Perun and Lukman went to the National Capital Bank.
The building loomed over the street like a monument to authority—vast stone pillars, tall arched windows, and engraved insignias that spoke of power accumulated over decades. Just standing before it made Perun's chest tighten. The place felt less like a bank and more like a court where wealth itself passed judgment.
Inside, the air was heavy with polish and money.
Rows of offices stretched beyond sight, their doors marked with brass nameplates. The customers inside were no ordinary people—tailored suits, restrained smiles, eyes sharp with calculation. Every movement here was measured. Even the sound of footsteps felt deliberate.
Perun lowered his voice. "Where's the line? We have to go there, right?"
Lukman didn't even glance around. "No. I already talked to the manager. We're going straight to his office."
Perun swallowed. He really does have connections…
Twenty thousand dollars.
Not only did Lukman have that amount sitting calmly in his account—he was willing to withdraw it without hesitation.
They entered the manager's office.
The room smelled faintly of old paper and metal. Behind a wide desk sat an elderly man. His hair was thin and gray, his posture straight despite his age. A single golden tooth flashed when he moved his lips, and a delicate chain held his spectacles in place as they rested on his nose. He was reading documents, eyes calm and sharp—like someone who had seen too many secrets pass through his hands.
The moment Lukman stepped inside, the man looked up.
His expression changed instantly.
He stood up.
Not out of politeness—but recognition. Almost reverence.
"Welcome," the manager said, his smile practiced yet genuine, as though greeting a VIP.
Perun followed Lukman inside. They sat.
"Hello, Mr. Manager," Lukman said casually. "Long time, no see."
The old man chuckled softly.
"Yes… hello, Luk. How have you been? I heard you were caught in quite a mess recently."
Lukman smiled faintly.
"It's fine now."
Then, without wasting time—
"Mr. Manager, did you arrange the amount I asked for?"
The manager nodded.
He reached beneath the desk and pulled out a black suitcase. The latches clicked open with a sound that echoed unnaturally loud in Perun's ears. The manager turned it around.
Stacks upon stacks of crisp $20 notes filled the case—neatly aligned, dense, overwhelming. The dull green color looked almost sickly under the office lights. In overall global, the highest denomination was a $20 note. Ones, fives, tens, and coins were still commonly used.
"This is twenty thousand," the manager said calmly.
Lukman closed the suitcase and handed it to Perun.
The manager gestured lightly. "Would you like to count it?"
Lukman shook his head. "No need. I trust you."
The suitcase snapped shut.
They left the office.
Only after stepping into the corridor did Perun finally exhale. Then he frowned. "There's a problem."
Lukman glanced at him. "What is it?"
"You and I… we're already in eyes of that mafia union executive from that day."
Lukman paused. "…Ah. Right. I completely forgot about that. He was caeson we make him his enemy not only him but all of his union."
Perun's voice grew serious. "It can be solved if we use fake identities. But that's not easy to get."
Lukman smiled. "I can get it."
He turned back immediately.
Lukman re-entered the manager's office, asking to use the landline. With a subtle hand gesture, he made it clear—personal. The manager nodded knowingly and stepped outside, still smiling.
Perun stood there as the old man looked him over.
"You're with Luk?" the manager asked. "I don't believe I've seen you before."
Perun replied evenly, "I'm his assistant. I joined a few days ago."
The manager nodded with approval. "Oh… well. He's always been hardworking. Even with that kind of wealth."
After some time, Lukman came out. He thanked the manager, and the two of them left the bank.
Outside, the sunlight felt sharp after the dim interior.
They got into the car.
This time, Perun was driving.
He glanced sideways.
"What did you say in that call?"
Lukman leaned back. "I asked someone to make fake identities for us."
Perun tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "…And now?"
"Now we're going to a makeup salon."
Perun frowned. "For what?"
Lukman's eyes reflected faint amusement and urgency. "For a new look. One no one can recognize. We need to be quick. After that, we take photos for the identities."
At Eagle Eye, Vaelor and Truman took Dr. Morris into their custody and formally reported the matter to Augustin. The moment the report was sealed, the air inside the office felt heavier, as if an unseen witness had been listening all along.
They escorted Dr. Morris out of the office.
The corridor lights flickered faintly.
Truman broke the silence first. "So… he was a victim after all. That means we were right from the beginning. Kite is the real culprit."
Vaelor nodded slightly. "Yes. And we still have to find Selena. She's not safe."
But inside his mind, another thought surfaced—cold and sharp.
It's Kite. He's the one who kidnapped them.
From the opposite end of the hallway, footsteps approached.
Jackson appeared, dressed neatly in his white suit, his presence oddly calm against the tension hanging in the air.
"Hello," he said casually.
They returned the greeting.
Truman asked, "Hey, you and Robert found anything else?"
Jackson shook his head. "Not yet. But we're looking for Mr. Kite's wife. She's out of the station, so we couldn't contact her."
Truman asked, "Do you have a picture of her?"
Jackson reached into his pocket and handed over a photograph.
Truman took it—and froze for a brief second as he looked at her.
Vaelor didn't notice. His gaze was distant, his mind tangled in half-formed suspicions.
Truman finally said, "Alright. Vaelor and I will find her. We already found Dr. Morris. You go and dig up all the crucial information about the case."
Jackson nodded.
Vaelor and Truman left and got into the car.
As the engine started, Truman spoke again. "Hey, Vaelor… where do you think we can find Kite's wife?"
He flicked the photograph toward Vaelor.
Vaelor glanced at it—And his pupils shrank. Recognition struck him like a silent thunderbolt.
"It's… her." The same woman. The same face.
The one he had seen engraved in his memory.
"The picture… it's the same one," Vaelor said slowly. "The one inside Dr. Morris's pendant."
He reached into his pocket, took out the pendant, and opened it.
The image inside was identical.
Truman inhaled sharply. "It's the same one you found there."
Vaelor nodded. "Yes. But why would Dr. Morris carry Kite's wife's picture in his locker and there was a chloroform F bottle also?"Although i give it as evidence report.
Without another word, Truman turned the steering wheel sharply.
The car made a sudden U-turn, heading straight back to Eagle Eye.
Back inside the office, Dr. Morris, Augustin, and Jackson were present.
The moment Truman entered, he pointed directly at Morris. "You're the real culprit."
Dr. Morris stiffened. "You again?"
Vaelor, however, didn't jump to conclusions. His eyes stayed cold, observant. Still, he spoke. "This is Kite's wife's picture. We found it inside a pendant… in your locker."
Dr. Morris's face drained of color.
Then he started making excuses—fragmented, hurried, unconvincing.
But Truman cut through them sharply. "You said you're a doctor. Someone who knows exactly from which company it belongs too."
His voice hardened.
"So explain this—why were you keeping it in your locker?"