Chapter 145: Lets Extract An Hidden Gem!

As the private jet soared high above the clouds, cutting through the sky toward our destination, I reclined comfortably in the plush leather seating of the executive cabin. In front of me, the golden system interface hovered silently, expanding her file:

[TARGET PROFILE DETECTED]

Full Name: Benita Young

Age: 22

Current Industry: Industrial Fabric & Textile Processing Mill (Night Shift Worker)

Latent Potential: 9.9 / 10 (Haute Couture Visionary / Revolutionary Aesthetic Designer)

Current Trajectory: 1.0 / 10

"Benita Young," I murmured, testing the name on my tongue.

I looked over across the cabin to Sarah, who was sitting at her mahogany desk setup with two ultra-thin laptops open, her fingers flying across the keyboards as she ran deep background checks through our corporate intelligence databases.

"Sarah," I said smoothly, taking a slow sip of vintage champagne. "Run a complete background check on a Benita Young in this district. Financial records, social media footprint, digital presence—give me everything we have on her."

Sarah typed rapidly for a few moments, her brows furrowing deeper as she cross-referenced local public databases, talent registries, and social media networks. After two minutes, she stopped, looking up at me in absolute confusion.

"That’s... strange, Mr. Ethan," Sarah reported, looking at her clean screen. "There is virtually zero digital footprint for a Benita Young in the entire region. No social media accounts, no public profiles, no fashion school enrollments, not even a basic online presence. It’s like she doesn’t exist to the outside world at all."

"Nothing at all?" Chloe asked, leaning over from her lounge seat with her arms crossed, intrigued. "In today’s age, having zero social media presence usually means someone is either intentionally off the grid or living under extreme isolation."

"Precisely," I said, a cold, satisfied smirk spreading across my face.

The fact that Sarah—with all her elite corporate intelligence tools—couldn’t find a single trace of her online only proved how deep her suppression ran. Benita Young had a 9.9 latent potential—a fashion genius capable of redefining global high luxury—yet she was so utterly crushed by her current circumstances that the modern world didn’t even know her name.

She was living in complete obscurity, working backbreaking hours in an industrial mill while holding the mind of a world-class couturier.

"Keep searching for local factory shift rosters and municipal records," I instructed Sarah, turning my gaze back out the jet window as the city skyline of our destination began to appear through the clouds below. "We’re going straight to the source."

"Touchdown in fifteen minutes, sir," the pilot announced over the cabin intercom.

I set my glass down, buttoning my suit jacket as the jet began its descent. We were about to pull a hidden masterpiece right out of the dark.

After checking into the best available hotel in the city—which turned out to be an underwhelming, faded luxury building from thirty years ago—the stark reality of the area hit us immediately.

The surrounding district was practically a slum. The roads were choked with muddy potholes and unpaved dirt lanes, surrounded by run-down concrete structures, rusted metal roofs, and thick clouds of exhaust and dust. It was completely backward compared to the pristine glass skyscrapers of our headquarters. The Travel Fugitive

Sarah stared down at her iPhone, shaking her head in utter disbelief as the signal icon flickered dangerously.

"Mr. Ethan... the cellular service here is barely hanging on," Sarah muttered, tapping her screen in frustration. "It’s running on a lagging 3G network. The corporate intelligence server is taking two minutes just to refresh a basic spreadsheet!"

"That explains why Benita has zero digital footprint," Chloe noted, adjusting her jacket. "In a place like this, high-speed internet and social media aren’t even accessible to the working class. She isn’t hiding on purpose—she’s literally disconnected from the modern world."

To avoid drawing unnecessary attention from local street crews or corrupt factory bosses, we ditched our tailored suits for simple, low-key dark hoodies, jeans, and sneakers. Even dressed down, the contrast between us and the gritty surroundings was obvious, but at least we weren’t rolling through a slum in a four-car armored motorcade.

We hired a unmarked, beat-up local SUV and navigated through the labyrinth of flooded potholes and alleyways toward the industrial sector on the edge of town.

Fifteen minutes later, the vehicle rattled to a stop near a sprawling, dilapidated complex.

Huge iron smokestacks spewed gray soot into the sky. The air smelled heavily of industrial dye, raw chemical bleach, and burning diesel. Long queues of overworked, exhausted laborers were shuffling through a rusted perimeter gate under the glare of harsh security floodlights.

A rusted metal sign hung lopsided near the entrance: EASTSIDE INDUSTRIAL FABRIC & TEXTILE MILL.

"This is it," Sarah whispered, checking her offline tablet notes. "The night shift is about to start. According to the municipal worker log we managed to scrape, Benita Young works on the floor of Textile Line #4—cutting and sorting raw cotton bolts."

I looked out at the bleak, prison-like factory floor. A 9.9 latent fashion genius—a woman capable of dominating Paris, Milan, and New York—was currently trapped inside this loud, toxic dustbin, earning pennies an hour just to survive.

A cold, determined smile spread across my face as I opened the SUV door.

"Let’s go extract our masterpiece," I said.

We slipped past the rusted security booth, stepping straight into the deafening, choking environment of the main factory floor. High overhead, yellow halogen lights hummed through thick clouds of cotton dust, and the roar of heavy textile machinery made the concrete floor vibrate beneath our sneakers.

My eyes swept across Line #4, and the golden system radar instantly pinged, highlighting a young woman standing near a massive fabric-cutting table:

[TARGET LOCATED: BENITA YOUNG]

Potential: 9.9 / 10

Status: EXTREME CREATIVE SUPPRESSION

She was wearing a faded, dust-covered apron, her dark hair tied back loosely. But what caught my attention was the middle-aged, angry manager standing over her, aggressively waving a crumpled piece of paper in her face, screaming over the sound of the machines.

"...This is a textile production line, not an art gallery!" the manager barked, his face red with frustration. "I catch you drawing these useless dresses on factory scrap paper one more time, Benita, and I’m docking your entire week’s pay! You need to focus on sorting these cotton bolts or you’re out on the street!"

Benita stood there quietly, her face exhausted and drained, but her eyes held a subtle, detached calm. She wasn’t even listening to him—her mind was clearly miles away, trapped in a world of silhouette, structure, and design that this loud, dirty factory could never comprehend.

As Chloe, Sarah, and I tried to move further down the aisle toward her, two burly factory supervisors stepped into our path, blocking the narrow walkway.

"Hold on! Where do you think you’re going?" one of them yelled over the noise.

"I’m here to see Benita Young," I said calmly, stepping forward with total authority.

Hearing my voice, the manager turned around, glaring at us with deep suspicion. He wiped sweat off his forehead with a dirty rag and marched over, waving his hand aggressively to shoo us away.

"Hey! No visitors on the production floor!" the manager shouted, looking us up and down. "This is a private industrial facility. Whatever business you think you have with my workers, forget it. Turn around and get the hell out before I call security!"

I didn’t move an inch. I just looked past his shoulder at Benita, whose tired eyes flicked toward us in quiet confusion, completely unaware that her entire life was about to change.

A cold, amused smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I looked back at the manager.