Personality V: I will save everything

"So, can someone explain to me what's going on?"

Ronald's voice carried a hint of barely perceptible sarcasm as his gaze fell on the unexpected figure in the dressing room, his tone filled with disbelief, "Crotto, I never dreamed you would take care of a child."

His words weren't purely sarcastic; they were a genuine reflection of his feelings. Who is Croto?

She is a stuntwoman known in the theater for her coldness and pickiness. She has always lived in the shadow of the leading lady. Her personality is as cold as ice. She is even taciturn with her colleagues, let alone children. She has never had a child. She would go out of her way to avoid crying children. Who would have thought that she would have such patience?

In response to Ronald's teasing, Croto simply rolled her eyes at him without even looking up, her gaze carrying a hint of "you're making a fuss over nothing," but her hands didn't stop moving—she was carefully straightening the little boy's clothes that had gotten caught in the pile of costumes, her fingertips moving with unbelievably gentle movements.

No one knows why Croto showed such special favoritism towards the two children.

Perhaps it was Inara's clear yet slightly timid eyes, perhaps it was Stellan's silent yet sensible demeanor, or perhaps it was simply a predestined fate.

From the moment she saw her two children, a tender spot in her heart that had never been touched before was quietly awakened. Even she herself found it unbelievable—a person who used to be meticulous about even the smallest detail of her hair was now willing to run around with her children in a walk-in closet filled with clothes.

When Mr. Detective and Ronald followed the sound of laughter, they stumbled upon this very scene of joy and harmony.

The theater's dressing room was filled with all kinds of costumes. Magnificent skirts, gold-embroidered capes, and hats adorned with feathers hung haphazardly but orderly on the clothes racks, and the air was filled with the mixed smell of mothballs and fabric.

Croto wore a simple black dress, her once neatly combed long hair was now slightly disheveled, with a few strands sticking to her cheeks, but she showed no trace of her usual aloofness.

She half-squatted on the ground and shouted in an exaggerated tone, "I'm going to find you!" As soon as she finished speaking, she pounced on a pile of red velvet costumes, which made Inara, who was hiding inside, let out a series of crisp laughs.

Strand, hiding behind a huge prop box with only his bright eyes peeking out, watched Croto and Inara playfully bickering, a slight smile playing on his lips. Croto caught a glimpse of him, gave him a quick wink, and pretended not to see him, turning away to "search" elsewhere, leaving the two children to weave and hide among the piles of costumes, their skirts sweeping across the floor, kicking up fine dust that danced in the sunlight streaming through the blinds.

Ronald raised an eyebrow, unusually putting away his mockery, and looked at the scene before him that was so different from Croto's past image, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes.

Mr. Detective simply stood quietly at the door, his gaze lingering briefly on Croto and the two children before turning to Ronald, gesturing for him to speak privately—there were more important matters to verify at the moment.

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Mr. Deduction's fingertips traced the edge of the sealed bag, his gaze behind his glasses growing sharper—the fleeting panic he'd seen in Croto's eyes in the dressing room earlier was no illusion. Her extraordinary affection for the child might be more than just a matter of fate.

"Crotto, there's something I'd like to show you."

Without any further explanation, after entrusting the two children to the staff and leaving only the three of them in the room, he went straight to taking the transparent sealed bag out of his pocket.

Inside the bag, a handkerchief embroidered with roses lay quietly, its exquisite craftsmanship still evident even after being stained with belladonna juice.

The moment the handkerchief came into view, Croto's smile froze, as if it had been suddenly covered by invisible frost.

She subconsciously took a half step back, her pupils suddenly contracted, and her originally gentle eyebrows and eyes instantly twisted into a knot, completely losing the tenderness she had shown while playing with the child.

In the past, as a stunt double, she had long since developed the ability to keep her emotions hidden, and could remain calm and composed even when dealing with unexpected situations on stage.

But at this moment, facing this handkerchief, she couldn't even maintain the most basic expression control—her face lost color at a visible speed, turning as pale as paper, her lips trembling slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but was choked by a sudden surge of fear.

