บททั้งหมดของ Undercover Wolf: My Target, My Girlfriend: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Evelyn leaned against the wall in the alley for a long time. Morning light slanted through the gap between buildings in front of her, falling on the ground at her feet, catching particles of dust in a floating layer of gold. Her fingers still held the edge of the key in her sleeve pocket; its metallic chill was being slowly pushed back by her body heat, moving from cold toward warm, though not fully transformed. She drew the key out and held it in her palm, feeling its edges press against her lifelines. Then she returned it to the pocket and continued along the wall.She didn't go in through the main entrance. She circled around the estate's western wall, to the side door she'd never opened before—still there, the gap unchanged, the latch she'd modified undisturbed. She crouched, inserted the key again, turned it once, and the door opened. She slipped through and closed it behind her, standing still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust from the daylight outside to the dimness of the

She sat on the floor of the archive for a long time. Not hesitating—her body needed that time to complete the full transition from standing to crouching to sitting, each step half again as slow as normal, like she was using the physical motion to digest something that had happened too quickly. Her back against the table leg, knees drawn to her chest, the paper in her hands, her fingertip pressing against her own signature from more than two years ago. She could feel the paper fibers being slowly pushed away from their original state by her body heat—going from cold to warm, from stiff to slightly soft.She unfolded it again and read it once more. The handwriting was hers. The angle of the stroke endings differed slightly from how she wrote now—two years ago she'd let the last stroke drag a little longer; now she'd learned to close each character cleanly, leaving no tail. But the signature was hers. She recognized the curve of the final stroke in the character "Lin," that slightly elev

She returned before dawn. The door made almost no sound when she pushed it open—like she'd spent a long time adjusting the angle and pressure, minimizing the friction of iron against the hinge. She slipped through, closed it behind her, and leaned against the door panel for a moment. Her breathing was steady, not rushed, but her coat shoulders were damp with dew—the dark gray fabric beaded with fine moisture, catching small glints under the oil lamp.Lane sat on the bed's edge, facing the door. His posture had barely changed since she'd left—left hand on his knee, right hand resting on the bed's edge, back against the wall. But he hadn't slept. His eyes were open, fixed on her. She stood by the door for a moment, removed her coat and hung it over the chair back, then walked to the table and sat down. The lamp was still burning, its flame smaller than before, burning slowly on the wick, narrowing the light on the table to a small circle of warm yellow."You saw it," he said. Not a ques

He decided to use it on the fourth morning, before full dawn. Light seeped through the gap beneath the door, laying a long gray-white stripe across the floor. He sat on the bed's edge, his left sleeve pushed up to his upper arm—the gray line showed a dark lead-gray under the morning light, running from wrist to shoulder, stopping at the shoulder blade's edge. He'd measured its length with his fingertip last night—a finger's width longer than the day before.He stood, picked up the tin box from the table, opened it, and took out the glass syringe. The barrel was smooth, unmarked; the liquid inside was nearly colorless in the morning light, like air sealed in glass. He didn't hesitate. He carried it to the table, lit the lamp—the flame jumped, and his face was split by the boundary between morning and lamplight.Evelyn sat on the burlap sacks. She'd woken when he picked up the box, but her movements showed no surplus—no sudden rising, no stopping, no questions. She simply straightened f

When Lane stepped through the iron door, morning light had already filled the floor of the pump house. Adrian stood by the door, holding an unlit lamp, folding the map and tucking it into his inner coat pocket. Evelyn stood at the start of the gravel path, facing north, wind pushing strands of hair to one side—she didn't brush them back."The route is a straight line." Adrian finished with the map and turned, his gaze moving between the two of them. "After leaving the pump house, follow the alley about two hundred paces, cross a stretch of open gravel, then enter the northern section of the tunnel system. The entrance is at the back of an old building—you need to go through a maintenance door. Once inside the tunnel, there's no exposure risk.""And those two hundred paces?" Lane asked."Those two hundred paces are above ground. Daytime is safer than night—at night, patrols use heat sensors; during the day, they rely more on sight and smell. Right now it's early morning, enough light,