?Chapter 1490:


    Pushing open the study door released a scent of aged paper and old wood. The room was a time capsule, dominated by a heavy ssical desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A fineyer of dust covered the desk’s surface — except for one spot in the center, where a perfect rectangle of clean wood stood out. Something had been removed from there, and recently.


    Her heart sank. Whatever they had taken was likely the most critical piece.


    Steeling herself, she moved behind the desk and tried the drawers. The first two were empty. The third was locked.


    Without hesitation, Maia plucked a bobby pin from her hair, straightened it with practiced ease, and worked it into the lock. A soft click echoed in the silent room. The drawer slid open.


    Inside, there were no treasures, no ssified dossiers — only a single aged notebook resting in the corner. Its pages were yellowed, the edges worn soft from time. It looked like a relic. An inexplicable pull drew her in, and her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it.


    The cover was nk.


    She opened to the first page. The handwriting was childish and unsteady — the script of someone just learning to write. Yet the strokes carried a strange, fierce determination. The contents were a chaoticption: hand-drawn maps littered with cryptic symbols, notes on wilderness survival such as how to identify poisonous berries and start a fire with flint, and diagrams for cutting ropes quickly.


    This wasn’t a child’s diary. It was a manual. A guide for escape.


    Maia traced the faded ink with her fingertip, a wave of profound mncholy washing over her. She turned the pages.


    In the middle section, the entries shifted to a first-person narrative, recounting a harrowing experience.


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    “It was raining. I thought I was going to die. The bad men caught up. They had guns. I was so scared. But a little girl saved me. She told me to hide in a dumpster, and then she led them away. She came backter. Gave me a piece of candy. It was sweet. Strawberry vor.”


    Maia’s breath caught.


    A strawberry-vored candy. Rain. Gunshots.


    The details mmed into her memory like blunt instruments. A powerful, dizzying sense of familiarity swept over her, apanied by a sharp spike of pain behind her eyes. It felt less like reading and more like remembering — a scene from a half-forgotten dream, or a life she had lived.


    Gritting her teeth against the headache, she read on.


    The final entry was written with such force that the pen had torn the paper. “She left. I never knew her name. But I remember her eyes. When I grow up, I will find her. And I will protect her, even if it costs me my life.”


    The familiarity was agonizing, but the memory itself remained locked — just out of reach.


    She turned to the veryst page. It held no words, only a rough, hurried pencil sketch. The lines were chaotic, but the form was unmistakable.


    Maia’s pupils dted.


    It was a mask. A cold, half-face metal mask. And in its lower right corner, a single sharp-angled cursive letter had been etched: M.


    The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow. Her hands jerked, nearly dropping the notebook.


    M? Was this notebook Mr. M’s — the one who had been aiding her from the shadows all along? And why was it here, in Chris’s father’s vi?


    Maia’s brow furrowed deeply, her eyes a storm of confusion and shock.


    The notebook was clearly decades old. If its author was Mr. M, then he had been just a child at the time of writing. But if the boy behind these entries was Mr. M — why had he drawn the mask? Did that mean Mr. M had known Chris since childhood? Or was he connected to Chris’ste father, Kyle? What was the link?


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