The Truth

Arthur moved through the dark streets, his breath steady and controlled. The mission was almost complete, and the extraction point was close.

But even as he neared the nondescript warehouse on the edge of the city, a nagging sense of unease crept over him.

It was the sound of footsteps. Quiet, measured, but too deliberate to ignore.

Not again, he thought, his instincts sharpening. He kept his pace normal, but his mind was already running through his options.

He couldn't afford to be caught off guard. He was still on edge from the last time an assassin had ambushed him. 

The footsteps continued, growing louder as if they were closing in on him.

Arthur quickened his pace slightly, keeping his eyes forward, but his senses were on high alert. Whoever it was, they weren't rushing—just tracking him from a distance, waiting for an opportunity.

Arthur's pulse remained steady, though his thoughts raced.

"Who is it this time?"

Another assassin? Or was someone sent to track him down before he could reach the extraction point?

He slipped into a narrow alley, moving swiftly and quietly. His feet barely made a sound as he ducked behind a corner, pressing himself against the cold brick wall.

The footsteps behind him paused for a moment, then continued, slower now, as if searching for him.

Arthur's hand instinctively went to the knife he had tucked inside his jacket. He listened, the silence in the alley stretching out, tension building in his chest.

Whoever was following him was close—too close for comfort. But something felt off. The way they moved... they weren't coming for him directly.

They weren't even looking around.

Arthur peered cautiously from his hiding spot, his eyes narrowing as he saw the figure pass by.

A man, walking at a normal pace, his head down, not even glancing in Arthur's direction. The footsteps he had been so paranoid about? Just someone walking home.

Arthur let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"I'm too paranoid," he thought, scoffing at himself for overreacting. The assassin from earlier had him on edge, and now he was jumping at shadows.

Shaking his head, he emerged from the alley, blending back into the night as he continued toward the warehouse.

When he finally reached the extraction point, Arthur's mind had cleared, and the world felt still again.

The warehouse was dark, the interior quiet and empty—just as it had been marked by the system. He closed the door behind him, the soft creak of the hinges echoing in the empty space.

With a sense of relief, Arthur pulled the documents from his jacket, carefully unfolding the yellowed papers.

His eyes scanned the text, the ink slightly faded but still legible. What he saw didn't shock him, but it confirmed what he had suspected all along.

The assassination of Abraham Lincoln hadn't been the work of a lone man—John Wilkes Booth had been just one pawn in a much larger conspiracy.

These documents revealed that powerful political figures, both in the United States and abroad, had orchestrated the event. It was all there—conversations, letters, secret meetings—all pointing to the real culprits.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he read further, scoffing at the lies history had told. All this time, the world believed Booth had acted alone, driven by some misguided sense of Southern pride.

But it wasn't that simple. It never was. The men who had pulled the strings were far more powerful and influential than any history book had ever hinted at.

"So, it was them," Arthur muttered under his breath. "They were behind it all along."

He felt no surprise, only a cold amusement. Humans are so easy to fool, he thought, shaking his head.

The documents he held were proof of just how deep the deception went, and how easily the truth could be buried under the weight of a well-crafted lie. History, it seemed, was little more than a story written by those in power.

Arthur folded the papers back up, tucking them securely into his jacket. He wasn't here to expose the truth. That wasn't his concern. Let the world live in its lies—it didn't affect him. All that mattered was the reward, and the next step forward.

The phone in his pocket buzzed softly, signalling the activation of the extraction point.

Arthur pulled it out, his finger hovering over the Extraction button for a moment. The weight of what he had uncovered—what could potentially change the course of history—settled over him, but he shrugged it off.

"It's not my problem," he thought. He wasn't here to rewrite the past. He was here to survive, to get stronger, to make sure he and Charlotte lived through the next day.

With a final glance around the dark warehouse.

Arthur pressed Extraction.

The world around him blurred, twisting and bending as the system pulled him back to his present time.

When Arthur blinked back into the dim light of his basement more specifically the toilet.

The documents, the lies, the conspiracy—none of it mattered anymore. He had completed the mission. The reward was his.

Leaving the toilet, he glanced over at the bed where Charlotte lay, still fast asleep.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he checked his phone, the reward notification lighting up the screen.

Arthur glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing slightly.

> Performance Ranking: B.

"B only?" he muttered to himself. "But I didn't sustain any injury, and I wasn't late to the extraction point."

> Host Performance:

- Efficient navigation of the historical setting with minimal disruptions

- Successful retrieval of key documents without sustaining Injury.

He let out a small breath, frustrated by the ranking but satisfied with the extra rewards.

> Extra Rewards:

> $3,500 → $10,000

> Enhanced Stealth Skill (Rank E- → Rank E)