"I can only say this much."
Grandpa Porter accepted the teacup offered by Bryan, his sharp gaze lingering meaningfully on Samson.
"Whether it's them or not—you already know the answer."
His words carried an unmistakable implication, a tacit admission.
Samson's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he studied the elder.
"...Why are you telling me this?"
He didn't believe for a second that a man like Grandpa Porter would suddenly take pity and reveal the truth.
Without understanding the motive behind it, he dared not reveal his stance.
"Why?"
Grandpa's piercing eyes crinkled slightly, his gaze deepening like a bottomless well.
"Because Sinclair is dead."
He set down his cup deliberately, his voice slow and icy.
"The winds of San Francisco are shifting."
Samson's heart lurched.
His pupils contracted, then dilated in shock—his face a mask of disbelief.
"What... what did you say?
Who's dead?!"
