be in for real," Selene grumbled.
Then—
Ding!
A golden screen materialized like a mosquito from hell.
[Emergency Quest Activated: Escape From Prison Within 12 Hours.]
[Failure Consequence: Penalty Zon]
Selene blinked slowly. "What is that?"
Silence.
[You have chosen the Iron Widow Class.]
[Recommended Response: Weaponize Chaos.]
Selene stared blankly.
"Do you not realize how impossible this is?!
The guard in the passenger seat glanced back. "She's talking to herself again."
The driver snorted. "Sinclair girls always were cracked."
Selene scoffed under her breath.
She leaned her head back, 'How much money do I have, again?'
Ding!
[Current Balance: $10,000,000]
"Not enough," she muttered.
Not for bribing guards. Not for lawyers. Not in a world where Bianca Sinclair must have already bought everything that could be purchased.
[Would you like to request a System Loan?] the screen blinked innocently.
Selene stopped rasping her knee, "Wait. That's a thing?"
The interface shimmered golden, like a game show wheel just before the jackpot.
Loan Limit: One billion dollars!
The amount must be spent within 24 hours or the funds vanish.
Accept Loan? [Yes] / [No]