Part 196
If she were to fall like this, her fate would be no different from Zachary Campbell.
“The Vault!”
Harry Forrest held his breath, his face turning deep red.
The Vault tilted her head up to meet his gaze; the two could see the fire in each other's eyes.
A drop of sweat fell onto The Vault's face, then dropped further, quickly turning into white mist and vanishing in the flames.
“Don’t let go! Please…”
The Vault grabbed him with a reverse grip. The liquid in her palm—she could no longer tell if it was sweat or gasoline.
Just as Harry Forrest was about to give in, a loud crash came from the doorway.
After repeated, violent collisions from the car, the large door in front finally collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Henry Harris and the others charged toward them through the flames, like heroes clad in golden-feathered robes.
“Put out the fire! Get them out!”
Several police officers grabbed small fire extinguishers from the car and sprayed Zachary Campbell fiercely.
A few others gathered below The Vault, pulling a blanket taut and shouting, “Jump down, we’ll catch you! Hurry!”
The Vault smiled, her lips moving as she said something to him.
Harry Forrest closed his eyes and let go. Tears flowed backward.
“There’s gasoline, there’s gasoline! Spray The Vault quickly!”
“Harry Forrest, jump—!”
“Firefighters are here! Make way!”
“Harry Forrest is caught! Everyone evacuate!”
All she could see was a sea of blazing red.
—Our world will be okay.
Chapter 125 Announcement
The Vault smelled a hint of disinfectant, but she was standing on a busy street.
Crowds bustled around, chatting and laughing, but every face was covered with a mosaic-like shadow. They passed by The Vault as if they didn’t see her at all. If you listened closely to their conversations, you’d find the content jumbled and nonsensical.
The Vault's thoughts were a bit muddled as she stared at the frozen traffic light, standing there for a long time.
She knew this place well; she could remember every shop sign on the street, even the oil stains on the red and yellow sign of the snack shop next door.
But she didn’t know why she was standing here. A world that was real only to her.
It was as if the second hand ticked softly, and the world returned to normal. The numbers on the traffic light began to change, and the green pedestrian symbol started moving quickly on the display.
A tall, dark figure stepped out from behind The Vault, the breeze he brought carrying a faint fragrance. The Vault was stunned, feeling as if the gray world suddenly gained color. She instinctively grabbed his arm as she watched his back.
The man turned his head, looking a bit surprised. His young, handsome face was strikingly clear, every wrinkle sharply defined.
At that moment, a black car sped by in front. Hearing the sound, the man’s lifeless eyes turned toward the road.
The warmth in The Vault's palm began to rise, soon replaced by a layer of cold sweat.
Kevin Quinn walked over quickly from the other side, nodding to The Vault: “Thank you.”
She pulled out a tissue and wiped the man’s forehead, her tone relieved: “Did you know? Someone just ran a red light.”
The man grabbed her hand, smiling gently: “Really? Did you get everything you needed?”
Kevin Quinn nodded emphatically: “Mm!”
The man took the bag from her hand, slinging it over his arm, then said a couple more things to her with a smile.
The Vault listened to her own mosquito-soft question: “How many months?”
Kevin Quinn laughed, her gaze gentle as water: “Thirty-seven weeks, almost due.”
The Vault: “What’s the name?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” She placed a hand on her belly, her expression full of motherly love.
The Vault swallowed, her voice hoarse: “Do you love her?”
“Of course. I…” The rest of Kevin Quinn's words seemed to dissolve into the wind, indistinct.
The Vault smiled.
Kevin Quinn stopped, asking curiously: “Do I know you?”
The Vault replied with relief: “Maybe you will, someday.”
She glanced at the man again and said softly, “I have to go back.”
Kevin Quinn asked, “Where are you going?”
The Vault paused, lifted her head, and faced the morning sun, her eyes shining. She smiled: “Home. I’m going home.”
Cracks like spiderwebs appeared in the scene, then all turned into points of light and scattered.
The scent The Vault smelled grew stronger, and the beeping of machines became clearer. At the same time, a pair of warm hands held hers, then stroked her cheek.
