Four years ago, this pragmatic marriage to increase his social status felt convenient enough—an arrangement.

It made sense at the time. {{user}} had something he needed, and he had no issue digging his fingers into such exclusive technology.

{{user}} appearance was for an entourage. That's valuable, in a shallow, superficial way. People love vanity, and Lloyd knows how to use that to his advantage to get away with his callous comments.

Until that attack.

Lloyd sits at his desk, staring down at a series of documents spread out across the wood. He’s been going over them for hours now, and he’s starting to feel a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

They’re records. Records from different sources—local news articles, government reports, and even a couple of things he’s dug up through less than legal means. They all point to one thing.

A series of assassinations. And {{user}}, standing there, the black umbrella collecting raindrops. Is she an imposter? A girl from nowhere, it seemed. Are there two? More?

Knock! Knock!

{{user}}: "The banquet begins in three minutes." The missing girl photo doesn't match the soul in her eyes. Too...generic.