Unmasking the Truth

Clark took a shaky breath, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room as he weighed his words carefully. The gravity of the situation was settling over him like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating. He knew that what he was about to say could either dig his grave or buy him a chance to walk away with his life and reputation intact.

"Look, I'm already putting my neck on the line by telling you this," Clark began, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation. "If Jim finds out I spoke to you, I’m done. Finished. My membership with The Watchers is as good as revoked. But I swear on everything, what I'm telling you is the absolute truth—there's no Lowan Box registered in the national identity card system. If he exists, then he's operating under an alias."

Jason and Kate exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Jason exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening as he processed Clark’s words.

"Alright," Jason said, his tone measured. "So, based on what The Watchers believe, Lowan Box is an ex-member of the Pathway of Ascendants. And according to them, he's the one who murdered Ryder and Sasha because they defected from the cult and began publicly condemning Satanism. That about right?"

Clark nodded. "Yes. That’s exactly right."

Jason folded his arms across his chest, studying Clark like a puzzle missing its final piece. "Do you know about Juan Luu?" he asked suddenly.

Clark blinked, thrown off by the question. "Who’s Juan Luu?" he asked, his forehead creasing in confusion. "Never heard that name before."

Jason scrutinized him closely, searching for any flicker of deception. But Clark’s expression remained unchanged—he was telling the truth.

"Interesting," Jason muttered under his breath. He filed the name Juan Luu away for later. "Alright, next question. If Lowan Box really did murder Ryder and Sasha because they were speaking out against Satanism, then why would he kill Jonathan Miller and Pauline Miller?"

Clark's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "You mean investigative journalist Jonathan Miller?" he asked, his voice quick with recognition.

"That’s the one," Jason confirmed with a curt nod.

Clark scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "Come on, everybody knows Jonathan Miller died in a car accident. That’s public record."

Jason exchanged a look with Kate. The response was telling—The Watchers had no idea that Jonathan Miller’s death hadn’t been an accident at all. It had been a murder, carried out by the same killer.

Jason leaned forward slightly, his tone sharpening. "Get me a sketch of Lowan Box."

Clark’s mouth opened as if to protest, but Jason cut him off before he could even get a word out. "And don’t bother lying, because I already know you have it. So, let’s not waste each other’s time."

Clark exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. His gaze flickered toward the masked figures in the room before finally settling on Jason. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "I don’t know how you figured all this out, but if Jim and I had even the slightest idea that someone was watching us, neither of us would have ever mentioned The Watchers or the jobs we’ve been assigned."

He rubbed his temple, stress and regret evident in every tense muscle in his face. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he gestured toward a book rack in the corner of the room. "It’s in the gray file," he admitted.

Without hesitation, Kate moved across the room. She located the gray-colored file, flipped it open, and found exactly what they were looking for—a detailed sketch of a man’s face. She studied it briefly before returning to Jason’s side.

Jason took the file from Kate and let his gaze linger on the sketch for a few beats before shutting the folder. Then, his focus returned to Clark.

"Alright, one last question," Jason said, his voice slow and deliberate. "I want you to answer me with absolute precision and accuracy. No half-truths, no stalling—just the facts. Understand?"

Clark swallowed hard, nodding.

Jason took a step closer, his presence looming. "Why is a simple poetry book, the Rubaiyat, so important that an entire cult was formed just to protect it? Who were they protecting it from? And most importantly—what kind of power does it hold?"

Clark’s breath hitched slightly. He could feel the weight of Jason’s stare, pressing down on him like an iron grip. His pulse pounded in his ears as he realized there was no way out. No more dodging, no more bluffs. He had to tell them everything he knew.

He drew a deep breath, let it settle in his chest, and then finally, he spoke.