During the day, when performing official duties in public, he had to wear a suit—this was the organization’s rule; but now, he could put on clothes that made him feel more comfortable.

In fact, Scram didn’t like suits at all—he really disliked them.

He had once been a soldier, or rather, he still was; his “lieutenant” rank wasn’t given by EAS, but earned on the battlefield before he joined EAS.

Unfortunately, even though he had spent many years on the front lines and his military achievements were more than enough to promote him to a higher position, his background—or rather, the class his family belonged to—still became a chasm on his path to advancement.

Of course, he felt unwilling about this...

Why should those young masters who had never even smelled gunpowder get to go to officer school? Why could they become commanders as soon as they graduated? These boastful rich boys watered their résumés with the blood of soldiers, used their subordinates’ careers to pay for their own mistakes, and could become generals without shedding a single drop of blood; while soldiers like him, from the bottom of society, no matter how great their achievements, still had no hope of rising.

Is that fair?

He had asked himself this question countless times in his heart, but... he had never thought about answering it.

Because he thought the question was stupid, and anyone who seriously pondered it was even more foolish.

In any case, as of today, at least in terms of his position, Scram no longer belonged to the federal military; in a sense, he even had to thank a certain young master who sat in the command center and fought battles on paper...

If it weren’t for his superior’s “blind command,” Scram wouldn’t have been captured during an operation; if he hadn’t been captured, he wouldn’t have been interrogated; if he hadn’t endured all kinds of torture beyond human limits during the interrogation, his supernatural ability wouldn’t have awakened... and if his ability hadn’t awakened, he wouldn’t have been requisitioned by EAS.

Call it a blessing in disguise or a narrow escape from death—sometimes life is just that mysterious: you never know whether the next chapter of your life will be bright or covered in shit. All you can do is keep turning the pages, don’t give up, keep going until the light comes, or else drown in the shit.

...

Night, 11:03 p.m., Sunshine Juvenile Behavior Correction Center.

Scram arrived here at a run. Although the hotel where he was staying wasn’t exactly close, for someone like him, running on the city’s flat roads in sneakers and without any load was basically no different from taking a stroll—he wouldn’t even be out of breath for anything under five kilometers.

“Who’s there?” As Scram approached the building’s main entrance, the police officer on guard quickly noticed him and came forward to ask.

“Shh... it’s me.” Scram pulled down the hood of his tracksuit, revealing his face under the streetlight. “Keep your voice down. If there are any reporters nearby, you’ll attract them like this.”

“Sir.” The officer, seeing his face clearly, immediately stood at attention and saluted.

“All right, no need to salute, just get back to your post.” Even so, Scram still returned a standard federal military salute. “I want to go inside and take a look. Not sure how long I’ll be... Just use your radio to let the other units know.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer responded, turned around, and pressed the radio on his left chest as he walked away to report in.

Scram then strode through the gate and entered the main building of the correction center.

At this time, although there was power in the building, none of the lights were on. Of course, for people of this era, using a phone as a flashlight was common sense.

So Scram used his phone’s light, starting his search from the first floor all the way up to the fifth; during this process, he tried to imagine himself as someone else—Logan Carter from two days ago.

He strictly followed Logan Carter’s account, imitating his actions and keeping track of the time.

From 18:36, when Logan Carter arrived at the scene, to 19:25, when he called the police from the monitoring room, a total of 49 minutes—what exactly happened during those 49 minutes? This question continued to trouble Scram.

Maybe it was just Scram overthinking things, maybe the other party’s testimony was the truth, but regardless, he still wanted to verify it again—even if it was pointless, at least it would put his mind at ease.

...

Thirty-nine minutes later, Scram was standing in Professor Foster’s office.

His verification was over; he had searched all the rooms, and next door was the monitoring room. However, the time he spent was ten minutes less than Logan Carter.

So... where did those ten minutes go?

Scram let out a long sigh and simply sat down in Uncle Foster’s comfortable office chair, resting while pondering: “Was I just too fast? That’s possible, after all, everyone’s search pace and efficiency are different. Detective Carter was acting in a state of high alert, ready for an ambush at any moment, while I was searching knowing all the rooms were empty...

“But if that’s not the reason for the time difference... then what could he have been doing during those ten minutes?”