She turned the golden faucet, and water flowed out, making a splashing sound. Tang Mi cupped her hands to splash water on her face, feeling the coolness seep into her pores. A few droplets dripped from her chin to her neck, bringing a slight, pleasant itch.

The TV outside the door was playing the most popular Zouk music. The sexy, languid female voice hummed softly in the air, like cool silk sliding over the skin, carrying a faint sadness from the memories and a sense of melancholy from looking back after stepping away. But in this moment, Tang Mi felt lighthearted.

In just a few hours, she would leave Country Z, leave this luxurious yet suffocating suite, leave the nightmares that had plagued her for the past two months, and leave him.

She lifted her head, and the mirror reflected her slightly pale face. After not working outdoors for some time, her once honey-colored skin had become fairer, and her eyes appeared even darker, bottomless. There was a flickering light in them, and she knew that the person she used to be, had returned. She grabbed a towel and wiped her face, then started applying foundation. On the washbasin, there were makeup tools and a passport. The name section of the passport read “Naya Liu Jin,” the identity she was about to assume—a wealthy Chinese businesswoman from Ukraine.

Arthur had kept his promise. He hadn’t let Tang Mi go to see Emir. Tonight, when they infiltrated the palace to begin their mission, she would board a plane to Ukraine. From there, she would fly to her hometown, leaving all the conspiracies and darkness behind, high above the clouds at 10,000 meters. She hadn’t said goodbye to him. In fact, she hadn’t seen him since that night. It was for the best—what could they have said if they met again?

Could they still casually say, “Goodbye, keep in touch,” and then embrace with false nonchalance?

They would never meet again. They were like two intersecting straight lines—after a brief overlap, they would drift apart infinitely. The thought of being far away from him in the future made Tang Mi feel somewhat relieved, but not as much as she had imagined. This surprised her. She wanted to understand why, but when she tried to think seriously about it, her mind became heavy, filled with an inexplicable sense of loss. At the same time, his face appeared vividly in her mind. She suddenly felt irritated, shook her head, and grabbed the makeup bag on the washbasin, trying to shake off this strange and unfathomable feeling.

The movement was too abrupt. She pulled the bag too hard, and its contents spilled out.

With a “clink,” a small silver metal object fell to the floor. Tang Mi quickly bent down to pick it up. It turned out to be a miniature handgun, about the size of half a palm. There was a small rolled-up note wedged in the trigger.

“With a click, a silver metallic object dropped to the ground. Tang Mi quickly bent down to pick it up. It turned out to be a tiny, palm-sized pocket pistol, with a small, rolled-up note tucked in the trigger. She opened the note, which was filled with small, densely written characters:

‘Usage Instructions:
1) The magazine has a safety feature; the gun cannot fire without the magazine inserted.
2) Keep the pistol in your pocket. In an emergency, you can fire it directly from within your clothes, taking your opponent by surprise.
3) No matter what happens, you must ensure your own survival. Don’t take unnecessary risks—life is far more important than dignity or principles.’

At the end, it read, ‘I will rescue Emma safely. – Arthur.’

The handwriting was Arthur’s; the signature was bold and messy, unmistakable. Yet, for the sake of space, his typically flowing Gothic script had been squeezed into a clumsy print, as if a wild lion had been compressed into a tiny cat. She couldn’t imagine how the imposing, 190 cm tall Chief Intelligence Officer of MI6 had huddled in some corner, painstakingly writing out this meticulous yet slightly verbose note.

It was like a wife preparing for a long trip, leaving her careless, forgetful husband a list of reminders: ‘Milk and beer are in the fridge, the pizza needs reheating before eating, and the clean underwear and socks are in the second drawer on the left side of the wardrobe,’ carefully sticking it to the refrigerator door.

Those were tips for daily life, while Arthur’s note held survival tips. Different content, but driven by a similar sentiment. Tang Mi wasn’t a cold-hearted person; she could sense, from his words, a possessive yet deeply sincere affection. If he hadn’t been a spy from H Country, if there weren’t so many irreconcilable differences between them, maybe, just maybe, she would have accepted him.

But the world doesn’t work on ‘maybes,’ does it?

Tang Mi picked up the pistol and note, tucking them back into her makeup bag. Silently, she applied lipstick—a deep red against her pale face. Under the bleak fluorescent light, she looked somewhat desolate, like a sigh that had withered before it could be voiced.

As Tang Mi was nearing the airport, Arthur and JR had already slipped into the sublevel where Emir’s study was located. When the elevator doors opened, two soldiers on guard nodded at them, their faces showing the relaxed demeanor of the end of a shift.

Arthur stepped out first, his tall frame partially blocking JR behind him. Without a sound, JR discreetly stuck a button-sized signal jammer on the wall.

Meanwhile, the security control center screens suddenly flickered with static. “What’s going on?” the security chief frowned, asking.

“Let me check; it looks like signal interference,” the monitor operator, startled awake from a drowsy state, hurriedly adjusted the camera angles. The static cleared in an instant, revealing the usual image of the sublevel corridor outside the elevator. The two guards stood silently, everything appearing normal. In the top-right corner of the screen, the silver digital clock ticked to “11:00:00 PM.”

