Early the next morning, outside the entrance of Forest River Apartments.
Carrying bags and luggage like a drifting wanderer, He Ye hailed the earliest taxi on the street at an hour when even the driver could not stop yawning.
“Where to?” The driver rolled down the window.
“The entrance of Lane 11, North Street,” He Ye replied.
Although he had resolved to pack up and leave the night before, by the time he finished packing, it was already midnight. It was too late, so he had no choice but to spend one last night in the home that no longer belonged to him, curling up in the study to plan his future.
Renting a sea-facing studio apartment bathed in spring blossoms, landing a cozy nine-to-five job with weekends off, greeting the bakery beauty every morning before work, and riding the tram toward the orphanage with a newspaper in hand—that was the future he envisioned.
Now, it was time to take the first step.
He Ye carried his bags in both hands, puffing out his chest like Tom the Cat leaving home, and stowed them in the backseat of the cab.
Behind him, Miss Mist stood clad in a black dress, resembling a blooming Black Iris. Standing to the side, she asked quietly:
“When are you coming back, Leon?”
He Ye had long grown used to her off-kilter nature. Though she was a state-class assassin, she was utterly clueless in certain areas, such as interpersonal relationships, social norms, cooking, etiquette, and veiled remarks.
At a time like this, what was needed was not an explanation, but a deflective answer.
By the time she realized what had happened and tried to search for him, he would have vanished into the vast sea of people, nowhere to be found.
“I’ll be back on the thirty-second of this month,” He Ye said offhandedly, sliding into the front passenger seat.
The middle-aged driver gripped the steering wheel, glanced at He Ye, and then looked out at the gorgeous, youthful Black Iris of a girl standing outside. His mind had already pieced together a tragic one-night-stand narrative.
Yet he said nothing, merely clicking his tongue in wistful sympathy.
“Goodbye,” Mist waved.
“Goodbye, Sophia,” He Ye murmured, watching the rearview mirror.
As the streetscape receded into the distance, leaving Macon Street felt surprisingly effortless. An indescribable lightness swelled within He Ye’s chest, yet he knew his work was not done. He still had to meet Mark to bury the past once and for all.
“There’s no thirty-second this month, sir,” the driver quipped, gripping the wheel with the air of an experienced elder.
“I’m well aware. You talk too much. Just get me to North Street in one piece, and you’ll get your tip.”
“You’re quite generous.”
Beside Lane 11, North Street.
A short while later.
Having reached North Street, the taxi door swung open, and He Ye hauled his luggage out once more. It suddenly dawned on him that he should have taken care of everything before retrieving his bags, rather than awkwardly lugging them around town.
Then again, that was how sudden impulses worked.
Some things could only be accomplished on a sudden whim; otherwise, life remained a stagnant pool.
“Twenty-three kronen, sir. If you’re paying with Kebrul Banknotes, that’ll be an extra two kronen, because God only knows if they’ll plummet again today.”
“Fine.”
After paying the fare, He Ye walked toward a newsstand shop. Day had broken, pedestrians were multiplying, storefronts were rolling up their shutters, and newsboys wandered the street corners.
He Ye walked the familiar route, a path he had tread countless times before. This would be the last.
Before long, he reached the newsstand.
The shopfront was modest. A greasy middle-aged man in a magua sat inside, a rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. The place gave an immediate impression of dust and decay.
He did not even look up when He Ye walked in, focusing entirely on the fashion magazine in his hands.
Whew, strictly the pages with hot babes.
“Boss, got issue ninety-four of the periodical?” He Ye set his luggage beside the counter and leaned an elbow on the surface.
Reclining in his armchair, the greasy middle-aged man looked up at the sound, tearing his gaze away from the magazine. He looked at He Ye, his lips twitching slightly, his eyes holding thirty percent confusion, thirty percent shock, and ninety-four percent what the hell are you doing, kid?
“Issue ninety-four of which publication?” the greasy man squeezed out after a pause.
“Xinye.”
“…Seems like there’s stock in the back. I’ll go look.” He scrambled out of his armchair, his portly frame making his movements look remarkably clumsy.
After waiting a minute or two, He Ye parted the fabric curtain and stepped into the storage room.
The front counter was taken over by a yawning youth who had just been roused from sleep, looking entirely innocent.
“Hello, welcome.”
He Ye gave a casual wave, offered a brief explanation about looking for the boss who was fetching a book, and walked into the storage room.
He then pushed open the hidden door within.
Finally, He Ye entered an inner partition. A light was on, illuminating a round table and chairs. At the far end sat the newsstand boss.
The greasy middle-aged man with the cigarette had transformed; his gaze was now as sharp and chilling as a griffin’s.
“Leon, didn’t we agree not to make contact unless necessary? Their sweeps are getting tighter by the day. You know a single misstep means death!”
“Don’t call me Leon,” He Ye said, taking a seat across from him. “That name is dead.”
“Were you arrested?” The middle-aged man blurted out, turning pale with shock.
“No. I’ve simply decided to withdraw from… CORE.”
