Inside the Luxemborough Presidential Office, Theodore slammed both hands onto the polished table. The sharp crack echoed through the presidential office, rattling the papers scattered across the surface.
"I want to know who did this!" His voice thundered through the room, raw with fury.
Across from him, Arlo Cawthorn remained standing with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, he was actually nervous but he hold it. As Theodore's trusted secretary, Arlo had learned long ago that panic was useless in moments like this.
His expression remained composed, though the tension in his jaw betrayed how carefully he was holding himself together. "Everyone who survived gave roughly the same account," Arlo said in calm tone. "They described a man wearing a black robe and a white mask."
Theodore's eyes narrowed. "Was it Zhao Li Xin?" he demanded. "That damn painter?" There was disdained in the name.
