Time crept through the dead silence.
Vivian held the cold iron pipe, her back against the wall, gathering strength while calculating possible escape routes. Charging the door was too risky—she had no idea how many were out there, or if they were armed. The window was her only hope, but those bars…
Just as she was weighing her grim options, rough laughter and the heavy thud of something being slammed onto a table drifted up faintly from below. People! More than one!
Her heart seized. She held her breath, listening intently.
"…Damn it, lousy hand!" a gravelly male voice cursed, slurred and nasal, clearly drunk.
"Less talk, more money!" another, coarser voice retorted.
"What's the rush… *hic*… Carter! Where the hell are you? Get me another case of beer up here!" the first voice roared.
"And take something up to the little princess who's probably scared stiff. Don't let her starve, haha!" a third voice chimed in, laced with vulgar amusement, prompting a round of raucous laughter.
"Carter! You hear me?!"
"C-coming…" a thin, trembling child's voice stammered in reply.
This was followed by the sound of scuffling footsteps, doors opening and closing, then relative quiet again, save for the continued racket of drinking and gambling downstairs.
Vivian's heart sank. At least three men. Sounded like coarse brutes, and well-lubricated. And the one called 'Carter'… seemed to be a child?
Not long after, she heard the faintest of footsteps stop outside her door, followed by the scrape of a key in the lock.
The door creaked open a crack. A small, thin figure slipped in and quickly shut it behind him. In the sliver of light from the hallway, Vivian saw a boy of maybe eight or nine. He wore ill-fitting, filthy clothes, his hair a matted mess. His face was gaunt, hollowed out by deprivation. Only his eyes stood out in the gloom—enormous, holding a terror, a numbness, and a deep, almost extinguished despair far beyond his years.
The boy carried a battered wooden tray holding a few pieces of hard, dark biscuit that gave off a faint sour smell and a bottle of murky water. He kept his head down, avoiding Vivian's gaze, fumbled his way to the bed, set the tray on the floor, then pulled a stub of a candle and a match from his pocket.
A soft *scratch*. A dim, yellowish candle flame sputtered to life, pushing back a tiny circle of darkness, illuminating the boy's haggard face and Vivian's wary expression.
"Th-there's no light. They… they don't allow it. The candle… I hid it." The boy's voice was a thread, fast and panicked. "Food and water. I'll come back for the tray."
He turned to leave.
"Wait." Vivian called softly, keeping her voice low.
The boy froze by the door, shoulders tensing visibly, though he didn't turn.
"How far are we from New York City?" She kept her tone as calm and non-threatening as possible.
The boy whirled around. For the first time, a strong emotion flashed in those huge eyes—shock, suspicion, and a glimmer of hope so fragile he hardly dared acknowledge it. He shot a frantic glance at the closed door, then back at Vivian. His lips moved, the words a barely audible whisper. "You… you're from New York?"
Vivian nodded.
The boy's eyes brightened further, but the light vanished instantly, swallowed by deeper pain. He edged closer on tiptoe like a thief, his voice dropping even lower, trembling with desperate urgency and an inexpressible sorrow. "Then… then do you know… the… the Carlson Black family? In New York? Are… are they okay?"
His voice was full of小心翼翼的期待, a buried terror, and a grief so profound it seemed the name was a wound he dared not touch, yet one that gnawed at his soul day and night.
From downstairs came the perfectly timed, impatient roar: "Carter! Quit dawdling! The beer?! Move it!"
"C-coming!" The boy—Carter—flinched violently. The fragile light in his face snuffed out, replaced once more by numbness and fear. He didn't dare say another word, yanked the door open, slipped out, and locked it again.
Darkness reclaimed the room, save for the small candle burning quietly on the floor by the bed, casting restless, dancing shadows.
Vivian leaned against the wall, her heart pounding.
Carter Black? No, he'd asked about the 'Carlson Black family'. Black… the name rang a bell. Carlson Black. A veteran, influential New York politician known for his tough stance and deep connections. About three years ago, there had been sensational news—the Blacks' youngest son had run away. The family had searched for nearly a year. Later, a boy's body, too decomposed for clear identification, was found downstream in the Hudson. The clothing and build matched the missing child. The police declared the 'remains' found. Mrs. Black was said to be shattered, never recovering. Mr. Black grew colder, harder…
Could it be… that this living, breathing boy called 'Carter' was the real Black heir? Was the body a case of mistaken identity? Or… something meant to cover things up?
If true… then it all made a sickening kind of sense. A politician's son runs away in a fit of youthful anger, falls into the hands of traffickers or local thugs. They discover his identity. Too scared to return him (fearing retribution or being silenced), too risky to ransom (the world thinks he's dead anyway), so they just hide him away, rename him, use him as a little slave. Repeated escape attempts fail. Hope slowly dies. Even his family believes him dead. He becomes a ghost, forgotten by the world…
A chill, followed by an even fiercer resolve, shot through Vivian.
