Hope knew that White would eventually uncover her past. She'd braced for it—he was a detective, after all. But what she hadn't expected were the poker cards. At first glance, they seemed harmless enough, each face-down card a simple marker of the moment. But when she caught sight of the symbol on the back—a white raven, wings spread wide, clutching broken chains—it sent a chill through her. It was a personal mark, a symbol of something she had long discarded. Freedom, maybe. Or the hope for it.
As the first card was laid on the table, her world began to tilt. It wasn't just a card; it was a trigger, pulling her memories from the depths of her mind, dragging them into the light. A searing pain shot through her core like lightning, and her mana thrummed with raw intensity, a pulse that matched the rising storm of her memories.
Her father's face appeared—violent, cruel, unforgiving. His fists blurred in front of her as they struck, again and again. She felt it—the crack of each punch, the fire of each blow. The memory was so vivid, so real, it was as though it was happening all over again. The sting of his palm, the blood on her lip, the way he shouted her name like an insult—it was all there, reassembling itself in horrific clarity. Thirty punches from her past compressed into a single moment. The pain amplified, each wave crashing into her body, tearing through her like a fresh assault.
Her body trembled. Her vision blurred with tears that refused to fall. The agony felt real, but it wasn't entirely hers—it was the pain of everything she had survived, twisted and magnified until it consumed her. Yet White sat there, unmoving. His expression didn't change—calm, indifferent—as if this was just another detail in a case, another piece of information to catalog. He didn't flinch, didn't speak a word of sympathy, and didn't even pause to sip his tea.
She tried to steady herself, to breathe through the whirlwind of memories, but the next card came—a jack. It sank into her like a blade, pulling her back into the fractured chaos of her mind. The nights of darkness, of feeling lost, of confusion and terror that consumed her every waking moment. The broken thoughts that never aligned, the fear of forgetting herself. Each moment reverberated inside her skull, an unrelenting pressure on her mana core. It tightened, suffocating her, until she thought she might collapse under the weight of it.
She wasn't sure if she was crying outside, but inside, her chest burned with silent, invisible tears. Her emotions fought to escape, but they remained trapped, the anguish too intense to release. And still, White's eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking, his faint smile almost predatory. There was no empathy in his gaze, no compassion—just an observer watching her unravel.
Then came the queen card. A sharp, piercing pain shot through her chest as her family's ties to the mafia resurfaced—dark figures in suits, conversations she could never quite catch. The blood on her hands, stains that had never truly washed away. The smell of smoke and blood, the weight of betrayal that had never lifted. Every wound, every scar she had tried to bury rose to the surface, fresh and raw, until it felt as though she were drowning in the weight of her past.
And yet, White didn't speak. He remained unmoved, his focus unwavering. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, his smile a mask of politeness that barely skimmed the surface of the abyss between them. He was still so calm, so unaffected by the storm she was weathering. To him, this was just another puzzle to solve, another layer to peel away.
Next came the king card. With it, the lab, the experiments. The cold, sterile rooms where she had been torn apart and put back together—nothing but a subject, an object for their cruel games. Her body, her mind—none of it had been hers. She felt the sharp echoes of each incision, each probe, each violation. Every ounce of her dignity stripped away in those hidden facilities. The unending pain that had no reprieve. And in the dark irony of it all, she knew she was the one they had kept alive. The one they had "succeeded" with. It was a bitter pill, a wound that would never heal.
And still, White sat there, unmoved, his expression frozen. His tea remained untouched. The rain outside grew heavier, beating against the window with an almost rhythmic insistence. The world outside was drowning, but inside, White was an island—calm, detached, utterly unaffected by the pain he was forcing her to relive.
The final card, the ace, came last. And with it, the crushing realization. So many had died in those experiments—so many that her survival felt like a grotesque testament to their failure. She was the success, and yet the thought of it made her feel even smaller, more expendable. She had survived, but for what? What kind of success was it, when it came at the cost of so many lives?
Her body shook, not from the cold, but from the unbearable weight of everything she had endured. Her eyes, once bright with the fire of survival, were now dark, consumed by the storm inside her chest. The vortex of memories, of pain, of everything she had lost, spiraled faster and faster, until it felt as if it might pull her under completely.
And still, White did not care. He sat there, his eyes locked onto hers, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. His gaze seemed to pierce through her, stripping away everything she was, layer by layer. His presence was cold, unsettling—a stark reminder that he was not human, not like anyone she had ever known.
The rain outside grew louder.