บททั้งหมดของ Plaything in one's palm: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

The twenty-four hours that followed the discovery of the folder were the longest of Lynn’s life. The studio, once a sanctuary, had become a chamber of ghosts. The unopened paint set sat on the table, a mocking symbol of a normalcy that was forever out of reach. The manila folder, however, was a black hole, sucking all light and air from the room. Lynn had not touched it again after that first, devastating glance. The headline was seared into his mind: "LinTech Declares Bankruptcy; Founder Lin Feng Found Dead in Apparent Suicide."He avoided the studio after that, retreating to the stark emptiness of his bedroom. The invitation—Tomorrow. 3:00 PM. The study.—echoed in his head like a death knell. It wasn't a request; it was a summons to a trial where he was both the accused and the jury, and the judge was a man whose motives were completely inscrutable.Why now? After the silence, the lockdown, the violent embrace, why this? Was it a trap? A final confrontation before disposing of a pro

The name Lucas hung in the study like a ghost, and the story that followed painted a picture of a tragedy so profound it seemed to suck the air from the room. Lynn sat frozen in his chair, the polished wood feeling like a block of ice beneath him. His father, the idealist, and Lucas Evans, the dreamer, caught in a web of corporate greed and familial tyranny. It was a story he had never imagined, a betrayal that went far deeper than a simple hostile takeover.Caius’s gaze was distant, fixed on some point in the past, his face a mask of grim remembrance. The controlled CEO was gone, replaced by a man recounting a sin that had shaped his life.“After Lucas…” Caius paused, the name catching in his throat. He cleared it, the sound harsh in the silence. “After his death, there was no room for sentiment. My father was… unequivocal. The project was a cancer. Your father was the last remaining cell. He had to be excised. Completely.”He finally looked at Lynn, his eyes devoid of their earlier

The storm of grief and rage passed, leaving behind a landscape of utter desolation. Lynn sat on the cold marble floor, his back against the solid wood of the desk, his body hollowed out. The tears had stopped, leaving his face stiff and salty. The sobs had subsided, replaced by a deep, shuddering exhaustion that seeped into his bones. He felt like a vessel that had been filled to the brim with agony and then violently emptied, leaving nothing but a fragile shell.He was aware of Caius moving on the other side of the desk, the soft sounds of his presence a counterpoint to the deafening silence in Lynn’s own head. The confession, the revelation of his own insignificance in the grand, bloody scheme of the Evans family, had crushed him. He was not an avenger. He was a tool. A conveniently placed piece of leverage. The hatred he had nurtured for Caius felt pointless now, a flame that had been doused by the cold water of a much larger, more terrifying truth.He heard the quiet clink of crys

The silent aftermath of the studio encounter settled over the penthouse like a fragile truce. The raw, screaming paintings remained in the studio, an unspoken testament to the chasm that had been bridged not by words, but by a shared, terrible understanding. Lynn no longer felt like a ghost haunting the periphery; he was a presence, a quiet storm contained within the walls. The fear was still there, a constant hum beneath his skin, but it was now tempered by a new, grim clarity.He had seen the enemy, and it wasn't just the man in the study. It was the vast, impersonal machine of family legacy and corporate greed that had chewed up his father and Lucas and was now trying to consume him. Caius was a part of that machine, perhaps its chief operator, but he was also, in his own twisted way, a prisoner of it. This realization didn't bring forgiveness, but it forged a strange, precarious alliance of survival.A week after the confrontation, the burner phone vibrated.Lynn was in the living

The days fell into a new, strange rhythm. Mornings were for lessons. Caius would drill Lynn on security protocols, quiz him on corporate structures, or put him through simulated scenarios in the penthouse. The instruction was relentless, demanding, and devoid of any personal touch. Lynn was a student, and Caius was a master craftsman imparting essential, life-saving skills to a piece of raw material. The air crackled with a tense, focused energy, the only sound being Caius’s clipped instructions and the soft hum of electronics.Afternoons, however, were Lynn’s own. The studio, once a chamber of tormented confession, became a laboratory. The frantic, emotional slashes of paint were gone. In their place was a deliberate, almost clinical precision. The chaos had been processed, distilled. The raw pain had not vanished, but it had been forged into something sharper: observation.He no longer painted his internal storms. He painted what he saw.He started with the penthouse itself. He pain