The screen went dark.


    Eleanor continued to look through the videos. The next eighty were all daily recordings from her father''sb. But she could see his hair growing whiter, his expression more fatigued. The timestamps were erratic; sometimes he was working at dawn, other times he was running experiments in the dead of night.


    Her father was like a man possessed, a frantic scientist. Sometimes, when the data didn''t meet his expectations, he would curse under his breath, clearly agitated.


    Eleanor couldn''t watch them all in one sitting. She clicked through the other files, which contained extensive research notes, data analyses, and scanned manuscripts.


    These were the very same materials Dr. Smith had given her for her leukemia research. They were her father''s manuscripts. It was her father who had provided her with the most authentic data to reference.


    Eleanor lost track of time. When her eyes finally grew sore, she nced at the clock. She had been watching since eight p.m., and it was now past midnight.


    The files made one thing crystal clear: the project her father had poured his heart and soul into during his final years wasn''t an ordinary blood disease study. It was a targeted intervention therapy for early-stage leukemia, codenamed ''Aurora.''


    To be more precise, it was for a subtype of leukemia caused by a specific gic mutation.


    Eleanor remembered a patient with this exact mutation-the mother named Marilyn. She took a deep breath. Why had her father worked himself to the bone researching leukemia in hisst two years? Who was he trying to save?


    Eleanor couldn''t bear to watch much more of the videos. Her father''s figure transformed from energetic to gradually gaunt and haggard, his graying hair turning silver-white.


    Then, she saw a scene that made tears stream down her face without warning.


    On screen, her father was recording data when he suddenly broke into a violent coughing fit. With his back to the camera, he coughed for a long time. When he finally turned around, he nced at the tissue in his hand.


    It was stained with a ring ssh of red-her father had coughed up blood.


    Yet, he merely frowned, crumpled


    the tissue into a ball, and tossed it into a nearby trash can Acting as if nothing had happened, he went back to theb bench.


    There were still over twenty videos left, but Eleanor was already a sobbing mess, unable to bring herself to click on another one.


    She closed theptop and slumped


    onto the desk, muffling her cries


    Her emotionspletely shattered. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing her heart, the pain so intense she could barely breathe.


    So this document was a record of her father''s final days.


    An overwhelming mix of grief, guilt, and sorrow twisted in her chest, making every breath a torment.


    After what felt like an eternity of crying, Eleanor slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen, and tear tracks had dried on her cheeks.


    She picked up her phone and sent a message ton. [I opened the file. Can we talk when I get back?]


    Eleanor took a deep breath. Why had her father left these videos? Why had he burned through thest moments of his life to conduct this research?


    At his age, her father couldn''t have handled such an intense workload. She felt he had been racing to develop a treatment, to save someone.


    Her phone chimed with a notification. She picked it up. It was a reply fromn, just three words.


    [I''ming over.]


    Eleanor''s heart jolted. She quickly typed back, [Don''t trouble yourself. We can talk when I''m back.]


    Meanwhile, back home, in the


    executive office of Goodwin & Co.,n left all the top executives in the middle of the morning meeting and rushed to the airport.