Chapter 214

The campaign RE:Find, spearheaded by the Lieutenant Governor of Helso State, had set out with the goal of posting missing ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) persons’ information at major transportation hubs for an entire year. But when the Langford Bridge collapsed, the number of missing skyrocketed, making it logistically impossible to post every case as originally planned.

The counselor, who had simply been listening to Kelly’s story for some time, finally opened his mouth.

“Since the Langford Bridge collapse, the number of missing has increased exponentially. There’s a strong possibility that Joan Welch’s name and photo will at least make it onto an online poster.”

Kelly, clutching at straws, asked for help even as a part of her quietly accepted that finding Joan was close to impossible.

“Please, I beg you. My parents are both gone. Joan is the only family I have left.”

The counselor’s face softened with sympathy at her desperate plea. Leaving a word for her to wait, he rose from the sofa and returned with a paper pamphlet. Inside was an introduction to a Baggers City group therapy circle called .

“It’s a group counseling session for families of the missing. Not just counseling—there’s all sorts of support and information to be had. You should definitely stop by. The therapist there will be a great help.”

“The therapist... you don’t mean Jackson Cliff, do you?”

A voice came from behind her. It was a warm, rich mid-to-low tone, like coffee poured heavy with cream.

When Kelly slowly turned her head, a man was standing there. His face was so vivid it felt out of place, as if he alone existed in this world at a higher resolution. The counselor’s face lit up with delight at the man’s arrival.

“Yes, we were just talking about Jackson Cliff. And just last month, the counseling center in the Manuels District was completed.”

“Hm, that’s right. But Jackson Cliff... that man is... how should I put it.”

The stranger frowned slightly as if something about Cliff displeased him, then shrugged as though shaking off the thought. Returning to a gentle expression, he turned his attention to Kelly.

“You’re Kelly Welch, yes? I imagine your grief must be heavy.”

Kelly looked at the man warily when he called her name. The greeting had been delivered with such ease and familiarity that she wondered for a moment if they had shared something in common before. The man smiled at her suspicion.

“I happened to overhear from outside. Forgive my late introduction. Eric Sinclair. I’m the Lieutenant Governor, overseeing this campaign.”

Eric Sinclair. The name was unfamiliar, but the face rang a bell. Kelly suddenly remembered where she had seen him before—an online feature article on the “Kennedys of the 21st Century,” showcasing the next generation of young politicians.

His frame was far larger than average, easily over 190 cm. His bright chestnut hair was neatly combed back, and his golden eyes—like desert sand—were striking. Even his fashion was immaculate; he wore a fitted black suit complete with vest, seemingly impervious to the heat.

A handsome face that made her heartbeat quicken, a masculine physique, and an aristocratic charm as if he’d stepped out of a film—Kelly felt herself drawn in despite knowing she shouldn’t.

Blushing, she reached out to shake the Lieutenant Governor’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you. Thank you for your efforts on such an important cause.”

The Lieutenant Governor smiled stiffly, almost bashfully.

“I’ll help in any way I can.”

The grip of his hand around hers tightened. The handshake lingered long enough to feel personal, even intimate. Reluctantly letting go, he stepped half a pace closer into her space.

“Miss Welch, if you’ll submit the materials on Joan Welch, I’ll see that it’s reviewed personally.”

“Th-thank you so much.”

Flustered, Kelly lowered her eyes shyly. She felt as if his attention were unusually fixed on her.

Ever since childhood, Kelly had known that the reason people were unreasonably kind to her, unreasonably uncomfortable with her, or unreasonably jealous of her, always came down to her looks. Other people’s attention hovered around her like the air—something inevitable and always present. But she had never imagined that even a man called the Kennedy of the 21st Century, a prince-like figure, would take interest in her.

“Lieutenant Governor, considering the travel time to the luncheon venue, you’ll need to leave now.”

His secretary’s reminder made him raise a hand in acknowledgment, but he still showed no sign of hurrying. His gaze stayed locked on Kelly, as if making no effort to conceal his interest. Seeing the faint blush on her face, he smiled.

“I sincerely hope you find your family. I’ll be sure to assist moving forward. Goodbye for now.”

