Chapter 284

The wife of the Somora Prison warden, Hannah Knox, forced down the sigh that had risen to the back of her throat. Her daughter, Angela, couldn’t stand her mother’s habitual sighing.

But watching her daughter act in such a frustrating way made something twist inside Hannah’s chest until she couldn’t hold back anymore.

Angela, looking vacant, held a spatula in one hand and was cooking pancakes to the point of turning them into charcoal. She didn’t even notice the smoke rising as she stared off into her thoughts. At last, Hannah let out a sigh deep enough to sink the floor.

“Enough. I’ll do it. You just go wake the kids and get ready for work.”

“...Huh?”

“I said I’ll make the pancakes! Go wake the kids!”

Understanding a beat too late, Angela flusteredly left the kitchen and rushed upstairs to wake her firstborn. Listening to the chaotic argument over getting the grandchildren up, Hannah finally released the huge sigh that had been ballooning inside her.

Looking back, Hannah’s life had never been ordinary compared to other Korean-American immigrant women who had lived in the same era. She had married Malcolm Knox—a Black man the same age as her—when she was only twenty, despite her parents’ strong objections. To prove everyone wrong, Malcolm worked diligently in corrections, earned his college degree, climbed through promotions, and rose to the dignified position of prison warden, supporting the family.

Most of their homes were staff residences adjacent to prison grounds. Her recurring nightmare was always the same: prisoners rioting, the staff residence surrounded and set ablaze. She lived with the quiet fear that at any moment, criminals could destroy her family’s life.

Fortunately, the children grew up and blended into ordinary society. Angela was Hannah’s pride—an Ivy League graduate, team leader in advertising, handling major projects. But one day, she divorced her husband and was left raising two children alone. Unable to manage both career and childcare, she left behind her stable salary and impressive resume and moved back in with her parents.

Their uneasy cohabitation fell apart when Angela unexpectedly became pregnant with a third child. She refused to reveal the identity of the father and insisted on keeping the baby.

Whenever Hannah remembered the day she found out, her heart felt like it collapsed all over again. Malcolm, furious, declared he would never see their foolish daughter again and threw her out of the house.

“Oh dear, look at me. It’s burnt.”

Even though she had thrown Angela out of the kitchen for burning the pancakes, she herself had drifted off. Hannah tossed the charred pancake and poured new batter.

“Joshua, if Grandma spaces out like that, you’re supposed to tell me.”

She scolded the sleeping toddler on her back with a weary smile. Joshua adored being held and rarely let her put him down. Angela insisted not to spoil him, but Hannah’s heart ached for the grandchild who had not been born into a whole, stable family. Whenever he cried, she couldn’t help but hold him.

As she absentmindedly rubbed the sleeping child’s foot, a strange sensation came over her. She looked around the kitchen—it was pristine, as if lifted from a magazine spread. Solid wood cabinetry, expensive dishware, high-end appliances new enough that she would never have been able to afford them. Even someone with no interest in cooking would want to cook in a kitchen like this.

The specialness wasn’t just the kitchen. The bathroom and shower were like a hotel suite; each room had its own carefully curated design. Yet what overwhelmed her most was the view—the massive windows opening onto a sweeping skyline. If heaven could be purchased, this place was the most expensive heaven.

The home her daughter had moved into after being thrown out was a luxury Manhattan condo overlooking Central Park, specifically a duplex penthouse spanning the top two floors. Angela could never have afforded it on her own.

“Joshua... just what does your father do?”

Hannah patted the child’s back as she flipped the pancake.

What kind of man had her daughter been involved with? Someone who could casually provide a Manhattan penthouse worth tens of millions, along with a chauffeur and personal security?

She was desperate to know, but Angela refused to say a word. The only thing she had shared was the reason she decided to keep the baby:

“He said... if only one human being could remain in an apocalypse, it should be our child. He treated our baby like something sacred. I knew it was insane, but... somehow, the baby felt sacred.”

The bastard who got her daughter pregnant didn’t love her and had no intention of marrying her—yet wanted the child. He’d planted his seed in a moment of pleasure, and then spoke of the baby as if it were divine—like the birth itself was his achievement.

“A baby is just a baby.”

Hannah pictured Joshua’s face. Angela, born between a Korean mother and an African-American father, had now given birth to a child who was perhaps part white. The baby was so mixed that racial identity blurred entirely—just as the man had said.

The only feature Joshua shared with Hannah was his large dark eyes—olive green in the sun, black in shadow. It gave him a mysterious glow. His face seemed like all humanity blended into one harmonious shape.

Looking at him too long, Hannah could almost understand the man’s words—that if one human was to survive the apocalypse, it should be this child.

But understanding was not the same as agreeing.

“Crazy bastard. Talks big.”

She must have spoken aloud, because Angela looked up from her phone.

“What’s big?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Eat and get to work.”

Angela stared blankly for a moment, chewing so slowly it made Hannah feel like flames were rising under her skin. Then Angela spoke.

“I think... I might quit my job.”

Since giving birth to Joshua, Angela had been working as an adjunct at a design school. As a single mother of three, Hannah had expected she might quit eventually. But hearing it still felt like one of the ropes holding her daughter’s life together had snapped.

“Well, work is hard, and the kids are young. I understand.”

“Yeah. That’s part of it.”

The lukewarm tone made Hannah uneasy. She drank water and asked directly:

“Did he tell you to quit?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Angela glanced at the older two children, who were watching a TV show where a red alien puppet interviewed a scientist. Hannah quickly raised the volume to block the conversation.

When the children were absorbed, Angela lowered her voice.

“Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m thinking about living in Switzerland. ...How do you feel about that? Would you be upset?”

Hannah blinked, stunned.

“What kind of nonsense is that? Why Switzerland?”

“It’s peaceful there.”

“You think life is different anywhere else? People are the same everywhere.”

“I know. But... maybe I could be happier somewhere with beautiful scenery.”

Her daughter sounded like she was already halfway gone.

“Did he tell you to move there? To Switzerland?”

Hannah’s face flushed hot. Angela gave a small, weightless laugh.

“No, Mom. Forget I said anything.”

“How am I supposed to un-hear that?”

But Angela said nothing more. She hurried out to take the children to school and then to work, leaving Hannah alone with baby Joshua. Hannah sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV.

Switzerland... why now?

A man wealthy enough to provide a penthouse, bodyguards, a chauffeur—yet unwilling to marry her daughter. He could be a corporate executive in his sixties. Or a married mafia boss.

Was Angela trying to escape him?

“Joshua... who is your father, really...”

Hannah wasn’t sure she should carry this alone. She wanted to call her husband, to say that something was changing in their daughter—that it was definitely connected to the father. But she could already imagine Malcolm exploding, and she was tired of cold wars between them.

Maybe Malcolm had also been thinking of her. His call came just then.

—What are you doing. The kids.

His voice had no strength. Hannah did the math in her head. October 16. A death sentence was being carried out today at Somora Prison—for the first time in twelve years. Malcolm always became somber on execution days. A wave of sympathy washed through her.

“They’re at school. Angela’s at work. I was just about to nap with the baby.”

—I see.

“Are the guests gone?”

—Guests?

“The handsome Asian men.”