Hand-to-mouth these past two days, he’d only eaten a small slice of discounted baguette from the cheap supermarket. Now, faced with food, his stomach spasmed involuntarily from hunger.
The surface of the black tea rippled slightly, reflecting his current appearance:
The suit hanging on his frame was creased and rumpled. The fine material, deprived of proper care, only accentuated the wearer’s current state of utter desolation.
His eyes were threaded with stubborn red veins from prolonged crying, the thin skin beneath them shadowed with faint bluish-black. His lips were nearly as pallid as his face.
Qian Ning was clearly delighted by Ode’s bedraggled appearance. With exaggerated magnanimity, he pushed the tea tray a little closer to him, his face etched with mock empathy.
“I remember your parents passed away when you were young, leaving just you and your grandfather to depend on each other. But now your grandfather’s gone too? And all the Douglas Family’s debts have landed squarely on your shoulders as the last surviving heir? With you unable to repay the Intercontinental Bank, they’ve seized your family ancestral home for auction? Good lord.”
After this sympathetic summary, Qian Ning leaned forward. “Correct me if I’m wrong. But right now, aren’t you penniless? Do you even have a place to live?”
Ode lacked both the energy and the inclination to trade barbs with Qian Ning in such petty verbal sparring. He suppressed the dizziness brought on by hunger and calmly lifted the Black Forest dessert with a hand that trembled from exhaustion. “You should know that if we keep chatting about this everyday family chit-chat, you’ll be forfeiting at least three hundred and eighty million pounds in net profit.”
“That really scares me!” Qian Ning scoffed. “Stop bluffing. Do you think we’re back in your university days, when you had friends everywhere and could charm anyone? If you could deliver profits like that, why would you come begging me for…”
Qian Ning’s mocking laugh faltered midway, his deep-seated impression of Ode’s past capabilities stirring an inevitable flicker of doubt. “…Where would you even get the connections? I thought all those rich kids who hung around you at school cut ties the moment they heard about your family’s downfall?”
“But who turns down real investment money?” Ode forced himself not to devour the dessert too ravenously, though even so, he polished it off in record time.
“You provide the capital; I bring the connections. Show up with enough funding to knock on the right doors—who’s going to turn away pounds sterling? You’ll get your massive profits, and I’ll get… what I want. Isn’t that perfect?”
“…”
Qian Ning’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, but his competitive nature quickly suppressed it. He flashed a sardonic grin once more. “Sounds perfect, like a pipe dream.”
“Why don’t we return to reality? Besides your grandfather’s death, I heard another bombshell from the alumni group—the Civil Service Selection.”
“The professor always said you were the most likely in our year to climb to the top of the civil service ladder. But I heard you mysteriously skipped the final interview?”
Qian Ning’s smile carried a malicious edge as he leaned closer to Ode. “So… you’re not just penniless and homeless—you’re unemployed too?”
He leaned back on the sofa with relish, his hand brushing the cigar case beside him. In the end, though, he withdrew it without opening the box. “What do you have left now? Besides that glib tongue of yours… oh, and maybe that pretty face the heavens gifted you.”
Qian Ning’s eyes drifted downward, lingering on Ode’s waist—which he’d been subtly shifting or propping up ever since entering the room. “Did I guess right? Is that why your waist is ‘injured’?” With feigned concern, he rose to his feet. “Maybe we should switch seats. You clearly need the softer cushion more than I do.”
Ode kept his eyes lowered, as if Qian Ning’s torrent of vicious words were merely a faint breeze not worth noticing.
He held his teacup in one hand, the fingers of the other elegantly curved as he slowly stirred the spoon through the deep crimson liquid.
“Your brother has already secured a trade channel with the American arms dealer Smith.”
“…”
Qian Ning’s smile froze on his face, the corner of his eye twitching almost imperceptibly.
The office fell silent for several seconds.
At one point, Qian Ning muttered as if convincing himself: “There’s no way you know about that.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Exactly… Impossible. We’re talking long-term partners here—who would leak a trade secret like that to you? Aren’t they afraid of ruining their reputation? Of getting blackballed?”
Ode calmly continued stirring the sugar cube at the bottom of his cup. “Are you doubting my abilities?”
“…”
Qian Ning fell abruptly silent.
His reaction was even swifter than when Ode had first mentioned his brother’s big deal.
This response betrayed something telling—that despite all his mockery, Qian Ning still harbored an unshakable faith in Ode’s capabilities. Realizing this only fueled Qian Ning’s fury.
