The Truth Department suddenly noticed something was wrong, but that tramp had already disappeared without a trace. Who would have thought his legs were perfectly fine without a sign of limping.

The Truth Department could only whisper their suspicions to the Propaganda Department and their trusted comrades.

"I think we've been tricked..."

"We're already here; who cares? Such a big place must be a top-tier level, right?"

The trusted comrade carelessly said, "Whoever it is, kill them on the spot!"

Propaganda Department: "I think he's got a point."

As for ambushes and baits, neither the players nor the journalists could come up with a reason.

They had no reputation, no status, no money, just a life of squalor. What was the point in attracting them here?

Not to mention, players aren't afraid of death. Memories of humanoid types like A2 can be fully uploaded to the cloud for preservation, although resurrection costs are borne by the players.

Propaganda Department: "But I suggest we be cautious, evade if possible, focus on reconnaissance, and run if we can't win."

They're unfamiliar here and don't know where the main road leads. What if it goes straight to the security room, walking right into a trap?

Ultimately, the Truth Department decided to use the air vents.

For a construction site this scale built underground, ventilation has to be considered. Any minor issue could suffocate someone inside.

So, the air vents were particularly large, one or two meters high, and sturdy, with the fans whirring loudly, which is why they could be heard even from outside.

As for Lewis, he had no objections; he was here to investigate the truth, and the Mercenary definitely had experience with these paths.

Thus, they crawled along the air vents, occasionally peeking down through the vent openings to see what's going on.

During their advance, they saw the corpse transport team the tramp had mentioned.

A few Soldiers armed to the teeth pushed a trolley beneath the vents, its cover not fully closed, a pale arm sticking out, swaying, sending chills down one's spine.

And this whole scenario grew increasingly mysterious as they ventured deeper.

The surroundings transitioned from concrete and mortar walls to stone masonry, using expensive materials they couldn't identify.

Though, beyond marble, they couldn't recognize anything.

But the Truth Department roughly guessed these stones weren't naturally mined but synthetic materials compounded later.

After all, there was no reason that the joints between these building panels wouldn't be visible.

Though it's possible the modeler was being lazy.

"Shh!"

At the front, A2 suddenly turned to signal everyone to keep quiet, then pointed to the nearby ventilation grille.

Although there was still some distance beyond the grille, obscuring what was happening inside, sounds could be heard from behind.

And in the unseen place,

A vast room housed four mahogany bookshelves, stocked with various tomes from history to geography belonging to different companies and countries.

However, they had one thing in common: they were so new, they hadn't even been opened, plainly for display.

The firewood in the fireplace crackled, with embers occasionally landing on the hardwood floor covered with a bear-skin rug.

Apart from the crystal chandelier above, electronic devices commonly found throughout Night City were scarcely visible in the room.

It's hard to believe such architecture appeared here.

A masked middle-aged man sat on a leather sofa, his attire very retro, reminiscent of a Renaissance-era European tailcoat, easily bringing to mind a noble's private portrait hanging in an art exhibition.

If there weren't a young blonde boy sitting on his lap, one might think he was an English gentleman.

"McLaren..."

The man's voice was deep and profound, like a bottomless whirlpool, instilling fear down to one's soul.

The boy, referred to as McLaren, trembled on his lap, yet dared not move.

If anyone familiar with the film industry were here, they'd undoubtedly be shocked at his identity.

Isn't this the renowned child star from the United States, McLaren Calkins?

His fee for a single movie reaches millions of Eurodollars, making him a hot commodity.

Yet now, he sits quietly on the man's lap like a little chick, not daring to resist.

"Look at your face, it's truly a gift from the Angel..."

The man's hand stroked McLaren's smooth face; even through the mask, McLaren could see the hair-raising desire in those eyes beneath.

The more fear he feels, the more satisfied the man becomes.

Driven by terror, McLaren tried to escape to the door, but was immediately caught by the neck, forcibly pressed back onto the man's lap.

His shoe heels clicked on the hardwood floor, each sound striking at McLaren's heart, causing him to retch from fear.

He lowered his head, looking at those shiny red shoes, his Adam's apple bobbing but unable to vomit.

And the demonic whisper in his ear plunged him into utter despair, knowing his parents—who should have protected him—were the ones who sent him here with their own hands.

"You should still remember Heidi Rockman, she was quite a pretty girl..."

He certainly remembered the name; he'd even seen her on TV. She was two years older than him but died unexpectedly from heart disease in '73...

The man said no more, as McLaren lowered his head to look at those red shoes, so smooth as if they were the skin of an eight-year-old girl.

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