At first, Claire Whitmore thought she must be mistaken. But when she rushed to her room and grabbed the old photo for comparison, her heart skipped a beat—it was him, without a doubt.
That actor was the kind of man you remembered after a single glance. Handsome, yes—but it was the natural elegance in his bearing, the quiet, timeless grace that truly made him unforgettable.
Especially in the modern world—such refined charm had become a rarity.
Claire sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the screen, following his every movement. In the film, he seemed to be playing a morally ambiguous character—neither clearly good nor evil, unpredictable and magnetic. One subtle look from him was enough to hint whether he meant harm or salvation.
Unfortunately, he didn't appear often. As the movie ended, Claire rewound it, watching every frame of him again, and again.
At times she would even pause the film, staring at his face like she was under a spell, too captivated to blink.
By the time she looked up again, the sky had brightened.
With dark circles under her eyes, Claire stared at the man on the screen and muttered under her breath,
"Seriously? How can someone look this good?"
She never imagined she'd spend an entire night staring at a man—especially one who no longer even existed.
If he were alive today… he'd probably be an old man by now, wouldn't he?
But why had she just thought if he were alive?
Did she… somehow already believe he was dead?
Was the man found buried in that car—him?
Startled by the thought, Claire scrambled to the film's end credits.
There—right at the bottom, under "Special Appearance," she found it:
Sterling Vale.
That was his name. Sterling Vale.
She immediately ran to her computer to look him up—but what she found only deepened the mystery.
She typed "Sterling Vale" into the search engine.
Nothing. Not a single legitimate result. Just random junk.
Frowning, she searched for the movie she'd just watched.
Stranger still—the movie was available online, but every scene containing Sterling Vale had been removed.
Cleanly, completely.
Claire felt the back of her neck go cold. She checked her own temperature. No fever.
Rushing downstairs, she inspected the TV and finally discovered the truth—she had been watching a bootleg DVD.
"Claire, what are you doing up so early?" her dad yawned as he passed through the hall—only to have Claire rush over and shove the DVD in front of him.
"Where did you get this disc?"
Mr. Whitmore froze, stammering, "Uh… a friend gave it to me a long time ago. I just popped it in last night to pass the time."
"And you didn't turn off the TV?"
"I thought I did…" he frowned.
Claire crossed her arms, serious now.
"Dad, do you know who Sterling Vale is? I tried looking him up, but it's like he's been erased. Even in the official version of the movie—his scenes are gone. It's like someone deliberately scrubbed every trace of him."
Mr. Whitmore's expression didn't change.
"Why do you care?"
Claire massaged her temple.
"Dad, you're the police chief. Don't tell me you don't know about that case we just got—the one with the buried car?"
"Of course I know. But what does that have to do with some actor?" he said casually.
Frustrated, Claire recounted everything she had discovered the night before.
Her father merely nodded.
"Interesting. I don't know."
Claire: "…"
She narrowed her eyes. Was he pretending not to know just to see what she was up to? This old man was too sly.
---
The whole thing was too bizarre. Claire quickly showered, skipped breakfast, and drove straight to the station to dig deeper.
But her luck had apparently run out.
While waiting at a red light, a car slammed into her rear bumper with alarming force—enough to shove her car forward and across the lane marker.
Hands gripping the wheel, she cursed under her breath.
"Which idiot dares hit a detective's car?"
She unbuckled her seatbelt and was just about to step out—when something caught her eye in the rearview mirror.
Two large men in black suits exited the other vehicle—both casually reaching toward their waists as they stepped out.
Most people wouldn't notice the gesture. But Claire did.
That reflex? It meant they were carrying guns.
She narrowed her eyes, staying calm.
The red light had 7 seconds left.
She leaned back, checked their faces in the mirror—both were wearing sunglasses, but she memorized every visible detail.
They were approaching her car fast, one of them even reaching for the door handle.
Just as he did—Claire hit the gas.
Her car jumped the curb and shot across the crosswalk, speeding away.
In the mirror, she saw the two men freeze for a second—clearly surprised—before jumping back into their car and giving chase.
She wasn't naïve. That crash wasn't an accident.
Those men were coming for her.
With one hand on the wheel, she called the traffic surveillance team at the station.
"I need a plate check. Just got rammed at the intersection. Car behind me—black, late model, two male suspects. Possibly armed."
No time to waste. She hung up and glanced out the window.
Sure enough—they were right behind her again.
One rolled down the window and made a finger-gun gesture at her, motioning for her to pull over.
Claire ignored them.
But then—they rammed her again. Hard.
"Sh*t!" she hissed, gripping the wheel tighter.
She floored the gas, weaving past traffic. Her driving skills were top-tier—no way she'd let amateurs run her off the road.
But fate had other plans.
At an intersection, another vehicle appeared out of nowhere—slamming into her car from the side with brutal force.
The tires screamed across the pavement—
Screeeeech—
Her car spun out, the impact nearly flipping it.
Claire had just enough time to shout, "D*mn it!"
The airbags deployed. Her bag flew open, and its contents spilled everywhere.
Including the old photograph.
It floated through the air, carried by the breeze.
Blood trickled down Claire's forehead from a shard of glass. Groaning, she opened her eyes—and saw the photo drifting toward her.
She instinctively reached for it.
And the moment her fingers touched it—
It turned to ash.
Claire froze.
Then darkness claimed her.
---
She didn't know how long she was unconscious.
When she opened her eyes again, she was staring at a white ceiling.
Hospital? she wondered, closing her eyes again.
But then—she heard something. A voice. Faint, familiar, coming from outside the room.
Her brows furrowed.
She opened her eyes again. Something felt wrong.
She sat up, quickly patting her body—no pain, no injuries.
"What the… wasn't I just in a car crash?"
Her clothes were still the same. Her phone was still in her pocket. But… this wasn't the hospital.
It was a place she'd never seen before.
She crept toward the window. It was dark outside—late at night.
What the hell is going on…?
She stepped out of the room cautiously—only to duck back the moment she saw movement.
Pressed against the wall, she held her breath, straining to hear.
Then came a voice:
"Is that you, Clai?"
Claire froze.
Clai?
That voice…
She recognized it.
Her heart raced.
It was him. The voice of Sterling Vale.
She peeked out—and saw a man in a white shirt, sitting on an antique European sofa, a white cat in his arms.
It was him.
Claire Whitmore stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
Had she gone insane? Was she dreaming all of this?
Or had she—somehow—crossed into his world?