“Miss Tang,” a soft voice nearby broke her awkward thoughts.

Quickly, she gathered herself and looked back, only to see a young Bushman boy holding an instant camera carefully in his hands, gazing at her shyly.

The boy’s name was Yanu, one of Father Rebman’s students. The priest not only preached but also took on the role of a teacher for nearby Bushman children, offering free lessons to those who couldn’t afford schooling in the city.

Today, Father Rebman had some errands to run, so the children who came for lessons were given the day off and stayed at the chapel to play.

“Yanu, is there something you need?” Tang Mi asked, smiling at the bashful boy.

“Well, Father told me you’re a photographer. My father went to work in the city and hasn’t come back for over a year. I’d like to take a picture to send to him,” Yanu said, his face blushing slightly, still unused to talking to strangers, especially someone as beautiful and young as Tang Mi.

“Of course, what kind of photo would you like to take? Or rather, how would you like your father to see you?” Tang Mi took the camera from his hands, looking into his eyes as she asked.

“I want him to see that I’ve grown up, so he knows I can take care of Mom and my little siblings. I’ll soon be able to take care of the whole family, just like he does.” The boy lifted his youthful face, his clear eyes reflecting a maturity and determination beyond his years.

“Alright!” Tang Mi said as she quickly pressed the shutter. She understood the emotions and confidence Yanu wanted to convey to his father, but the young boy didn’t realize just how captivating his gaze was at that moment. It was like a star in the night, possessing a light that could break through darkness and lead the way—this light was called hope.

Tang Mi pulled out the photo, waved it in the air to let the image fully develop, then handed it to Yanu. “Look, this is what you look like all grown up.”

Yanu looked at the photo in amazement. It was a half-body shot, with the wooden hut in the background softly blurred into a warm brown hue. His dark face and the muted tones of his clothes blended into one, but his eyes, sharp and bright, stood out like diamonds fallen into dust, showing both a quiet determination and a glimmer of hope as he gazed out of the picture. Through the small space framed by his lashes, one could see another tiny world.

“Thank you, thank you!” Yanu held the photo tightly and bowed deeply to Tang Mi before turning and running away, not wanting her to see the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, great photographer, may I have a picture too?” Arthur’s teasing voice drifted over, and at the same time, his strong arms wrapped around her waist.

Tang Mi playfully curled her lips, replying in a deliberately cool tone, “No, lest I end up with a Barrett aimed at my head again.”

Arthur buried his nose in Tang Mi’s neck, inhaling her scent deeply and smiling as he said, “If that’s the case, it doesn’t matter.” Then, he took the camera from her hand, pulled her face close to his shoulder, and decisively pressed the shutter.

With a click, their happy faces were captured on that small piece of film. It was just an ordinary moment from their daily lives, but little did they know the significance this photo would hold for them in the years to come.

“What would you like for breakfast?” Arthur asked from the kitchen counter.

“Anything, as long as it’s not meat,” Tang Mi replied lazily, lying on the dining table and watching the man with the frying pan with great interest.

She’d never imagined he’d ever trade in a handgun for an apron, wearing a somewhat melancholy expression as he stood over a frying pan, like a wistful homemaker. The thought made her lips curl into a smile.

“Vegetarianism is a good choice, but you’re too thin; you need protein to boost your stamina. We still have to get past the border checkpoint into Kenya tonight, so you can’t afford to pass out on the way. How about an egg and mushroom omelet with milk toast?” Arthur suggested with a slight frown.

“Sounds good,” Tang Mi said, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed on his back.

His tall, lean frame, clothed in a simple white shirt and jeans, looked as perfectly sculpted as a statue by Michelangelo. The apron strings were tied around his narrow waist and hips, and his golden hair fluttered lightly in the breeze. With a skillful flick of his wrist, he tossed the egg in the frying pan, sending it into a beautiful arc before it landed back in the pan with a sizzle and a hint of smoke.

Tang Mi suddenly felt a bit warm, her cheeks heating up like the egg in the pan. “The weather really is too hot,” she murmured, trying to excuse her reaction, then quickly looked away and asked, “Did you cook for yourself often before?”

“No, my older brother usually cooked for me, and I picked up a few cooking skills from watching him,” Arthur said as he expertly sliced the mushrooms, each piece coming out in perfectly even slices, as if cut by a laser.

“And… what about your parents?” she asked.

“They passed away when I was thirteen. In fact, my brother raised me. Our parents left us a large inheritance, but they also left us a long list of enemies,” Arthur said, still slicing mushrooms with a calm, almost nonchalant tone, as if discussing whether to add sugar to coffee.

“Though we had plenty of chefs at home, my brother insisted on cooking for me himself to prevent anyone from poisoning the food.”

Tang Mi’s eyes widened slightly; she hadn’t expected him to have such a past. “Then why did you join MI6?” she couldn’t help but ask. With his privileged background and a protective older brother, she thought he wouldn’t need to take on such a high-risk job.

“To survive. At that time, there were too many people trying to kill my brother and me. So my brother sent me to a military academy in Country H. According to him, rather than always holding a gun to protect you, it’s better to let you learn to hold a gun to protect yourself.” He finished their breakfast as he spoke, placing a fragrant, steaming mushroom and egg omelet in front of her.

Tang Mi took a bite. The soft egg enveloped the juicy mushrooms perfectly, with a touch of ketchup that blended the flavors just right. His cooking was on par with Mrs. Ronaldo’s. She looked up at him; he was slowly drinking his coffee, eyes downcast, revealing nothing. Yet, a cold detachment seemed to radiate from him, the sunlight reflecting on his porcelain cup with the same chill mirrored in his expression.

She knew that when someone delves into unpleasant memories, this kind of look emerges. His childhood was undoubtedly difficult, even brutal. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up his past—everyone has corners of their heart they don’t want others to touch.

“I’m sorry, I—” She set down her fork, unsure how to break the silence.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’m not that fragile, and you don’t need to apologize. I wasn’t planning to hide my past from you. My last name really is Solomon, Schumann. Solomon is my brother.” Arthur gave a slight smile, took her hand, and looked at her calmly.

Tang Mi was completely taken aback. Schumann Solomon—that name was hardly unfamiliar. Though he wasn’t as often seen on TV or in magazines like many financial moguls, he was the head of Western Europe’s largest shipping group and an influential member of the illustrious Solomon family.

Arthur was his brother? She didn’t know how to react, managing only to murmur, “Then, why are you still with MI6?”

“When I graduated from military school, my brother had finally managed to eliminate all our enemies. He asked me to come back and help him run the family business. But I unexpectedly discovered that I wasn’t actually my father’s son—I was the result of my mother’s affair with another man. In other words, I have no Solomon blood in me. My brother knew this from the start but never mentioned it. He always just told me that I was the person closest to him in the world.” Arthur’s tone remained light, even smiling as he sipped his coffee, but his beautiful eyes looked hollow, like empty glass spheres, fragile and transparent, as if that emptiness was the only way to mask the bitterness he tasted.

There are two kinds of people in the world. The first are those who cannot hide their emotions in pain—this is most people. The second are those who can control their reactions even better when they are in pain—a rare few. Arthur was undoubtedly the latter.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel pain, even if most of the time he seemed like a cold, precise machine.

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Author’s Note: Yesterday, someone asked if I’m male or female. Do I really come across as so ambiguous?