He shot to his feet, his eyes flushing pink with rage, his chest heaving from hatred toward his brother, desperation for this golden opportunity, and terror at the prospect of betting wrong and losing everything.
Those piercing blue eyes bored into Ode, speaking to him and to himself alike:
“I don’t believe you. We’ve never gotten along. You’re broke now, with nothing to your name. You could be a pawn my brother sent to sabotage me! Do you think you’re still that golden boy everyone fawned over, getting whatever you wanted? Huh? No!!”
Qian Ning was practically roaring, his neck flushing red, veins bulging. “You’re just an ant now, a speck of dust, an insignificant noth—”
Crash—
The glass window beside them shattered violently under some hard impact, the sharp crack of breaking glass erupting out of nowhere.
Ode, who had been feigning composure, jerked his head up in shock, meeting Qian Ning’s bewildered, startled gaze.
Over Qian Ning’s shoulder, he glimpsed two figures in SAS special forces gear flipping through the window one after another. Outside the office, more shattering glass and screams echoed from every direction, enveloping the entire bank.
“What the hell—?! What’s going on?!”
“SAS! The British 22nd Special Air Service Regiment! Why is this special forces unit here?!”
“Nobody move! Hands up! Hands on your heads! Faces to the wall! Everyone do it now!”
Chaotic shouts poured in from beyond the office. Protests rose from those unwilling to comply, but they were silenced within seconds by a burst of machine-gun fire into the ceiling.
Ode and Qian Ning reacted in perfect sync, their hands flying up to cradle their heads in conditioned reflex. They exchanged a single glance laden with matching terror before two SAS soldiers pressed gun barrels to their backs and shoved their faces against the wall.
As his cheek met the cold surface, Ode caught sight of the soldier pinning Qian Ning. The man’s helmet—or was it a gas mask?—was bizarre. Where the filter should be, an oval, brain-like orb protruded, covered in short tentacles that seemed to writhe if you stared too long.
The assault rifle in the soldier’s hands looked odd too, almost like it was carved from some beast’s bone at first glance…
Ode’s hackles rose for an instant, but his instinctual sense of mortal peril was quickly overridden by rational skepticism.
Maybe it was some new biometric sensor? Or camouflage mimicking bone texture?
Then, frustration at having his near-success interrupted made him press his forehead to the wall and mutter under his breath, “Shit!”
It was probably the first time in his life he’d let such a crude curse slip out. He bit back the second one, trapping it firmly in his throat.
Why couldn’t it have waited? he fumed inwardly. Of all the times—Qian Ning was already convinced, that hesitation buried under his outburst just needed one final nudge. But why now? Fine, fine… stay calm.
This changed nothing. Once these big lugs finished their op, he could pick up where he left off. The SAS wouldn’t linger in a public space like this.
One second, two… Less than ten seconds later, the SAS had total control inside and outside the office. The bank plunged into a deathly hush.
Five more seconds ticked by.
Clack-clack… clack-clack.
Crisp, purposeful footsteps entered the bank, pausing in the lobby for half a second before heading straight for the deputy manager’s office, as if directed by a team member.
Utterly baffled—terrorists in the bank?—Ode swallowed reflexively. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if the gurgle in his ears came from his starving stomach or his own gulp.
Beside him, Qian Ning embodied bluster masking cowardice to perfection, trembling so hard the gun against his back clicked audibly. The office door clicked open, and he burst into loud sobs. “I-I-I haven’t done anything illegal!! It must be my big brother—he must be fram—”
“Quiet.” The voice of the man who entered was languid, carrying the sharp tang of cigar smoke on the breeze. Ode was certain this newcomer wore no bizarre gas mask—his words rang perfectly clear. “Did I ask you? Stop yapping.”
“…”
Qian Ning clamped his mouth shut in an instant.
Ode strained his ears, tracking the man’s leisurely steps to the desk—probably to ash his cigar in the tray there. “We’re here for a terrorist. Has nothing to do with you or your brother. Who’s your brother, anyway?”
“M-My brother is #￥%@” Qian Ning finally regained control of his tongue amid the shakes. “Wh-Who are you looking for? We’ve vetted all the bank staff—no way one’s a terrorist. And the customers, we don’t kn—”
“Ode.” The man cut him off.
“I’m looking for Ode Douglas.”
“…”
Ode’s mind went blank the instant his name was spoken. Then his nape prickled instinctively, every hair standing on end as he sensed the man sauntering unhurriedly behind him. A puff of smoke wafted gently against the back of his neck, its spicy, oddly acrid scent invading his nostrils.
“Do you know this person?”
“One of my men left behind a single clue in his effects before dying: this name.”
