Chapter 92

"It's not a lie that your father will go to jail if you don't help. Don't say anything. The more you talk, the worse it will be for your father."

Jeffrey Sinclair will not be able to avoid the false charges. At the very least, he wanted to prevent the boy from growing up with a sense of guilt over the tragedy that befell his father, which he believed was his fault. He knew better than anyone what kind of hell that would be.

"Do you understand? Keep your mouth shut."

The moment the boy tightly closed his mouth and nodded, someone knocked on the door.

"What is it?"

"Oh, Captain."

The door opened, and the lieutenant under him saluted.

"What is it?"

"Colonel wants you to bring the boy."

As the door to the interrogation room where the colonel was located opened, the man sitting at the table came into view. It seemed that he had been tortured in Jeffrey Sinclair's absence, as he looked much thinner than yesterday.

On the table were two sheets of paper. One, densely filled with writing, was clearly a false confession written by someone else. Seeing Jeffrey Sinclair's trembling hand holding the pen, it was evident that he had been forced to copy the text in his own handwriting, but had refused.

"Ah, Captain, you're finally here."

The colonel, who had been berating Sinclair, acknowledged him. Leon saluted and entered.

"While you were away, Lieutenant Collins did a lot of work. He did a good job."

The lieutenant, who had just entered, puffed out his chest and thanked the colonel for the praise. I must have been incredibly stupid to jump into this mess without knowing what I was getting into.

"Father!"

The moment the lieutenant pushed the boy inside, he ran to his father, calling out to him. Jeffrey Sinclair's eyes widened in surprise, not knowing that the military had reached out to his son.

"Sam, why are you here…."

As he asked, trembling, while hugging his son, the boy burst into tears.

"Father, let's go home. I'm scared here. Sob, I want to go home."

The boy, who had been brave in front of the soldiers, broke down the moment he saw his father. Leon let out a short, weary sigh.

Perhaps it was too much to ask of a ten-year-old. However, if the boy had thrown a tantrum and demanded to go home in front of the soldiers, it might have been more effective. Crying here would only make things worse for his father, who was already in a dire situation.

Sure enough, Jeffrey Sinclair, who had not been as resolute as expected, also broke down with his son.

"I'll do as you say, but please let the boy go."

The colonel's strategy of using the young son as leverage was effective.

'Disgusting. They'll do just fine without me here.'

The colonel, who had been watching the man copy the false confession with satisfaction, placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Sam, your father is busy now. Why don't you play with this uncle? We can go see the puppies in the courtyard behind the headquarters."

Jeffrey Sinclair's hand began to tremble even more. There were no puppies at the headquarters. The man had realized they were talking about military dogs.

"Wait…."

The man, holding the boy's hand, looked up at Leon with tears in his eyes, rather than the colonel. It seemed that the devil Leon Winston looked like an angel compared to the others.

"Colonel, I'll take him."

"You need to sign."

The colonel rejected Leon's offer and warned the man.

"Mr. Sinclair, finish what you're doing. I'll send the boy home safely as soon as the report is complete."

The colonel left with the boy. In the tense silence, the sound of the pen scratching the paper was the only thing heard.

Leon leaned against the wall, watching the man. To sacrifice his freedom, and perhaps even his life, for his son. Is this what everyone does when their children are involved? It was a feeling he couldn't understand.

'Freedom, and perhaps even his life…'

Leon suddenly left and headed to the commander's office.

"What is it this time?"

Naturally, the commander was not pleased to see him.

"I have a question about the Sinclair case."

The commander sighed and put down his pen.

"Captain, there are limits to what I can do."

"I understand that."

The commander was using her as a card to protect. He had no intention of wasting it on someone else's affairs.

Even if a powerful figure with ties to the king were to be alienated by this incident, it would render them useless when they were truly needed.

Seemingly hurt by the acknowledgment of his limits, the commander's eyes turned sharp as Leon asked directly.

