The bodyguard quietly left, leaving the room silent. Stephan remained in his study, phone pressed to his ear. He spoke in a low, determined tone, "Don't worry, Imogen. I'll find out who killed Archie. And I'll track down the missing item as well." He reassured his sister.

Felicia's new apartment was a modest two-bedroom unit near her college. The neighborhood wasn't ideal, but the rent was affordable, and the apartment itself was clean, fully furnished, and surprisingly tidy. Feeling guilty for keeping the cab driver waiting, she handed him triple the fare as a tip. "Thanks for waiting, sir," she said with a sheepish smile. The driver waved her off, adding a word of caution, "Young lady, this area isn't exactly safe, especially for someone like you. Watch your back, okay?" "I will. Thanks for the heads-up," she replied before entering the building, backpack slung over her shoulder.

The stairwell lights flickered on as her footsteps echoed. Felicia was about to press the elevator button when the fire escape door burst open, and a group of teenagers with brightly colored hair rushed through. One nearly collided with her, but she sidestepped in time. They didn't apologize, racing down the hall as if caught doing something wrong. Felicia raised an eyebrow.

Before she could consider it further, the fire escape door swung open again. This time, a young woman stormed out, breathless and furious, clutching a kitchen knife. Both froze. "Hey!" Felicia said, surprised. She recognized the woman instantly: Carmen, a senior at their college. They'd met a few times; Carmen had once defended Felicia in the dining hall and another time on the rooftop, warning her to be cautious. Of all places, this was the last place Felicia expected to see her.

Carmen didn't respond. Her knuckles whitened around the knife handle, and without a word, she retreated back into the stairwell.

Felicia shrugged off the strange encounter and took the elevator to the seventh floor. As fate would have it, Carmen emerged from the stairwell just as Felicia stepped out. The seventh floor only had two apartments. Felicia rented 701; the door to 702 stood wide open. What caught Felicia's attention wasn't the open door—it was the photos plastered all over it and the surrounding walls. They were pictures of Carmen from various angles, clearly screenshots from an online platform. The images weren't merely suggestive—they were vulgar.

Felicia understood why Carmen had been holding the knife. This must be the work of the teenagers she'd seen earlier. Posting explicit photos—real or fake—outside someone's home was a deliberate attempt to humiliate and destroy them. Imagine if Carmen's parents or neighbors saw this. They weren't just attacking her reputation; they were trying to break her completely.

Sensing Felicia's gaze, Carmen spun around, her jaw clenched, her voice defiant. "It's not me. Those photos are fake. They were edited! I didn't do any of this!" Her bitterness hinted at how many times she'd said this, only to be disbelieved. She offered a bitter smile, didn't bother removing the photos, knowing they'd reappear. With a scoff, she disappeared into her apartment and slammed the door.

Moments later, shattering glass and a woman's shrill scream erupted from 702. "Look what you've done!" she shrieked, her voice sharp and venomous. "You've disgraced this family! I can't even face the neighbors anymore!"

Felicia pieced together the dynamic: a stepmother, likely—someone more concerned with appearances than Carmen's well-being. Felicia stood in the dimly lit hallway, her gaze lingering on the walls still covered in photos.