Chapter 301

Her story did spark massive public discussion after the Supreme Court released the trial recordings. But most of it centered on the case itself—about her condition, the public knew very little.

"Because I'm your attending physician." Ethan smiled. "And also because you're a miracle."

He looked at Sophia, his gaze serious.

"Your recovery process—both from a medical standpoint and a psychological one—is incredibly valuable to document. Your experience can bring hope to so many people who are drowning in despair right now."

Hope.

Sophia's fingers tapped lightly against the table.

The thing she'd once needed most. Now she could give it to others.

"I'll think about it," she said.

Ethan nodded, not pushing. "The production team is the best documentary crew in the country. They'll respect your wishes completely and protect your privacy."

After Ethan left, Sophia sat alone in the living room for a long time.

The old man she'd met in the Russell Manor studio—his words still circled in her mind.

"Your mother's death wasn't an accident..."

"The Russell family owes you and your mother more than one life..."

After saying that, the old man had foamed at the mouth and collapsed. By the time Hummingbird's people rushed in, he'd already stopped breathing.

The coroner ruled it a sudden heart attack.

The lead went cold.

Frank. That name hung over her head like a blade.

She needed power now.

Not just the security Stanley provided—she needed a different kind of power. The kind that would let her stand in the sunlight, where enemies lurking in dark corners could no longer touch her so easily.

Public attention was that kind of power.

Sophia picked up her phone and sent Ethan a message.

[I agree.]

The documentary shoot was scheduled quickly.

The director was a man in his forties named Mark, who'd made several award-winning documentaries on social issues.

The first time he met Sophia, he seemed a little uneasy.

The Sophia before him was thinner than she appeared in the news and files, and far more composed.

That composure wasn't the naivety of someone sheltered from the world—it was the stillness that came after weathering storms.

"Ms. Grey, our filming will focus mainly on interviews and documenting your daily life." Mark explained the production plan. "We want to show the most authentic version of you, so there won't be a script. You just need to live as you normally would."

Sophia nodded. "Okay."

The crew was professional—a dozen people setting up equipment on the lawn outside the sunroom, everything organized, taking care not to disturb the normal operations of the treatment center.

Hummingbird and his people stayed further out, quietly monitoring everything.

The first day of filming went smoothly.

Mark asked mostly about the early days of her painting career and her state of mind after she got sick.

Sophia's answers were simple but honest.

She didn't accuse anyone. She didn't play the victim. She just stated facts.

How a young painter had her hands destroyed. How she struggled through illness. How she picked up a brush again.

Behind the monitor, Mark's eyes welled up more than once.

He knew this film was going to work.

By evening, filming wrapped.

The equipment stayed on site, watched jointly by the treatment center's security and the crew.

But the next morning, trouble hit.

"Mark! We've got a problem!" The assistant director came running over, panicked. "The equipment—it's all gone!"

Mark rushed to the lawn and froze.

The equipment area that had been packed with gear yesterday was completely empty.

Cameras, boom mics, lighting rigs—not even a cable left behind.

Worst of all, the portable hard drives holding yesterday's footage had vanished too.

"Call the police! Call them now!" Mark's voice shook.

That was an entire day's worth of footage—the opening of the whole documentary, containing Sophia's most precious interview segment.

Gone meant gone forever.

Hummingbird walked over and scanned the scene. "This wasn't ordinary theft."

He pointed to a few nearly invisible footprints on the ground. "They were professionals. Got around all our surveillance cameras, and they knew your equipment inside out—only took the most critical pieces."

Mark collapsed to the ground, his face ashen. "It's over... all of it..."

Sophia walked over. Her expression remained calm.

She looked at Mark and asked, "Do you have a backup of yesterday's footage?"

"No..." Mark shook his head in despair. "To preserve quality, we shot in the highest-spec RAW format. The files are too huge—we didn't have time to back them up to the cloud..."

"Is that so?"

Sophia pulled out her phone and dialed a number.

It was answered on the first ring.

"Soph." Stanley's voice came through, cool as always.

"Something went missing," Sophia said.

"Yeah, I saw."

"Do you have a backup?"

"I do."

Before Sophia could say anything else, Stanley continued, "From the first second you started filming, all the data streams synced to my private cloud. I sent the link to your email. Password is your birthday."

He hung up.

The whole exchange took less than thirty seconds.

Sophia put her phone away and looked at Mark, who'd gone completely still.

"My brother says there's a backup. He sent the link to my email."

Mark stared at her blankly, mouth opening and closing without sound.

What just happened?

Syncing data streams from the first second of filming? Private cloud? What kind of operation was that? Even their own crew couldn't pull that off!

Beside her, the corner of Hummingbird's mouth seemed to twitch almost imperceptibly.

That was Stanley, all right.

Using an intercontinental missile to swat a mosquito.

A few minutes later, the assistant director came running with a laptop, shouting excitedly, "Found it! Mark! It's all here! Not a single frame missing! Original quality intact!"

Mark rushed over. When he saw the screen showing Sophia painting quietly in the sunlight, he nearly cried with relief.

He whipped around to look at Sophia, his eyes filled with shock and curiosity.

This Ms. Grey... who exactly was backing her?

Money alone couldn't explain this.

This was absolute technical superiority beyond his comprehension.

---

The Russell Group.

Owen knocked and entered James's office.

"Mr. Russell, we've confirmed it. Last night at the Western Suburbs Treatment Center, there was a theft involving the documentary crew Ms. Grey is working with."

James looked up.

"But..." Owen's expression turned odd. "This morning, the crew resumed filming as normal."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, someone recovered their lost footage from the cloud. So the shoot wasn't affected at all." Owen reported. "The people who pulled the job—we traced them back to Frank's side. Hired through offshore accounts. A few repeat offenders. They've disappeared now."

James fell silent.

He knew there was only one person who could do something like that.

Stanley.

The brother he'd never taken seriously, yet who kept protecting Sophia in ways James couldn't comprehend.

James suddenly felt powerless.

He wanted to make amends. Apologize. Bring her back under his protection.

But he realized she didn't need it anymore.

She had her own wings now. Wings that were stronger and broader than his.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

A news notification.

[Growing Toward the Sun documentary begins production; genius painter Sophia speaks on camera for the first time about her journey of rebirth]

The accompanying image showed Sophia's profile as she sat before an easel.

Sunlight poured through the glass window, bathing her in warmth.

Her face held a light he'd never seen before—serene yet powerful.

James stared at the photo for a long time. Then he pressed the intercom.

"Bring the car around."

"Mr. Russell, where to?"

"The Growing Toward the Sun filming location."

---

Moments later.

James's car stopped at the outer perimeter of the treatment center.

Not because he wanted to stop—because he couldn't go any further.

Several men in black uniforms with communication devices in their ears blocked the way.

They didn't have the aggressive presence of Russell Group security. They just stood there quietly, forming an invisible wall.

Owen recognized them. Hummingbird's people.

"Mr. Russell, should we—"