She wouldn't just escape. She would take this boy with her. Not only to save him, but to gain a crucial bargaining chip, a witness—a powerful ally who could completely turn the tide against her current predicament.
She needed more information, and she needed Carter's trust and help.
***
Winters Mansion. The atmosphere grew heavier by the hour.
The men Matthew had dispatched sent back increasingly disquieting snippets. The Hamilton playboy, Hamilton Jr., had indeed been notably active in New York social circles recently. He'd bragged more than once about a new girlfriend from a "distinctive, law-loving" wealthy family, even boasting that her "excellent papers" had received "professional guidance" from his father. As for who this girlfriend was, he remained vague, referring only to a "low-key old-money daughter."
These fragments fit perfectly with Bella's "accidental" discovery of the card and clipping, and with Margaret's insinuations about Amelia being "impatient" and "possibly led astray."
Old William shut himself in his study, his face a thundercloud. Scattered on his desk were brief, freshly delivered reports on the "illustrious deeds" of the Hamilton father and son—predatory practices, scandals, operating in legal gray zones… each entry more distasteful than the last.
*Bang!* Old William's fist slammed onto the desk, rattling the teacup. "The audacity! How dare she! She's dragging the Winters name through the mud!"
Just then, a soft knock sounded at the study door.
"Enter," Old William growled.
The door opened. Old Steward Carlsen entered soundlessly, carrying a tea tray. He placed a freshly brewed cup at the perfect temperature by Old William's hand, then stood silently to the side, not immediately leaving.
Old William picked up the cup, then set it down again irritably, staring out at the oppressive night.
"Carlsen," he began abruptly, his voice weary. "How long have you served the Winters family?"
"Forty years, sir," Carlsen replied respectfully.
"Forty years… You've seen this family's highs and lows. You've watched these children grow." Old William rubbed his temples. "In your view… would Amelia truly do such a thing? Climb at any cost, even… forsaking all decency?"
Carlsen was silent for a moment. A complex light flickered in his aged but clear eyes. He thought of the deep-seated sorrow and resolve in Amelia's gaze, of her cautious diligence and quiet efforts since returning.
"Sir," he spoke slowly, his voice low and firm. "In forty years of service, I've seen all sorts. Some, splendid on the outside, rotten within. Others, seemingly quiet, carry a fire inside."
He paused, as if steeling himself. "Miss Amelia… I wouldn't presume to say if she truly knows that Hamilton youth. But… this old servant feels… she is not one to be easily blinded by glitter and vanity. She carries something heavy within her. It makes her… different."
Old William turned sharply to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"I do not know, sir," Carlsen bowed his head. "Just a feeling. Sir, the young miss had just begun to earn Professor Howard's approval. Her future was promising. Why would she suddenly stumble so badly? And that gray car appeared too conveniently. Her disappearance is too clean… It doesn't feel like the impulsive elopement of a young person. It feels more like… a carefully laid trap."
Quiet fell over the study, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
The rage on Old William's face gradually gave way to grim contemplation. Carlsen's words were a bucket of cold water, dousing some of the fury and shame clouding his judgment. Yes, wasn't it all… a bit too neat? The coincidences were… suspicious.
He remembered the quiet determination in Amelia's eyes recently, the occasional spark when she spoke of the law. Not the eyes of a girl easily duped by a wastrel.
"Keep searching," Old William's voice regained its customary hardness, but the blind rage was tempered by thought. "Use every resource. Find her, alive or… otherwise. And… look discreetly into any unusual activity within the household lately."
"Yes, sir." Carlsen bowed and withdrew silently.
***
Almost simultaneously, in another part of the city, in Ryan Donovan's apartment.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a freshly delivered brief in his hand outlining the rough details of Amelia Winters' disappearance and the Winters family's current movements. Professor Howard had also called him that evening, his tone uncharacteristically anxious.
Ryan's brow furrowed slightly. A gray car? Disappearance? Possible ties to the Hamilton playboy?
His instincts told him it wasn't so simple. The girl who had calmly accepted his bronze bookmark in the garden, whose eyes held such focused intensity during lectures… she didn't seem the type to blunder into such a tawdry mess.
He walked to his desk, picked up a secure line, and dialed a number.
"It's me. Something needs looking into…" His voice was level, carrying an undeniable force. "Miss Amelia Winters of the Winters family went missing this afternoon on the Upper East Side. She got into a gray sedan. I need the vehicle's trajectory, all possible leads. Use our channels. Fast, but discreet."
Hanging up, he looked out at the glittering New York skyline, his gaze profound.
