From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 642: Under a Sky Without Stars (part one)

Clyde stepped out of the noisy room where Noas was throwing a fit and gently closed the door behind him.

The shouting and chaos were cut off in an instant, sealed behind the thick metal door. The muffled echoes of Noas’s furious voice still leaked through faintly, but they were distant now, like noise from another world.

For a brief moment, Clyde stood still in the corridor.

The pale blue of his eyes, which only minutes ago had held a calm, steady light, had dulled. The sharp clarity in them faded, replaced by something cold and heavy, as if a sandstorm had quietly approached. The composure he wore so naturally was no longer effortless.

His shoulders sank by a barely noticeable amount.

It was such a small movement that no one would have paid attention to it, yet it revealed more than any expression could. A slow breath slipped from his lips, long and controlled, as though he were trying to ease the pressure building in his chest.

He straightened again almost immediately. The familiar mask returned to his face. With measured steps, he began walking down the corridor.

The hallway was busy. Officers moved back and forth, their radios crackling softly. Clerks hurried past with files tucked under their arms. Visitors sat on benches along the walls, whispering to one another, their voices blending into a low, restless hum.

Clyde walked through them all with a composed, disarming expression, his posture upright, his movements unhurried.

To any observer, he looked exactly as he always did, calm, refined, and in control. Yet something about him had changed.

No one spoke to him or tried to stop him. It was not because Clyde was invisible. On the contrary, his presence was impossible to ignore.

He was tall, well-dressed, and striking, the kind of man who naturally drew attention the moment he entered a room. But the air around him felt sharp, heavy with an unspoken pressure. It made people instinctively lower their gazes, step aside, and avoid his eyes. It was as if an invisible line surrounded him.

It was an aura that warned others not to come too close.

Even experienced officers, who were used to dealing with dangerous criminals, felt an inexplicable unease when he passed. They could not explain it, only that their instincts told them to keep their distance.

So Clyde walked through the crowded corridor without a single interruption.

Behind him, the tension in the building eased.

The moment the door had closed and he began to leave, several people unconsciously released their breath, as if a storm had just moved on.

At last, he reached the main entrance. The glass doors slid open before him, and a gust of cold, damp air rushed inside.

As Clyde stepped out, the atmosphere within the station seemed to lighten. Only then did the people inside realise how tense they had been.

Clyde descended the wide stone steps slowly.

Rainwater clung to the surface, making the stairs glisten under the overhead lights. Small streams trickled down the edges, dripping steadily to the ground below. At the bottom step, he stopped.

For a moment, he did not move. Then, gradually, he lifted his head and looked up at the sky.

It was Saturday night.

The city should have been lively at this hour. Neon signs should have been glowing, laughter should have drifted from restaurants and bars, and cars should have filled the streets with noise. Yet tonight, everything felt muted, as if the entire world had lowered its voice.

Thick clouds pressed down over the city, heavy and dark, completely hiding the stars. Not even a single gap showed in the sky. The moon was nowhere to be seen. The streetlights reflected off the damp pavement, turning the ground into a dull mirror of yellow and white. The rain had only just stopped a few minutes earlier, and the air was still thick with moisture.

The smell of wet soil and cold concrete filled his lungs when he breathed in.

It was the kind of night that made people feel lonely without knowing why.

Clyde stood at the entrance for a few seconds, unmoving, as officers and civilians passed by him. The police station doors opened and closed behind him, letting out bursts of warm air and voices, but he felt completely cut off from it all, as if he were sealed inside a glass box.

His driver was waiting by the car across the street, holding an umbrella.

Clyde did not go to him.

Instead, he took one slow step forward, then another, walking away from the car, away from the driver, away from everything familiar. His leather shoes made soft sounds against the wet pavement.

He needed to be alone.

His heart was screaming for him to go to Micah immediately. Every instinct inside him wanted to turn around, get into the car, and rush straight to Micah’s side. He wanted to see him, touch him, confirm that Micah was safe, breathing, still his.

But his mind was in chaos.

If he went like this, with his thoughts tangled and emotions out of control, he might say something he should not say. He might do something he would regret.

So he forced himself to walk. One step at a time.

Silas remembering their past lives had changed everything.

If Silas had remembered, then the others would remember too. Archie. Leo. Aidan. It was only a matter of time. Clyde did not care about them.

Even if they were filled with regret, even if they realised what they had lost, even if they suddenly wanted to seek Micah and beg for forgiveness, it would be meaningless.

They did not deserve a second chance. They would never have a chance to reconcile with Micah. That door was already closed. But there was one person Clyde could not ignore. Darcy, the real young master, the one whom Clyde had believed was the protagonist.

The moment Darcy remembered, he would break down. Anyone would.

Who could bear remembering that their entire life had been arranged as a replacement? That their existence had been nothing more than a tool to fill someone else’s place? That their pain, suffering, and struggles had been part of a cruel design?

No one could endure that calmly. Darcy would be shattered.

Clyde clenched his fingers slowly at his side. He was on Micah’s side. He had always been.

He knew Micah had done everything out of kindness. Micah had never wanted to hurt Darcy. He had only wanted to save him. It was the malicious system that twisted everything into something ugly and cruel.

It was not Micah’s fault. To Clyde, it was never Micah’s fault. That was an unbreakable rule.

But would Darcy see it that way? Would Darcy be able to forgive Micah?

Clyde did not know. That uncertainty gnawed at him.

Should he go to Darcy first? Should he talk to him before the memories fully returned? Should he explain everything? Beg him not to blame Micah? Threaten him if he had to?

As long as Micah was not hurt, Clyde was willing to do anything. Yet he did not know what the right choice was.

He felt powerless.

Why were their fates so cruel? Why did it always have to be like this?