The bodyguards stood vigilant, guarding every entrance and exit of the cabin.
The nurses and doctors were busy performing surgery, each with a solemn expression and grave deanor.
Charles Mcintosh’s assistant waited anxiously, unable to help in any way, just waiting.
Ti ticked away, minute by minute.
A quarter hour after Charles Mcintosh jumped into the river, public security personnel arrived at the heart of the river.
Most of Spencer Childe’s n could swim; soon after he fell into the water, his team of devoted followers rescued him.
However, Spencer Childe had nowhere to go and obediently let himself be taken away by the authorities.
Lana Fern was severely injured and couldn’t swim, disappearing without a trace.
The river water surged fiercely, with traces of blood still floating on the surface.
But due to the current and rain, the blood traces quickly dispersed, vanishing without a trace.
Charles Mcintosh’s assistant anxiously paced in the cabin, sotis glancing at the rain outside, sotis at the light above.
Constant updates kept coming in, yet none were about Sylvan Cheney or Charles Mcintosh.
The river was too dark; people couldn’t be seen at all.
The assistant knew they couldn’t let Charles Mcintosh keep searching like this any longer; already a quarter hour had passed, and continued swimming would surely lead to exhaustion!
He quickly instructed a few bodyguards: "Go find Mr. Mcintosh and bring him back."
"Yes."
Ti continued to pass, and it was already 3:30 AM.
The most silent, the most chilling, yet the most terrifying ti of day.
Moreover, it was Qingming Festival today, making the atmosphere particularly uneasy and panicked.
Five minutes later, Charles Mcintosh returned to the boat, panting, soaked, and physically exhausted.
Without waiting for anyone to question him, Charles Mcintosh sat by the edge of the boat, suddenly bowed his head, painfully ran his fingers through his short hair, tears flowing uncontrollably down his face.
The feeling of pain spread throughout his body, a difficult-to-bear ache in every limb and bone.
He couldn’t find Sylvan Cheney.
The river’s current was even stronger than he’d imagined; once soone went down, without a life jacket, they could be swept far away by the torrents and whirlpools.
The river’s rapid currents were an intimidating existence, akin to a black hole, unfathomable in depth.
Charles Mcintosh’s assistant stood nearby, at a loss for what to do.
In his eyes, Charles Mcintosh was steady, reserved, not overly talkative, efficient in his actions, upright and forthright, but it was his first ti seeing such a helpless Charles Mcintosh.
He could sense that Charles Mcintosh was crying.
A man crying... implies that there’s sothing within him that’s nearing despair.
His heart seized.
Charles Mcintosh just sat by the boat’s edge, the cold wind blowing directly upon him.
No one dared to inquire, simply letting Charles Mcintosh sit there.
The cold wind howled, the distance bathed in darkness.
In this manner, Charles Mcintosh resembled a statue, sitting silently, motionless.
Or perhaps, he had forgotten what to do.
The image of Sylvan Cheney’s face flashed before him.
Their relationship was strong; although they had fought and tussled when younger, their friendship spanning over twenty years was deeply entrenched.
This feeling was intense, like a mountain, like the sea.
And this ti, he feared he was eternally losing Sylvan Cheney.
He dared not imagine the sight of the spirited Sylvan Cheney perishing...
"No..." Charles Mcintosh vigorously rubbed his temples, needed to stop thinking, dared not think further.
It’s alright, it must be alright.
Jasmine Yale is still alive; how could he die?
The assistant cautiously stepped forward, handing Charles Mcintosh a cigarette, sensing he needed it.
Charles Mcintosh reached out to take it, his voice hoarse and weary: "Thank you..."
The assistant lit the cigarette for Charles Mcintosh, and soon, smoke swirled around him, nicotine gradually numbing his nerves.
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