“It’s fine now; maybe that camera just needs replacing,” the operator explained to his superior.

“Get someone to replace it tomorrow. That’s the chief’s most valued area,” the security chief muttered sternly, never imagining that just meters above them, inside a ventilation duct, someone was hiding. That person had already hacked into the palace’s mainframe, feeding the security monitors a pre-recorded loop of footage.

The reality was that the two guards at the elevator had already had their throats slit by Arthur and JR. Without a sound, their bodies had gone limp, collapsing like deflated dolls into Arthur and JR’s arms. Arthur carefully lowered the guards’ bodies as Simon’s voice came through his earpiece, “Boss, everything is clear. Proceed to eliminate the four guards around the next corner—two by the study door and two at the end of the hallway.”

Arthur and JR sheathed their knives and drew their pistols, moving swiftly along the corridor wall.

At the corner, they exchanged a quick glance. Arthur crouched low, while JR, across from him, lunged forward, pulling both triggers simultaneously. Pop, pop—two muffled shots, and the soldiers at the far end of the hallway didn’t even realize what happened as bullets pierced their foreheads. Blood trickled down, clouding their eyes as they plunged into the darkness of death, their unanswered questions fading with them.

The two guards by the study door fared no better. Just as they raised their rifles, Arthur fired, hitting their hearts. They collapsed heavily, twitching briefly before their breathing stopped.

Arthur glanced at his watch—just past 11:00 by 30 seconds. Everything was proceeding smoothly.

He and JR reached the study door, donning special gloves with Emir’s palm print. Arthur spoke softly into his earpiece, “Simon, start cracking the door code.”

“Got it. Give me 40 seconds,” came Simon’s voice, with a hint of excitement.

Simon, a true genius, only needed 38 seconds to unlock the palm scanner code for Emir’s study. “Boss, the code is xxxxxxx,” he relayed to Arthur, a restrained but unmistakable pride in his voice.

Arthur entered the code and placed his hand on the scanner. After a few beeps, the green light flashed, indicating the first lock had been disengaged.

JR pulled out a soft rubber mask shaped like a faceless human head and quickly slipped it over his head, then leaned toward the facial scanner by the door.

Immediately, a scarlet light scanned his masked face, passing up and down three times before the door emitted a long beep and then fell silent, unresponsive.

“Shit! Could it be that Yise’s mask didn’t work?” JR muttered under his breath, looking over at Arthur.

Suddenly, Yise’s voice came through the earpiece, cold as ever: “Just push the door, idiot!”

Arthur chuckled and firmly pressed down on the door handle. With a soft creak, the tightly sealed door opened, revealing a narrow crack.

—

Late at night, Tang Mi entered the airport lobby with a small handbag.

At this hour, flights were few, and passengers sat sparsely around, dozing on seats as they waited for boarding calls, weariness etched into their faces. Occasionally, the roar of a plane taking off echoed above, like a startled bird taking flight, vanishing into the vast night sky.

She stood quietly in a corner, her silhouette reflected in the glass window.

Her hair and cheeks were wrapped in a scarf, with large sunglasses covering most of her face, revealing only a high-bridged nose and bold red lips. A light brown trench coat outlined her slender, upright figure, radiating a sense of mystery and aloof nobility—exactly the image of an aristocratic lady she needed to convey.

A young man in a pilot’s uniform approached Tang Mi. “Miss, need any help? My name is Asim.”

Tang Mi cautiously examined the “pilot” before her. Fair skin, dark brown mustache and eyebrows, and brown eyes that looked at her keenly from beneath the brim of his hat.

His appearance matched the description of her contact that Arthur had provided. She removed her sunglasses, looking at Asim without a word.

“Do you like Maltese dogs?” Asim asked.

The code phrase matched what Arthur had told her, confirming that he was her exit contact. Tang Mi put her sunglasses back on and softly replied, “Ice cream on the chestnut tree.”

Asim nodded, took Tang Mi by the arm, and said, “Follow me. The plane only has a 45-minute landing permit; we need to board quickly.”

Tang Mi hurried behind him, scenes blurring past her on both sides. Her mind felt empty; she couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad. She had imagined this departure countless times: her quick, eager strides forward, as if leaving behind a bad dream, one from which she would awaken, returning to normalcy. But as she stepped into the departure lounge, she suddenly stopped and looked back, feeling as though someone’s gaze was tugging at her or that something was urging her to turn around.

Of course, there was no one behind her. Tonight, no one was there to see her off.

A pang struck her chest, as if something was being peeled away. The excitement and relief faded, replaced by an inexplicable ache. Tang Mi didn’t understand what was happening to her, but it didn’t matter. She was leaving—leaving everything behind, the things she despised, and even the things she loved.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head and quickened her pace.

Just then, a commotion erupted at the entrance to the hall, shattering the travelers’ drowsy peace. Amid the sound of collisions and someone screaming, a dozen soldiers with rifles charged toward Tang Mi’s direction.

“Get that woman!” shouted the man leading them, pointing at her.