The relentless tick of the antique clock in Rafael Vexley's sprawling study seemed to mock the passage of time, each second stretching into an eternity of fruitless searching. Three weeks had slipped by like sand through clenched fists—twenty-one agonizing days where every lead on Eliana Bennett evaporated into thin air. The mansion, once a fortress of calculated isolation, now felt like a cage, trapping Rafael in a whirlwind of frustration and despair. James, loyal as ever, paced the polished marble floors, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges.
"Mr. Vexley," James said one evening, bursting into the study with a stack of reports clutched in his hand, his voice laced with a mix of certainty and exasperation. "I've hit wall after wall. Every trace—phone records, surveillance footage, even whispers from our contacts in the city—it's all being blocked. Systematically. And I know who's behind it."
