The underground archive room was quiet. Flickering neon lights illuminated stacks of old files and untouched dust. There stood Silas, calmly flipping through a red folder marked reopened under internal directive.

"Funny," he muttered as the sound of footsteps entered the room. "You even figured out how to forge access clearance. You really are my daughter."

No response came from her.

Silas turned, his gaze sharp but steady, like he was assessing a target—not his own blood.

"You think you're chasing truth? There’s no such thing. Only power. And who’s cold enough to hold onto it."

He set the file down on the table, then walked slowly toward her.

"You've reopened old wounds. People have started asking questions. Our family name is being mentioned... in all the wrong ways."

He stopped one step in front of her. His smile was thin, terrifying in its lack of warmth.

"So here’s my offer: burn everything you found… or I’ll make sure you’re the next name on an unexplained death report."

He touched her cheek—gently, yet threatening. "I won’t be the one to kill you. But I know who will, and I know exactly how to make it look like it was your fault."