Julian Grant lowered his voice and called out, “Mom, stop touching her! You look especially… well, a little bit creepy.”
Mrs. Grant snorted, ignoring him: “You can’t touch her, so I can’t either?”
What kind of wild words were these?
Mrs. Grant nagged at him: “Look at the state you’re in, and you still have the nerve to talk about me. Creepy? Haven’t you ever been touched by your mom? I’m standing right in front of you and you can’t see me?”
Julian Grant couldn’t help himself: “How do you know I didn’t get anything out of it?”
Mrs. Grant shot him a disdainful look, abandoning all pretense to show her contempt.
Julian Grant protested, “I’m injured, Mom, can’t you show a little care?”
“You’re so annoying, stop talking to me.” At the mention, Mrs. Grant got angry, waved her hand impatiently, “Can’t even play the sweet, sickly beauty? Just lie there for me, and then… hey, The Vault woke up?”
Hearing this, Julian Grant hurriedly tried to sit up and check, but the pain in his arm made him fall back onto the pillow, pulling at the wound on his head.
Mrs. Grant shot him a look and scolded, “What are you doing now? I told you not to move, can’t you sit still? Do you want a scar or what?”
Julian Grant was annoyed too, grimacing: “Am I really your biological son?”
To salvage their fragile bond, Mrs. Grant went over and tucked in the corners of his blanket, folding all four corners in and sealing him into the bed.
The Vault blinked, only remembering being sprayed by a water gun and inhaling a lot of toxic smoke before passing out as soon as she was put in the car. She raised her hand to check and found her clothes had been changed, the gasoline wiped clean, and she felt fine.
Mrs. Grant turned back, sat beside her, and looked at her kindly.
The Vault glanced around and asked, “Where’s Harry Forrest?”
Julian Grant's face darkened, and he replied reluctantly, “In the next ward.”
“Oh…” The Vault cleared her throat and asked again, “And Zachary Campbell?”
At this, Julian Grant sneered: “Still alive. Severely burned, in surgery. Don’t worry, I’ve sent the best medical team over. We’ll do everything we can to keep him alive as long as possible.”
The Vault nodded: “Good.”
Julian Grant waited, noticing The Vault had gone quiet, and asked, unconvinced, “And then?”
“And then?” The Vault replied, confused, “Then everything’s fine?”
Julian Grant: “……” So he didn’t even make it to third place.
Seeing his awkwardness, Mrs. Grant wondered if her son was born without “meridians”—otherwise, with all her influence, he should have been enlightened by now. She bent down and said to The Vault, “And our Julian is doing fine too.”
Julian Grant immediately felt exposed and embarrassed, shouting, “Mom!”
Mrs. Grant covered her ears: “What? You think I’m deaf?”
“I know.” The Vault's voice, as soft as fine sand, sounded from the side, “You sound pretty energetic to me.”
Julian Grant fell silent, wishing he’d never opened his mouth.
Mrs. Grant laughed mercilessly.
The Vault was awake, and aside from a slight headache, she was fine. She drank a bowl of porridge and said she wanted to go for a walk.
This hospital was already familiar to The Vault. She shuffled along in slippers down the narrow corridor, and at the brightly lit end, she saw Harry Forrest standing on the balcony.
Harry Forrest had taken off his hat, a cigarette between his fingers. His expression was hard to read—sorrowful or dazed—and he didn’t even notice the cigarette burning down to the end.
The Vault pushed open the glass door and stood beside him, gazing at the sunset on the horizon, lost in thought.
The fiery light connected heaven and earth, reminiscent of the blaze that morning—both equally intense. One represented warmth, the other the last brilliance before darkness.
Harry Forrest had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand openly before others, forgotten the last time he met someone’s gaze head-on.
He parted his lips slightly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, the confusion in his eyes veiled by the hazy white mist, finally hidden beneath his closed eyelids.
The Vault asked, “When did you learn to smoke?”
Harry Forrest flicked his fingers, extinguished the cigarette, and smiled, “When I was bored.”
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