After the event, people had started digging into my background.
It didn't take long before someone uncovered it—
My father was Johann Sinclair.
Six years had passed since Johann Sinclair's death. Most younger people no longer recognized his name, but the moment his past investigations were mentioned, everything came rushing back.
He had taken on countless high-profile cases—dangerous, thankless work that others often avoided.
But one by one, he had uncovered the truth behind them.
Over time, his name became synonymous with integrity. With persistence. With justice.
When he died in a car accident, the public mourned him deeply. His memorial service had been crowded, heavily covered by the media.
But time passed.
Six years later, only a few blurred photos and fading reports remained.
Back then, his daughter—still in high school—had been devastated.
And once the attention died down, so did the public's interest.