*Amelia Winters… where are you? And what undercurrents lie beneath this sudden 'disappearance'?*
***
The derelict house, outskirts.
The candle was nearly spent.
The door opened softly again. Carter slipped in like a frightened mouse, empty tray in hand, ready to collect the untouched biscuits and water bottle.
"Carter." Vivian spoke the moment the door clicked shut and locked, her voice not loud, but clear and firm.
"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." She softened her tone, looking at him in the guttering candlelight. "You asked me earlier if I knew the Carlson Black family."
Carter's head snapped up. His enormous eyes fixed on her, full of fear, but also a struggling, near-dead flame.
"I know," Vivian nodded slowly. "Carlson Black. New York politician. Three years ago, his youngest son ran away. The Blacks searched for a long time… About a year later, a boy's body was found by the river. Everyone thought it was the Black son."
Carter's body began to shake violently. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, but he bit his lip hard, not daring to make a sound. The tears held not just fear, but bottomless pain and despair—he knew. He'd pieced it together from their careless words and scraps of old newspaper. His family thought he was dead. His mother must be heartbroken…
"The Black son isn't dead. It's you, isn't it?" Vivian's voice was gentle, yet each word struck Carter's heart like a hammer.
Carter nodded vehemently, choking on sobs he couldn't release, mouthing soundlessly: *I'm not dead… Mom…*
"Your mother… she's been in pain all these years." Vivian stated the cruel truth, but also offered hope. "But you're alive, Carter. You're alive. That means there's a chance to go home. A chance to make her smile again."
Carter raised his tear-streaked face, staring at her in disbelief.
"Do you want to go home?" Vivian asked the most crucial question.
Carter stared, stunned, then nodded frantically, followed by desperate shakes of his head, his face a battlefield of longing and despair. "I… I tried to run… so many times… they always caught me… they beat me… starved me… said if I tried again… they'd really kill me, dump me in the river… since… since everyone outside thinks I'm dead anyway… I… I'm almost too tired to run anymore…" He wept, his voice shattered.
"This time is different." Vivian's voice held a strange, calming power. "This time, we run together. I have a plan."
Carter's eyes widened, staring at her as if she'd spoken a miracle.
"Listen," Vivian motioned him closer, her voice dropping to a rapid, clear whisper. "The men downstairs, they've drunk a lot tonight, right?"
Carter nodded.
"How long do they usually drink? How drunk do they get?"
"Usually… until past midnight. Sometimes they just pass out downstairs… When they're really drunk, they fight, shout… but… someone usually stays awake, sort of on watch. It's not easy…" Carter knew the rhythms of this place well.
"We don't need them all passed out," a cold glint flashed in Vivian's eyes. "Just drunk enough to be slow. We need to create a diversion, then seize our chance to run."
"A diversion?" Carter was bewildered.
"Fire." Vivian uttered the word. Carter flinched. She quickly added, "Not to burn the house down. Just to create smoke and flames, cause panic. Is there scrap wood or trash in the backyard?"
Carter hesitated, then nodded.
"Good. Listen, Carter, I need your help." Vivian gripped the boy's thin shoulders, holding his gaze. "Next time they send you for drinks, find a way to give them the stronger stuff. As much as you can. If they ask for food, see if there's any oil in the kitchen, anything that burns easily… Be careful. Don't get caught. Then, later, in the dead of night when they're at their muddled worst…"
She leaned close to Carter's ear, her voice dropping to the faintest whisper, laying out the plan in detail.
As he listened, Carter's eyes slowly brightened. That feeble flame of hope seemed to rekindle. He could almost see the lights of home, his mother's smile… But fear lingered. "B-but if we fail… they'll beat us to death…"
"We won't fail." Vivian's tone was ironclad. "We must succeed. Don't you want to go home? Don't you want to see your parents again? Your mother is waiting, Carter. Even if she thinks you're gone, part of her heart is waiting for you to come back."
"I do! I want to!" Carter nodded fiercely, tears streaming anew, but these were no longer tears of despair—they were mixed with hope and resolve. "I want to go home… I want to see Mom…"
"Then do as I say. Remember, be careful. Stay calm. We're allies now, Carter. I will take you home."
The boy looked at this "sister" before him—disheveled, yet with eyes of unshakable resolve. He scrubbed his tears away with a dirty sleeve. On his grimy little face appeared a long-lost, childlike stubbornness and trust. He gave a firm, decisive nod.
At that exact moment, the candle flame guttered and died.
The room was swallowed by darkness once more. But in that blackness, two hearts yearning for freedom and home drew close, forging an alliance, beginning to gather their strength for the escape that must come before dawn. In the dark, Carter silently clenched his small fist, as if grasping that slender, yet very real, thread of life.