From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL) Chapter 640: When the Machine Felt Pain (part one)

After finishing her conversation with Nabil Lobart, Luna Francis turned to leave the corridor. The police station was crowded and noisy, filled with sharp footsteps, ringing phones, and overlapping voices. As she walked, her gaze drifted across the waiting area without much thought... until it suddenly froze.

A familiar figure stood near the far wall.

For a mont, Luna thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The lighting was dim, and too many people were moving around. But the tall, slender silhouette, the straight posture, and the cold, distant aura were impossible to mistake.

She slowed her steps. Then she stopped completely. Her heart skipped. She stared harder.

"Silas?" she called out softly, doubt evident in her voice.

The man leaning against the wall lifted his head.

It was him.

Silas Durant, her son, the person who hated crowds, hated noise, hated human contact, and most of all, hated contamination. And yet he was leaning against a public wall inside a police station. The sight was so wrong that it made Luna’s chest tighten.

Silas looked at her blankly, as if he were seeing her through a layer of fog. His pale face was calm, but his eyes were empty, distant, almost hollow. He did not step forward. He did not speak. He did not even show surprise. He just stared at her.

Luna’s heart trembled. "Sweetheart," she asked carefully, walking closer, "why are you here?"

She already knew the answer could not be simple. Her son would never co to a place like this for no reason. This was the kind of place he normally avoided at all costs. He would rather sit in his car for hours than step inside such a filthy, chaotic building.

Silas did not reply. His gaze drifted past her shoulder, unfocused, as if he were not fully present. His eyes, which were usually sharp and analytical, were now clouded with sothing Luna could not read.

Worry crept into her voice. "Silas?"

Still no response.

For a brief mont, Luna did not know what to do. Her son stood in front of her, yet he felt far away, unreachable. His silence made her uneasy. She pressed her lips together, thinking quickly.

"Let’s go sit over there," she said gently, pointing to a bench in the corner. "I’m a bit tired."

It was an excuse, but a harmless one.

Silas finally reacted. He did not speak, but he pushed himself away from the wall and followed her slowly, his movents stiff, as if his body were lagging behind his mind.

Luna chose a bench far from the main crowd. It was in a quieter section of the waiting area, where few people passed by. She sat down, careful with her posture.

Silas did not sit. He stood beside the bench, keeping a small distance from it, as though the surface itself were suspicious.

Even now. Even in this state he had acted as usual.

Luna felt both relief and fear at the sa ti. At least so part of him was still there.

She looked up at him. "Are you worried about ?"

She assud that maybe this incident had reminded him of her past accident. The similarities were uncomfortable, and Silas had always been sensitive to anything connected to her trauma.

Silas remained silent. His gaze drifted to the officers escorting people down the hall, to the handcuffed suspects, to the shoes that stepped across the dirty floor. His face remained emotionless, but his fingers twitched slightly at his side.

In just a few hours he had gone from heaven to hell. His rationality still could not accept the strange phenonon that had happened.

His mind, which had always been precise and logical, was now in chaos. It continued to construct theories, deny reality, and reject every mory that surged forward like a flood.

Was it a hallucination? Mistaken identity? Psychological projection? Neurological misfire?

He tested every possibility with cold logic, trying to tear the truth apart. But no matter how much his brain resisted, his heart refused to cooperate.

It beat heavily in his chest, loud and unsteady. For the first ti in his life, he felt sorrow. It was not irritation, discomfort, nor intellectual curiosity.

It was real sorrow. A deep, aching despair that made his chest feel hollow. He had never felt like this before. He had never believed himself capable of it.

Silas had always viewed emotions as chemical reactions, nothing more. Useful to understand, but unnecessary to indulge. He lived in a controlled world of rules, distance, and precision. People were variables. Feelings were disturbances.

And yet now, sothing inside him was breaking.

Earlier that day, at the auction venue, he had been standing on the second-floor balcony, observing the crowd below with detached indifference. He had only gone because of a scaredy mouse. Social gatherings were exhausting, filled with noise, sweat, and careless human contact.

Finally, he spotted his little sub, the BashfulWallFlower. He recognised the girl by her silver hair and face. Even though he had seen her just once, his perfect brain had morised her.

His visual mory functioned like a machine. Once sothing was stored, it was never lost. He had seen that face only once before, yet it was already permanently archived in his mind.

She stood beside Clyde Du Pont. That single detail had made everything click into place.

Silas’s near-absolute assumption was confird.

She was Micah. There was no longer any doubt.

The BashfulWallFlower account had not appeared by chance. It had been created for him. From the beginning, the signs had been there.

The first clue was the contradiction in her behaviour.

In a crowded public space, she had hidden herself behind a mask and cap, avoiding attention. That level of social anxiety was rare. Yet seconds later, she had rushed into danger without hesitation to save a child from a speeding car. Fear and bravery rarely coexisted in such a way.

The second clue had been even more suspicious.

In the hotel room, she imdiately extended her wounded hand the mont he asked to examine it.

He had never told anyone on Alpha Dominos that he was a physician. No one should have known. Yet she had known and behaved as if his request was the most common one a doctor could ask.

The third clue was the most impossible of all.

Physical contact.

Silas despised touch. Human skin disgusted him. The warmth, the moisture, the unpredictability of it all made his stomach twist. Even accidental brushing against strangers could leave him scrubbing his hands raw.

Silas had not felt nausea when their skin touched. Not even discomfort. The only person aside from his mother whom he had been able to touch without discomfort was Micah.

That alone should have been impossible. Could there be another person like that? Just weeks after eting Micah?

The probability was almost zero.

In his entire life, he had never t anyone else who did not trigger his aversion. Even his white moonlight’s touch made his skin crawl in so way.

But still, he had kept his doubt and studied the girl in that hotel room.

Too many layers. Too much concealnt. That was the fourth clue.

Her jawline. The unnatural way her collar hid the centre of her throat. The proportions of her shoulders to waist, chest to hips. The balance leaned subtly toward masculine. All of it strengthened his theory.

Then he encountered Micah at the hospital yesterday. The wound in his palm was in the exact sa place as that girl.

The dodging, alert posture, and guarded movents...

The truth had been unfolding in front of him piece by piece, like a puzzle assembling itself.

And then Micah arrived with Clyde side by side. The man who had invaded his apartnt. The man who had dragged Micah away from him twice. Once at his ho. Once at the hospital.

The realisation struck Silas with brutal clarity.

There was no longer any room for doubt. Every line connected. The truth was undeniable.

All of it made it crystal clear that Micah was cross-dressing.