James Turner frowned slightly, looking at the woman in the painting without saying a word.

William Carter lowered his cuffed hands and turned his face to look at James Turner.

"Are you imagining another painting?"

Hearing this, James Turner frowned and looked at him, looking just like a little tiger with all its fur standing on end. "I'm not."

William Carter nodded with a smile, replying gently, "Just kidding."

It was not a joke at all.

Seeing the fake smile on his face, James Turner became even more displeased.

This guy really has no sense of shame.

Without any hesitation, James Turner left and walked straight to the long table from before, checking the clues on the table. William Carter still stood where he was, staring blankly at the painting on the wall.

Why would they put up this one?

After standing for a few minutes, William Carter turned around and saw James Turner standing by the long desk he had leaned against earlier, focused on the tabletop. He walked over as well. On the table was a thick book and a torn-up sticky note.

"It's really shredded—props team is so dedicated." William Carter teased in a gentle tone as he looked at the snowflake-like fragments.

James Turner silently flipped through the book, and a bookmark fell out, with a line written on it.

[Whatever I touch, shatters. —Kafka]

William Carter leaned in. "Kafka's poetry collection."

Sensing William Carter getting closer, James Turner felt a bit uneasy, set the book aside, picked up one of the small fragments, turned it over to look at it, frowned in thought for a moment, then said nothing and began piecing them together one by one. William Carter didn't like this kind of tedious work, so he walked over to the gramophone, gently brushed the tonearm with his finger, and carefully placed the needle on the record.

The unique ethereal quality of vinyl, along with the urgent rhythm of the notes, quickly seeped into the oppressive, enclosed space. William Carter leaned against the cabinet, watching the equally stifled young man.

"Have you heard this piece before?"

James Turner didn't look up, still focused on the table. "I'm not very good with music."

He had no interest in art, and even less fondness for the bohemians who made it.

William Carter smiled. Even with his hands cuffed, he stood in front of the mahogany cabinet like a professional music connoisseur, quietly appreciating the music for a while before speaking slowly, "This is the first piece from Ravel's piano suite 'Miroirs,' inspired by a moth drawn to a flame in the dark." He turned his head, looking at the slowly spinning record, and chuckled softly, "Although critics say the fragmented semitones sound like fluttering butterfly wings, to me it sounds more like shattered mirrors all over the floor."

As soon as he finished, he felt a bit of regret—maybe he shouldn't have said so much on the show. But the previously single-minded James Turner, who had been piecing together the fragments, suddenly looked up and glanced over at William Carter.

Perhaps he found the metaphor fitting, because the previously focused James Turner was now distracted by the flowing music, trying to appreciate the piece. Only when the torn sticky note was perfectly restored did he straighten up.

"Finished? You're amazing."

William Carter was a bit surprised. The sticky note was covered in broken letters, with so many tiny fragments that just looking at them gave him a headache. As he spoke, he walked over to the desk, where James Turner was using clear tape to piece the fragments into a complete sheet.

He glanced at it. The letters on the sticky note were all visible and restored, but they formed a string of jumbled letters.

PGOEUDEAENHNRD

It was obviously a code. William Carter frowned slightly, now more curious about how James Turner had pieced the fragments together so quickly.

"You're so fast—how did you do it?"

James Turner flipped the paper over. On the back was a complete sentence, written in beautiful handwriting.

[See you tonight at ten, at Sophia Restaurant.]

"The information on the back was much easier to restore than the front."

William Carter nodded. Even if you realized there was a complete sentence on the back, just distinguishing the front from the back would take some time.

Wait, front and back.

William Carter reached out and picked up the sticky note, feeling it. Sure enough, the paper had been specially treated. It looked the same, but felt different—the front was very smooth, while the back was much rougher.

"You're really attentive." William Carter put the paper back on the table with his cuffed hands, turning to smile at James Turner. "No wonder you're James."

Even though it sounded like admiration, James Turner couldn't believe it. He replied a bit stiffly, "This kind of special paper is common in escape rooms. If you weren't distracted by the music, you would have noticed too."

"Can't help it, art is life." William Carter's arms were a bit sore, so he moved his shoulders and lowered his head to look at the paper. For some reason, the music from the gramophone, which had been ethereal and clear, suddenly became choppy and unpleasant.

"Your 'art' seems a bit dated." James Turner rarely used a mocking tone. The stuttering music made it hard for him to concentrate, so he got ready to go over and turn it off.