Blackstone Code-Chapter 548: Mind Games and Silencing Witnesses

Everyone, during the darkest times of their lives, looks for something—anything—to hold on to for strength.
This
something
doesn’t need to have deep meaning. It’s not like in movies, where it must be a photo of family or a religious artifact.
It could be a pen, a book, a poster, or even a hair clip.
People instinctively assign special significance to these otherwise meaningless items. For example, the pen might have been a gift, or it might symbolize the power to write something bright and hopeful.
The book might hold an inspiring story that gives someone the strength to fight on.
The poster—maybe one of a beautiful woman that’s been there night after night, still carrying a familiar scent—might remind someone that life still has some joy.
Or maybe… it’s just a hair clip.
For the young, gifts from others often carry special emotional weight. These things become symbols of courage during hard times, keeping them moving forward.
The audience experienced ninety minutes unlike anything they’d seen before. Although the second half settled down, the confrontation at the start and Ora’s eventual surrender made it deeply satisfying.
It was only then that some people realized: the person they once saw as a warrior—Ora, who dared to challenge the elite, a host they viewed as a role model—had become the villain herself.
When she was left speechless by Lynch’s dismantling words, the viewers didn’t feel anger—only satisfaction. They couldn’t wait to share the moment with others.
Under the production crew’s direction, the audience quickly exited the studio.
Lynch placed his microphone on the table and prepared to leave, but just then, Ora snapped back to reality and stopped him. She told the director to clear the studio.
“Who are you?” Her tone now was nothing like before—nothing like even a few minutes ago.
She looked fragile. Her eyes were filled with fear. Some deep part of her had been exposed, and she felt the urge to flee.
But she resisted. She had read Lynch’s background. He came from an ordinary family—there was no way he could know the truth from back then, let alone the significance of the hair clip.
And yet she couldn’t believe his final question had no basis. He must have known something.
To Ora, those memories were not happy ones. The fewer people who knew, the better. She even considered making a deal with the devil to shut Lynch up—if it was worth it.
Lynch glanced at her and spoke softly. “I noticed a small detail. Whenever you’re uncomfortable, you touch the right side of your hair. An idiot once told me that if someone repeats the same subconscious gesture enough during emotional stress, it becomes a psychological crutch from a formative time.”
“Some habits stick with you for life—even if you don’t realize it. But others might notice.”
“For a young girl, what might she have in her hair?” he continued gently. Then he answered himself: “A hair clip.”
“You’re still touching your hair, but there’s no clip there now. I’d guess if it’s not lost, it’s hidden somewhere safe.”
“It was your mental support during a dark period, but it also represents a fear you don’t want to remember. That fear returned today—and you needed it again.”
“Enough!” Ora suddenly screamed, throwing what she had in her hand to the ground. She gave Lynch a vicious glare, then stormed out.
Her body trembled. Lynch had easily found the crack in her defenses and pried it open.
Watching her hug herself and shiver as she left, Lynch curled his lip. He hadn’t wanted to dig into someone’s soul—but she came at him first.
Of course, he also had to thank that psychologist in the little room who had taught him so much.
In truth, it wasn’t that complicated—just some careful observation, bold guesses, and sharp attacks. When done right, the truth reveals itself.
What was supposed to be a routine talk show ended in a historic first: a guest had defeated the host. It shocked the audience so much that the network received countless calls the next day, demanding a rerun.
The show, Ora 90, had always been known for the host tearing apart elites on air, making celebrities bow their heads and socialites cry.
People loved the drama, but it had become repetitive. This time was different. Ora lost—and nearly got shredded. That stirred real excitement.
The station immediately scheduled not one but two reruns.
It was all just typical media reaction. Most people didn’t think much of it.
But some people were affected.
Out west, a farmer was basking in the sun on his ranch, completely unaware of the explosive broadcast the night before. The only news he ever got came from weekly trips to town for a newspaper.
He lived alone, but wasn’t afraid. He had guns, a car, and if necessary, a basement to hide in.
The winter sun warmed him. Another new year had begun.
He sighed, took a swig from a bottle, and as the alcohol settled in, old memories rose to the surface.
He hummed a little tune, thinking about the past, a smile creeping to his lips. He even murmured to himself, “Yes… that’s how it was… exactly like that.”
Suddenly, the sound of a car engine broke the rural silence. He opened his eyes and looked toward it, grabbing the shotgun beside him.
Under federal law covering the western states, in such remote areas, you can demand a stranger keep their distance. If they refuse and keep approaching, you can shoot.
The west is vast and desolate. In this kind of place, even good people can turn bad in an instant.
Many of history’s worst criminals in the west were described by neighbors as gentle and kind—until no one was watching.
That’s why the federal government passed the Safe Distance Act and the Western Arms Act. They helped reduce violence—but not entirely.
The old man stood, gun in hand, safety off. If the strangers got too close, he’d fire.
His shotgun wasn’t standard—this was a state-of-the-art model from the country’s top weapons manufacturer. One shot could drop an elephant—let alone a person.
He pulled a coarse clove cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The strong nicotine hit brought him to attention.
He stared at the car with a look that said:
I’m not someone to mess with
.
The vehicle rolled to a stop just outside the fence. Two middle-aged men got out. The old man’s face relaxed into a smile. He put the gun away and stood up.
He recognized the two men—they had been sent by his brother. On one hand, they were there to protect him and deliver living expenses from time to time. On the other, they were there to make sure he didn’t run away.
By his estimation, it was about time for them to deliver money again.
The thought brought a cheerful smile to his face. In this damned western wasteland, even checks were useless, and his brother didn’t allow him to withdraw cash from the bank. So despite having money, he couldn’t spend any of it.
But it didn’t matter. Every so often, these men would bring a bag full of cash, and then he could relax for a while.
He walked over with a light step. In a few more years, when his brother retired, he’d finally be free to leave this place.
“I thought you guys were coming in the afternoon…” he greeted them casually as he walked up. He gave the unfamiliar car a few friendly taps. “Nice car. How much was it?”
The guy from the driver’s seat replied offhandedly, “Seventeen grand.”
“Not cheap, but looks good. Way better than mine. Tell the people back there I want one too—hellfire paint job!”
Machines and guns—those were the things Westerners loved most. Even newcomers to the region eventually grew fond of them.
The man he was talking to didn’t respond. He was busy fiddling with something. Curious, the old man leaned in. “What are you doing?”
He was starved for conversation. In this godforsaken place, he was completely alone. He had no one to talk to—just himself.
No TV signal, no phone line, nothing. His brother didn’t even allow him to have friends. He was going mad.
Every visit from these two idiots—or his weekly trip into town for supplies—was a moment of joy. He could finally speak to someone.
He kept getting closer, trying to see what the man was doing. Just then, the man suddenly looked up at him.
The murderous look in his eyes sent a chill down the farmer’s spine. He tried to run—but it was too late.
The man from the car lunged forward. His left arm slipped under the farmer’s armpit and reached behind to grab his hair, yanking his head back. The farmer’s chin lifted involuntarily—and the knife slid effortlessly into his throat.
Death had come for him.