"Has the punishment for Jeffrey Sinclair been decided?"

The commander did not deny the assumption that the severity of the punishment had been predetermined from above.

"He knows this is a risky move."

Then why did they do it?

"So, he won't be executed. They'll keep him in a prison camp and grant him a pardon at an appropriate time."

The commander, who did not seem to fully agree with this, emphasized the word "pardon" with a sneer.

"Of course, his assets will be seized. They'll be considered ill-gotten gains."

Is this a plan to use the money stolen from a competitor for a bidding bribe?

What a disgusting display.

Having received the answer he wanted, Leon returned to the interrogation room. Jeffrey Sinclair had quickly finished copying the text. The man, who had seemed resolute, began to choke back tears as he signed.

"Captain, it's your turn to sign."

Lieutenant Collins snatched the confession and turned it toward Leon. Below Jeffrey Sinclair's signature, the space for the domestic intelligence chief's signature awaited.

"All we need is a confession, his signature, and yours. That's all. Easy, right?"

Yes, easy.

It's easy to sacrifice me.

His intuition told him that one day, everything would be exposed.

Leon looked at the signature of the innocent victim. One of the rounded, hastily scribbled letters resembled a noose.

When the world learns the truth, who will be the one to hang by that noose?

* * *

The drunk woman stumbled.

"Princess, be careful not to fall."

When he politely held her hand, the 'princess' giggled.

"If you get hurt, I won't send you to the hospital."

The woman pouted at his added comment, and Leon offered her the bottle as a response. Her lips, flushed from the alcohol, opened to take a sip of the caramel-colored liquid.

"Take it slowly, Princess."

The woman, who was now drinking from him, only knew that he was mocking her as a princess of the anti-military royal family. She had no idea that he had royal blood.

'Your lineage is more noble than mine.'

In reality, he was just a bastard of a collateral royal family, a mixed-blood with commoner ancestry.

"Sit down."

He caught the woman, who was about to stagger around the room, and sat her on the iron table. He untied her shackles, which were making it difficult for her to maintain her balance. She wouldn't be able to escape in her current state of intoxication anyway.

The woman, unable to wait, picked up the bottle, which was already half empty. The dark liquid spilled over her small lips due to her hasty tilt. The alcohol would soon run down her neck and stain her white shirt.

Leon pressed his lips to the woman's neck. The droplets that had rolled down her skin were caught between his lips.

The flavor of the rum, aged in oak barrels, became even richer. The sweet and spicy aroma of caramel and cinnamon naturally blended with the woman's soft scent. This woman was the final ingredient to complete his best rum.

Leon used his lips to catch every droplet that fell from her shirt. He hated dirtying his clothes. Or perhaps, it was just an excuse for now.

"Mmm... It tickles."

Even after she put down the bottle, he continued to lick her neck.

"Go away."

The woman pushed him away in annoyance. "Go away" was a complete dismissal, treating him like a bug.

"Ah!"

He grabbed her chest through her shirt. The stiff fabric crinkled as it was bunched up.

He hated wrinkled clothes. However, the impression of the woman's curves on his clothes wasn't bad.

The shirt continued to wrinkle. The rustling of the fabric mixed with the woman's moans, creating a strange harmony.

"Ah!"

"Shirt thief."

Once, after he had showered, the woman had shamelessly stolen and worn his shirt. She always found new ways to break the rules he set, which was now almost admirable.

On the other hand, she looked quite presentable in his clothes.

"You gave it to me to wear, yet you accuse me of theft. You're a pig of a monarchy that worships a pretender as king."

The woman mocked him, one shoulder exposed. At least today, he had no retort. He had been the one to take off his shirt and give it to her when he brought her to the torture room.

"Mmm... Stop."

He tormented her a little and then let her go. The woman jumped off the table and headed straight for the black iron door. Her unsteady walk in the oversized shirt made him uneasy.