Chapter 37: Deadlocks

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

"It takes a genius to freeze a phone at ninety-eight percent. It takes an absolute zero to freeze a prideful girl mid-sentence."

Exactly sixty minutes had ticked away since the final, suffocating curtains fell on the gala. The overwhelming heat of the ballroom, the artificial smiles of high-society networking, and the heavy weight of her family's social expectations had left Blythe feeling completely drained.

To find immediate sanctuary from those rigid protocols, she retreated deep into the quiet luxury of the elite Deansgate Salon. It was the only place nearby where she could wash away the exhausting evening without facing the intrusive lenses of the media.

Soft, recessed lights washed over polished marble walls, while a premium aroma of expensive essential oils drifted through the air. The atmosphere inside was intentionally designed to induce absolute serenity, filtering out the chaotic noise of the city outside.

Blythe sat completely motionless on a plush styling chair while a personal stylist meticulously wiped away her heavy layers of gala cosmetics. Every swipe of the cleansing pad felt like shedding an unwanted mask.

The removal of that thick makeup revealed a remarkably clean, fresh, and raw complexion underneath. Without the sharp lines of eyeliner and the dramatic shade of lipstick, her features softened significantly, losing none of their innate elegance.

Perfectly waved strands of hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick layers, framing her face with an unmistakable, aristocratic aura that required no cosmetic enhancement to command attention.

Inside her racing mind, however, the silence of the salon offered no comfort. Her thoughts were entirely elsewhere, trapped in a loop that had been playing relentlessly for days.

A secretive encounter she had accidentally witnessed around the quiet corner near the school courtyard a few days ago flashed vividly back into her memory. The image of Yve talking to a certain someone remained burned into her brain.

"The target phone is frozen. The deepfake transmission was terminated," Yve had stated during that quiet afternoon. 

Her flat, monotone voice had cut straight through the still air. 

"Your script succeeded. Thanks."

“Understood,” Uika had muttered back. 

His reply was matchingly brief, delivered with the low, rumbling resonance of someone who felt absolutely nothing about committing a highly illegal, god-level cyber counter-intervention.

"Blythe doesn't know," Yve had added, her deadpan expression completely unreadable as she adjusted her glasses. "Keep it that way."

Blythe stared wide-eyed at her reflection in the mirror, her lower lip trembling slightly as she clutched her chest, the sheer weight of the memory hitting her. She had been saved by the person she least expected.

Uika.

Blessed with those ethereal, strikingly beautiful features, the long-haired boy operated as a living center of attention, effortlessly fascinating the entire school whenever he walked by. He was a phantom who existed on the fringes of the student body, deeply admired but entirely unreachable.

Yet, a seat in the elite Set 1 meant Blythe normally inhabited a social universe completely isolated from a Set 8 student like him. The academic and social tiers of their academy were strict, creating an invisible, impenetrable wall between their daily lives.

Direct communication between them had simply never existed. They were two parallel lines running through the same school, never meant to cross under normal circumstances.

Until this very afternoon.

Clack.

The heavy glass doors of the main lounge swung wide open, breaking her train of thought and announcing a new arrival. The subtle shift in the room's atmosphere was instantaneous, dropping the temperature by what felt like ten degrees.

The hacker himself glided into the room with effortless grace, entering the salon for his own scheduled appointment. His long, raven hair brushed against his shoulders, shifting silkenly with every step he took.

Speak of the devil... Her throat tightened instantly, her pulse spiking as she caught his reflection in the grand vanity mirror.

Because she possessed a blunt, fiercely prideful personality, she absolutely loathed the agonizing sensation of owing anyone a debt, let alone a life-altering favor like the one he had performed. Her pride wouldn't allow her to sit there and pretend nothing happened.

A proper offering of gratitude felt like a mandatory, unavoidable obligation, regardless of how terrifyingly awkward the atmosphere might become. She needed to clear the ledger, to say her piece so she could breathe easily again.

Uika walked straight past her couch, keeping his vacant eyes fixed directly ahead and completely ignoring the luxurious layout of the salon. He moved like a ghost passing through a mortal realm, utterly detached from the physical world.

"Hey," Blythe called out, pushing as much poise and high-class authority into her tone as humanly possible to break his stride. "You're Uika, right?"