He started to leave the counseling office but, just as he was about to pass her, suddenly halted in place. Without turning his body, tilting his head just slightly toward her, he added in a very low, quiet voice:

“Kelly, be careful of the white door today.”

Then he stepped outside as if nothing had happened.

At first, Kelly was startled that he had addressed her so intimately by name. But that feeling faded, replaced by puzzlement at the strange warning he had left her with.

Be careful of the white door? What is this, a horoscope?

She kept turning his words over in her mind. Even as she wandered the campaign headquarters preparing materials and making flyers for Joan Welch, she scrutinized every door she passed—glass doors, wooden doors, blue-painted metal doors. Thankfully, none of them were white.

Just when she began to suspect Sinclair’s cryptic remark was merely a strange form of flirting designed to keep her thinking about him, she was connected in the late afternoon to the counseling center in the Manuels District, as the counselor had recommended. Kelly hadn’t felt like seeking therapy, but she followed along after hearing that she might be able to connect with other families of the missing there.

The car that came to pick her up was an old Corolla, at least twenty years on the road. Kelly climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation, buckled her seatbelt, and only then realized—the door she had opened and closed was white.

She quietly shook her head. What threat could a shabby old white car pose, one without even automatic locks?

Surely he didn’t mean a car accident...

She glanced uneasily at the flimsy seatbelt, then snuck a look at the driver. A middle-aged man with a kindly, intellectual face was carefully starting the engine.

“There’s a group counseling session scheduled for today. For now, don’t feel pressured to participate—just observe.”

“Thank you. I was worried, since it’s my first time attending something like this.”

Relieved by the man’s harmless, weary expression, Kelly turned her gaze to the world beyond the window.

The car moved with an irritating rattle of its engine. The late afternoon sun filtered through the roadside trees, scattering irregular shadows across her face. In the side mirror, the campaign headquarters receded into the distance. For some reason, it felt like leaving a place she might never return to, but she ignored the faint unease.

The lodging for the three of them was located in the Muto region, about a two-hour drive northwest from Baggers City. Sitting on the western coast of Helso, Muto jutted out into the Gulf of Mexico, looking on the map like a barnacle clinging to a long rock.

The place they had found through a lodging app was a secluded mansion perched at the edge of a cliff. Weathered by years of sea winds, the house overlooked the distant edge of Camtiva Island, floating forty kilometers offshore.

Camtiva, an island the size of Hawaii, was infamous for housing Somora Prison, which held dangerous criminals, alongside its scientific research complexes and tourist resorts. Helicopters and boats could be seen coming and going regularly.

Baekgyeong was in the middle of washing himself, eyes fixed on the island as it sank into twilight. He couldn’t shake the shocking sight he’d witnessed at Anna McCarthy’s house: Siron writhing beneath another man.

He kept recalling the image—Siron’s small ass taking in every inch of Isaac’s cock, legs trembling stiff in the air as he convulsed in pleasure. Baekgyeong had tried to drive the memory out by working his body to exhaustion as soon as they arrived, but it was no use.

Isaac, overcome by rut, had been knocked out with sedatives and dragged to the most remote room on the first floor, where Baekgyeong injected him with rut suppressants and left him. Siron, for some reason, had stayed silent ever since, as if sulking in anger.

“What the fuck. Pouting? Like he did something right.”

The more he thought about it, the more furious Baekgyeong became. He ripped the towel from his head and hurled it to the floor. But perhaps because that mischievous, accusatory little friend in his head had gone quiet, the sight of the towel abandoned like a wet rag on the floor grated on him.

Muttering curses, he reluctantly snatched the towel back up. The unwanted fugitive life had left laundry piled high; he stuffed the clothes into the washer, fiddled with the buttons until it finally started, and headed for the living room.

Sunlight poured through the window, spilling golden streaks across the well-kept wooden floor. The owner—who supposedly used the place as a vacation home—seemed to be a painter, given the canvases on the shelves that mirrored the coastal scenery outside.

On the clean, cozy fabric sofa, surrounded by cushions, Siron sat watching TV with a blank expression. He’d clearly noticed Baekgyeong’s presence, but didn’t so much as glance his way.