Chapter 1235:

The presenter spoke in a solemn and measured voice. “Our nation’s youngest admiral, the celebrated and heroic Mr. Brad Morgan, had recently returned home victorious. Tragically, while executing a classified mission at noon today, his helicopter suffered an unexpected mechanical failure and crashed in the western desert, resulting in his immediate death. The President has offered his deepest sympathies.”

The report was accompanied by blurred footage, seemingly captured from high altitude or satellite surveillance. A small dark shape plummeted across the endless yellow desert, followed by a blinding eruption of flame and a towering column of smoke surging violently into the sky.

A sharp crack reverberated through the room. It did not come from the television — it came from the edge of the mahogany coffee table beside Rylie, which had suddenly splintered as though struck by an invisible force, fragments scattering across the floor.

“Nonsense,” she finally murmured. Her voice was rough yet unnervingly steady.

“He’s not dead.” She turned, her gaze moving across the shattered Sean and the grim faces of the Owen family. Her eyes held no uncertainty — only a cold, almost merciless conviction. “That story might deceive others. It won’t deceive me.”

𝘋𝗂𝘴𝖼o𝘃e𝗿 𝗁𝗶𝖽𝘥𝖾𝘯 𝗴е𝗺𝘀 о𝗇 𝘨𝖺𝗹𝘯о𝘷𝘦𝗹ѕ.co𝘮

She didn’t spare a glance at the crash footage looping endlessly on the screen, treating it as nothing more than meaningless noise.

“Phil, starting now, you report directly to me,” she said through the still-open communication channel, her voice regaining its usual clarity but sharpened with purpose. “Coordinate with the team and get into the presidential office security systems. I want every piece of surveillance footage from yesterday afternoon until now — especially every moment Brad entered and exited that building.”

“Already on it.” Phil’s voice came through over the rapid clicking of keys. This was no minor task, and he sounded more focused than he had during the decisive operation against the Indoria Federation. “Give me five minutes.”

The study fell silent once more, the mournful news broadcast and the endlessly looping crash footage clashing sharply with the mounting tension in the room.

Sean leaned heavily against the butler, his breathing unsteady, his dimmed eyes fixed on Rylie as though she were his last remaining source of hope.

Time moved with agonizing slowness, each second stretching beyond its natural length.

At last, Phil’s voice broke the silence, carrying a thread of contained excitement. “Found it. Yesterday at 3:47 p.m., Brad entered the presidential office. He came out at 4:22. Transferring the footage to the living room television now.”

Two high-resolution clips appeared side by side on the screen, playing on a continuous loop. It didn’t take long before both Phil and Rylie — who knew Brad intimately — sensed that something was wrong.

“Look.” Rylie pointed toward the cuff of the man walking out. “He pushed up his sleeve.”

Deandre frowned. “What’s strange about that?”

“Brad has several scars on his wrist,” Rylie answered, her voice steady and flat. “Mostly cuts and abrasions. The deepest one required stitches and left uneven marks. This man has none of them.”

Although the figure mirrored Brad in height, posture, and facial appearance, Rylie — the person closest to him — knew the smallest details of his body better than anyone else ever could.

Hope flared suddenly in Sean’s eyes.

The man leaving the presidential office was not Brad at all.

.

.

.