The beautiful boy halted mid-stride and slowly tilted his head in her direction. The movement was deliberate, mechanical, and entirely devoid of any human warmth.

"..."

His dark eyes remained completely blank as he stared back at her, devoid of any curiosity or recognition.

"Regarding the phone incident last week..." Blythe cleared her throat, fighting through her usual composed exterior as a sudden, stubborn warmth flushed her cheeks. "Word got to me that you were the one who froze the device."

"..."

"So... th-thanks."

"Farewell."

A low, velvety voice slipped from his lips, cold enough to freeze the air.

Before Blythe could even register the word, Uika turned away and accelerated his pace, completely dismissing her presence as he headed directly toward the VIP hallway.

An annoyed twitch sparked right across Blythe’s forehead. Her jaw dropped in absolute disbelief.

F-farewell?! Did he just say farewell to me mid-conversation?!

Her defensive, tsundere instincts flared up instantly, completely overriding her logic. Out of sheer reflex, she threw off her salon cape, leaped out of her chair, and sprinted down the corridor to overtake him.

Step, step, stomp!

Blythe planted herself firmly right in the middle of the narrow hallway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, physically blocking his path.

"Hold on! I am not done talking to you!" Blythe yelled, puffing out her chest to look as imposing as possible.

Uika didn't slow down. He kept walking forward, his gaze fixed dead ahead as if the girl standing right in front of him was nothing more than an invisible hologram.

"Listen to me!" Blythe began to yap frantically, backing up slightly as he closed the distance but refusing to yield her position. "Looking at how ridiculously long your hair has gotten, a proper cut is long overdue!"

"..."

"Pay attention, okay? The absolute trendiest hairstyle for guys right now is a highly textured wolf cut. It gives structure without sacrificing volume."

"..."

"Or at the bare minimum, a sharply tapered two-block! If you keep your hair that long, people will lose focus on your—"

Uika still didn't stop. He stepped right into her personal space, his tall frame casting a heavy shadow over her.

An invisible, suffocating aura of pure, icy pressure radiated from him. His dark eyes stared directly through her face, carrying a terrifying, absolute indifference that made it clear he would literally walk right through her body if she didn't move.

Blythe’s voice abruptly died out in the back of her throat. Her confident expression cracked, replaced by a sudden wave of genuine panic as his chest came mere inches from colliding with her.

‘He's... he's really not going to stop!’

Unable to handle the overwhelming mental pressure, her pride shattered. Her legs moved on their own, quickly sidestepping out of the way and pressing her back flat against the wall to let him pass.

Uika glided past her without a single millisecond of hesitation, his silken, lengthy hair lightly brushing the air as he walked by. He didn't offer her a second glance, stepping straight into the private VIP suite and shutting the heavy door firmly behind him.

Click.

The lock engaged, leaving the corridor in absolute, dead silence.

"Lady Blythe..."

A deeply hesitant whisper broke the agonizing stillness of the lounge, originating from right behind her shoulder. Her personal bodyguard had followed her down the hall and was now staring at her with wide eyes.

Freezing entirely, Blythe turned into a literal statue against the wallpaper.

Surging rapidly from her neck to her ears, a bright crimson wave stained her makeup-free skin, burning with the heat of a thousand suns. She had blocked his path, screamed fashion advice into his face, and ended up diving out of the way like a scared prey.

She was abandoned completely. Left entirely behind to look like a fool in front of her own security.

"Why..."

Her lips trembled violently as she gasped for air, her hands clenching into tight fists against her luxury dress.

"Why?"

"Why on earth didn't you step in and help me?!" Blythe hissed hysterically to her bodyguard, a tidal wave of sheer, unadulterated embarrassment crashing down upon her immense pride.

To sink directly through the expensive marble floor and disappear from the face of the earth sounded like the most wonderful option in the world right now.

"T-take me home this instant! Hurry!"

She practically slammed her luxury handbag against her face to hide her burning, deep-crimson cheeks.

With chaotic, panicked steps that entirely lacked her usual aristocratic grace, she bolted straight out of the establishment, her heels clicking frantically against the floor before her remaining dignity could shatter into any smaller pieces.