The interrogation room of the Geneva police headquarters was cold and unyielding. The walls were specially soundproofed, so even the sound of the snowstorm outside couldn't penetrate. The air in the room was damp and frigid; droplets of condensation had gathered on the steel table. The fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh, glaring beam that stung Alister's eyes. In the light, his shadow stretched long and wide across the wall, swaying and distorting with each movement. In one corner of the room, a recording device watched silently, its small red light blinking incessantly.

  After Marcus, the senior FBI agent, had separated the man in the black coat into another room, he entered Alister's room with heavy footsteps. His combat boots thudded against the floor, and the door slammed shut with a resounding boom. He carried a thick file folder, which he slammed onto the table with a heavy thud. The impact echoed in the room, reverberating in time with Alister's heartbeat.

  Marcus pulled out a chair and sat down; the wooden chair creaked slightly. His eyes were sharp as a wolf's, gleaming in the light. He angled the lamp directly into Alister's face and began speaking slowly.

  "Well... Arthur Wellesley, or Alister... what should I call you?"

  He slowly flipped through the file, his fingers brushing against the papers. Alister tried to steady his voice as he replied.

  "I don't know anything... I'm just an ordinary citizen working at a newspaper office here in Geneva."

  His fingertips trembled beneath the table, and beads of sweat pricked his skin. Marcus let out a bitter laugh. The sound echoed in the room, amplifying the chill.

  "An ordinary citizen, huh? Then explain this."

  One by one, he placed photographs and documents on the table. The first photo was taken on a London street in 1940. The background showed buildings burning during the war, a couple walking amidst the sound of planes. The person in that photo was identical to Alister sitting before him now. Another photo was taken at a train station in Tokyo in 1970, neon signs glowing in the background. Yet another was from a main street in midtown New York in 1985, the backdrop a rainy cityscape, umbrellas, and crowded streets. In every photo, the man's face, hairstyle, even his smile, hadn't changed a single bit.

  "How many passports and visas do you have? Your appearance hasn't changed a bit in over 80 years. Are you still going to tell me this is a coincidence?"

  Alister felt as if a bomb had exploded in his chest. The past he had hidden for over 200 years was now laid bare on the table. He could see it now... a burning night in London in 1940, walking down a street as planes roared overhead while people fled in terror, the documents in his hand nearly consumed by flames. Then Tokyo's train station in 1970, disappearing into the crowd on a bustling platform as a train arrived. Finally, New York in 1985, vanishing into the throng on a rainy main street, holding an umbrella. Through all those times, he had lived alone, watching with a heavy heart as loved ones and friends aged and perished one by one.

  "Those are... just coincidences," Alister insisted, trying to muster his strength. "The person in the photo could be some ancestor of mine."

  Marcus leaned forward, staring intently into Alister's eyes. His breath was too close.

  "What I see in your eyes is the weariness of someone who has lived through many years. Why are international intelligence agencies so interested in you? What's in your blood?"

  He pulled out the final document from the file. A blood test result sheet. Graphs and numbers showed that Alister's cells regenerated ten times faster than a normal human's.

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  "Who are you? Who created you?"

  Alister was at a loss for words. The silence in the room grew heavier, drowning out even the ticking of the clock. He thought of the man in the black coat in the next room. That man had saved him, but would he be able to save him now?

  "I'm telling you, I don't know anything, Agent," he said, lifting his head and speaking firmly. "If you can't prove I've committed any crime, you can't keep holding me."

  Marcus leaned back in his chair, idly stroking the barrel of his gun. His fingers moved slowly over the metal.

  "Proof? Your very existence is proof, Arthur. Right now, outside this station, there are countless organizations waiting to get their hands on you. If you don't tell the truth... we'll have no choice but to hand you over to them."

  The entire police station seemed to tremble from the snowstorm outside, and inside Alister's mind, a storm was also raging. Memories of the past flooded back: a street in Paris with a light drizzle, a small café smelling of roses, walking hand in hand with Alice under an umbrella, the warmth of her tears streaming onto his palm on the last night he had to leave her.

  The basement cell of the Geneva police headquarters felt like it was designed to make one forget time and the world itself. Water seeping from the walls pooled on the floor, and the frigid air penetrated to the bone. The ticking of a clock in the corner was deafeningly loud, like a hammer striking metal. Today was the third day he had been trapped in this dark room. He couldn't tell if a snowstorm was raging outside or if it was sunny. The pale fluorescent light flickered, unnerving him.

  Just then, he heard the heavy iron door of the cell open.

  Creak... Boom!

  Two sets of footsteps emerged. One was Marcus's sharp, heavy combat boots. The other was a weak, shuffling gait, trembling and unsteady. Alister stood up in astonishment and walked towards the bars.

  Beside Marcus stood an elderly woman, seemingly around 80 years old. She was neatly dressed in a black suit, with a string of pearls adorning her neck. Her hands trembled as she tightly gripped a small handbag. The wrinkles on her face spoke of years of suffering, but her bright blue eyes still sparkled like a child's.

  Upon seeing Alister, the old woman's hands shook more violently, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Tears welled up, and her voice was choked with emotion.

  "Arthur... Arthur Wellesley?"

  The sound of that voice pierced Alister's heart like a knife. That voice, that way of calling him... it was the same as the night he had first called her name in a small café by the Seine River in Paris, 1965.

  "No, ma'am... my name is Alister. I think you have the wrong person."

  But the old woman persisted. With trembling hands, she pulled a small leather case from her coat pocket, took out a faded old photograph, and showed it to him through the bars.

  In the photograph was a couple in their twenties. The Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance in the background, the street bustling with people. The girl was young, beautiful, and radiant. The man was identical to Alister standing before her now. On the back, in elegant handwriting, it said: "Paris, 1965 - Eternal Lovers."

  "You... you are Arthur, aren't you?" the old woman asked, tears streaming down her face. "Look at me... Do you remember me? The day we parted in Paris, you looked just as young as you do now. How is it possible that you haven't aged a single day, Arthur?"

  Alister took a few steps back. His chest tightened, making it hard to breathe, and tears welled in his eyes. The old woman continued.

  "There's a secret only the two of us know. That little melody you used to sing to me every night..."

  Then, in a frail, cracking voice, the old woman began to hum the tune.

  "Sous le ciel de Paris, mon amour t'attend... Quand il pleut sur la ville, mon c?ur te défend..."

  The melody echoed through the cell, bursting open the locked doors of memory in Alister's mind. He could see it now... a night in Paris by the Seine, the small café on the riverbank, the air smelling of roses, walking hand-in-hand with Alice down a drizzly street, and finally, the sorrow of having to leave her because of his immortality.

  Warm tears streamed uncontrollably from Alister's eyes. He gripped the bars tightly and sank to his knees before the old woman.

  "Alice... is it... is it really you?"

  The old woman smiled through her tears and reached out her hand. Her fingers touched Alister's through the bars. At that moment, two lovers, separated for over 60 years, were reunited.

  Agent Marcus watched silently from the side, a look of triumph in his eyes that seemed to say, "I knew it." On the cold floor of the cell, Alister wept, his body wracked with sobs. Today, he understood more deeply than ever that the greatest curse of an immortal is to helplessly watch the ones you love grow old and die.