5:00 PM
Ira entered the submission room with Rivan—the room where all the paintings submitted for the exhibition were kept.
They stepped inside and met the in-charge.
The employee overseeing the room showed them the new paintings that had been submitted that day.
There were many paintings—around forty to fifty in total.
Each one had been carefully wrapped.
At a signal from Rivan, the wrapping was removed from all the paintings.
And instantly, one painting pulled Ira’s attention toward itself.
A tag hung beside it, reading:
The moment Ira saw it, she asked urgently, “Wh–who submitted this painting?”
Hearing her question, the in-charge checked the entries on his tablet and replied, “Ma’am… this painting was submitted under the anonymous category. That’s why we don’t have the painter’s details.”
Rivan could read the change in Ira’s expression. Turning to the employee, he said, “Bring the CCTV footage from the time this painting was submitted.”
“Okay, sir,” the employee replied and left.
Rivan turned his gaze back to Ira.
Her hand was trembling. Her breathing had grown shallow and uneven.
He lifted his eyes to the woman painted on the canvas—holding a smiley mask in her hand.
There was no delay in recognition.
This was .
There was no doubt—this painting had been made by Anamika. No one else knew the Mask Murderer’s details with such precision. Every line, every shadow, carried her signature.
But one question troubled Ira and Rivan deeply— Why had Anamika named this painting “The Painting of Love”?
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Rivan instinctively reached out to steady her, but hesitated and pulled his hand back, slipping it into his pocket instead.
He was about to speak when the employee returned, visibly shaken.
“S–sir… sir, the—”
His panic made Ira speak immediately. “What happened?!”
The employee swallowed and said, “All the security staff are unconscious. And… all the CCTV recordings from this afternoon until now—they’re gone.”
Ira couldn’t believe it.
She ran straight to the security cabin, with Rivan close behind her.
Inside, they found every security guard injured and unconscious—just as the employee had said.
Tears almost spilled from Ira’s eyes, but she forced herself to steady her breath. Clenching her trembling hands, she said,
“Th–that painting… it was made by Delicate Flower. It was hers…! Maybe—maybe she really is in danger!
Rivan… do whatever it takes, but find out who did this!”
Rivan tried to comfort her.
“Don’t worry, babydoll. I’ll handle everything. Now that we know Anamika is here—in this city—we’ll find her.”
“Where are you… and how are you, Delicate Flower?” Ira whispered to herself.
Elsewhere—
In a quiet, wide field lush with green, Anamika sat on a bench, watching the sun sink into the horizon.
For the first time in months, she was breathing open air.
She wasn’t wearing shoes. The shackles that had bound her feet for months had left wounds, now wrapped in fresh bandages. Ointment covered both her wrists.
She wore a hoodie, its hood pulled low over her head, hiding most of her face from view.
No one could be seen nearby—and no one would come.
Koyo had ordered the field to be cleared specifically for today. His men were stationed all around, preventing anyone from approaching.
Even they didn’t know why the field had been sealed.
They were simply following Mr. Lucifer’s orders.
Mr. Lucifer soon approached Anamika, carrying food and medicines.
The moment she sensed his presence, fear overtook her. She quickly put on her mask and stood up—but pain shot through her foot, and she staggered.
Mr. Lucifer stepped forward instinctively, then stopped himself.
Calmly, he said, “Please don’t be afraid. Koyo Sir sent some food and medicines for you. I’m just here to deliver them.”
Anamika slowly turned her gaze toward him.
He extended the bag toward her.
She spoke softly, “You… no—sir… do you help Koyo too?”
Her question struck something inside Mr. Lucifer—as if, for the first time, it made him wonder why he remained loyal to Koyo.
Pushing the thought aside, he replied, “Yes. I help manage Koyo Sir’s work and relay orders to the others.”
Anamika quietly took the food and medicine from his hands and asked, “Wh–where is he?”
“You should rest here for a while,” Lucifer replied. “He’ll be here soon.”
With that, Mr. Lucifer left.
Anamika’s thoughts drifted back to earlier that afternoon—when she had gone with Koyo to submit the painting.
From a distance, she had seen Ira and Rivan.
She had been helpless—desperate to reach them, yet unable to—because Koyo stood right beside her.
His words still filled her with rage and disgust:
“Do those two children know you? Even if they do, you won’t meet them. You won’t talk to anyone here.”
Anger and helplessness burned together as a tear slipped from Anamika’s eye. She wiped it away before it could fall and looked up at the faint moon in the sky—as if silently asking for help.
Not far from the field— Milo was watching.
The presence of Grin Reaper’s men deployed around an open field was strange—too strange to ignore. And Milo knew there had to be a reason.
Perched in a tree, binoculars in hand, he scanned the area and muttered to himself, “There has to be something here—Grin Reaper himself or one of his secrets.”
Suddenly, he spotted someone wearing a hoodie.
From a distance, the figure looked small.
“Huh… a kid?” he murmured.
He zoomed in further.
The figure turned.
Milo blinked. “Oh… that’s a girl. Hm… Grin Reaper can’t be this innocent-looking girl, so then— Don’t tell me this guy kidnapped a girl like some dark romance novel hero!”
As the thought crossed his mind, something clicked.
His expression changed.
“Wait a minute… could this be— the Trinity’s daughter? The one Master has been searching for?!”
His heartbeat quickened.
“I need to inform Master. Immediately.”
With that, Milo climbed down from the tree and quickly dialed Aditya’s number.