Mr. Deduction took in her reaction, and his suspicions grew stronger: Sure enough, Croto knew something. This handkerchief, tainted with the scent of belladonna, must be connected to a secret she didn't want to talk about, and might even be related to Lachesis's death and Madame Bella's case.

He didn't press her for answers immediately, but simply placed the sealed bag gently on the table, his gaze fixed on Croto, waiting for her response—the silence at this moment was far more oppressive than any interrogation.

Croto's gaze snapped away from the handkerchief as if burned, instinctively looking at Ronald behind Mr. Deduction.

Her gaze was incredibly complex, filled with undisguised surprise, questioning, and a hint of barely perceptible resentment. Her brows were furrowed, and her pupils churned with panic, as if she were certain that Ronald was behind it all—that he had deliberately handed this crucial handkerchief to Mr. Detective, trying to drag her into this mess.

After all, not many people in this theater knew about her old feud with Lachesis, and Ronald was one of them.

Ronald, who met her gaze, merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

There was no evasion in his eyes, but rather a similar confusion and innocence, as if he were silently responding: "This has nothing to do with me, I am innocent."

He even shook his head slightly, his eyes clearly saying, "I don't know where this thing came from"—he had indeed never seen this handkerchief before, and he had no idea why it smelled of belladonna. His surprise and doubt at this moment were no less than Croto's.

A silent tension seemed to instantly fill the air as their gazes briefly clashed, one questioning, the other open and honest.

Mr. Deduction took in the whole scene, his gaze behind his glasses growing even deeper, his fingertips lightly tapping the table—it seemed that there was also an unknown entanglement between these two.

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The air in the room was like solidified wax. Croto's clenched fingers turned white, and Ronald's gaze still held a hint of candid doubt. The two were locked in a tense standoff, almost able to hear each other's breathing.

Just then, a soft "snap" broke the silence—Strand clapped his hands sharply, turned to look at Inara beside him, his eyes sparkling, as if he had suddenly remembered something amusing, his lighthearted tone completely out of place with the somber atmosphere in the room:

"Little sister, I suddenly thought of something interesting. Do you know about morphine?"

Inara tilted her head, her long eyelashes fluttering gently. After thinking carefully for a moment, she answered crisply, "I know! My parents specifically told us before that it was a dangerous thing and that we must stay far away from it and not touch it."

“That’s right,” Strand nodded, his tone carrying a childlike desire to explain, as he scratched his head, trying to organize his knowledge clearly.

"But did you know that the person who first invented morphine actually just wanted to make a sleeping pill? He discovered that his dog had accidentally ingested that white powder and immediately fell asleep. At the time, no one noticed that it was addictive. It wasn't until later that people discovered its terrible power and listed it as a prohibited substance."

He paused, then added with a sigh, "Back then, people were unaware of the dangers, so a lot of people were injecting morphine—some for its powerful energizing effect, others to treat insomnia. You see, many times, people come into contact with these toxic substances without even realizing it."

These words sound like the older brother trying to teach his younger sister a little about morphine, his tone innocent and straightforward, even a bit childishly rambling.

But to Mr. Deduction, it was like a thunderbolt cleaving through the fog, giving him a sudden flash of inspiration.

He suddenly looked at Croto, his gaze behind the metal glasses so sharp it seemed to pierce through people's hearts. His tone was somewhat tentative, yet he couldn't hide his sudden certainty: "Crotto, I have a bold conjecture."

He began frankly, “For a detective, this idea, lacking direct evidence, might seem a bit far-fetched, but I must ask you—tell me the truth, has Mrs. Bella been taking this stuff containing belladonna juice?”

He paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately the core question that had been lingering in his heart: "In order to maintain peak performance on stage, in order to 'shine brilliantly'?"

Meanwhile, Croto, who was standing to the side, had already turned deathly pale after hearing Strand's account of morphine.

Those seemingly unrelated words were like a key that unlocked her past, which she had tried so hard to hide. Cold sweat seeped down her spine, soaking the fabric of her back, and even her breathing became a little rapid—Mr. Deduction's words accurately hit the secret she was most unwilling to admit.