He Ye spoke softly, his eyes filled with sincerity.
“Withdraw?” The greasy man’s hand subtly drifted toward his waist, though his face remained relaxed as he winked. “Why… why the sudden urge to withdraw? Weren’t things going great before?”
“I never felt that being a spy was great.” He Ye looked up.
“…” The greasy man was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Mark, are you going to draw your gun?” He Ye added.
Mark froze upon hearing those words. A few seconds later, his shoulders slumped entirely. He spread his hands, the razor-sharp edge vanishing from his gaze.
“How could I suspect you? As the most unique intelligence spy in the Organization, if you really wanted to sell us out, this safehouse would have been wiped off the map long ago.”
“So… what brought this on? Why the sudden talk of quitting?”
Mark looked over with genuine bewilderment. He stubbed out his cigarette, his mood turning thoroughly somber.
He Ye knew it was time for his performance. He had to convince Mark, the captain of this espionage squad, of his resolve.
Appeal to emotion, reason with logic.
He Ye pressed a weary hand against his chest, his eyes dimming as he spoke slowly:
“The truth is, I don’t like killing people. Long ago, I used to have recurring nightmares about every single person whose death I caused. In my dreams, they cried to me, haunted me, cursed me, accusing me of destroying their families and their happy lives.”
“B-but they were all irredeemable scoundrels,” Mark stammered innocently, scratching his head as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The targets their squad eliminated were, if not blood-soaked capitalists, at least corrupt aristocrats sucking the marrow from the people.
They had never killed ordinary civilians, so where was this PTSD coming from?
“They were still human beings!” He Ye gritted his teeth. “God said all men are created equal. How can we pass judgment by stripping others of their lives?”
“…” Mark was struck dumb once more.
He Ye clenched his hand tighter over his chest, his breathing turning ragged.
“And up until now, outside of being a spy, I’ve never lived for myself. I don’t know how cold the morning dew feels in a park, nor have I ever tasted the leisurely breeze drifting through the twilight air.”
He Ye pressed on solemnly: “I—or rather, we—have never lived for ourselves.”
“…” A flicker of hesitation showed on Mark’s face.
He pursed his lips in silence, his expression clouded. He Ye knew this was the moment to deliver the finishing blow.
“What’s more…” He Ye buried his face in his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. “I suspect the Organization has already abandoned us. After all, they haven’t paid our salaries in nearly a year! If I keep staying undercover like this, I’m going to starve to death on the streets of Glailey City!”
“So at the end of the day, it’s just about the money,” Mark said wryly, his fingers tapping the table in thought. “I understand your reasoning now. But what if someone from the Organization shows up? There are no retired spies—only dead spies.”
“Wait, you mean you’ve already agreed?”
He Ye blinked, caught off guard by the swiftness of it all. He had not even managed to squeeze out a single tear yet.
“What else was I supposed to do? Given our history, could I really stop you if you’re determined to leave?” Mark shook his head, a hint of genuine reluctance surfacing on the greasy man’s face.
“…” He Ye fell silent for a moment. “Don’t tell me you also—”
“Stop right there.” Mark’s expression turned solemn.
The two exchanged a look. Years of working together had built an unspoken understanding. Under current circumstances, not defecting to the enemy immediately was already the highest form of loyalty.
“Regarding that, my plan is to destroy my personal dossier,” He Ye said, his tone turning businesslike. “Report that I was unfortunately arrested during a sweep by the National Security Bureau and bit my own tongue to commit suicide without divulging a single shred of intelligence. That will serve as my death certificate.”
“Just based on your word?” Mark could barely keep a straight face.
“Don’t we have you as the ‘witness’?” He Ye shrugged. “Just write me off as a hero who died for the cause. All that’s left is shredding my dossier and leaving a written report. For a captain like you, that’s hardly a challenge.”
“…” Mark was silent for a long time. “I’ll see what I can do. By the way, I haven’t asked—what do you plan to do after leaving the Organization so abruptly?”
“Seek a new life.” He Ye inhaled deeply, his voice calm. “Don’t worry, I won’t sell you out. I swear it on my character. I’m just sick of this kind of life.”
As if struck by a thought, Mark’s brows knitted. “Come to think of it, after the last undercover mission, weren’t you living with Sophia? Did you two have a falling out after living together for so long?”
“That’s part of it. I really can’t stand playing babysitter to her anymore,” He Ye rubbed his temples, a headache coming on. “Thanks to her, all the cookware at home had to be replaced with stainless steel.”
“That kid is abnormally strong,” Mark sighed, sounding like an uncle from next door.
“Anyway, since you agreed so readily, I won’t linger and cause you trouble… I’m off, Mark. Next time we meet, I’ll bring a bottle of wine. If there’s an opportunity.”
He Ye stood up, offered a wave, and left behind a dashing silhouette.
“I might have agreed, but you haven’t dealt with Sophia yet…” Mark murmured, rising and reaching out in a futile attempt to make He Ye stay. Unfortunately, the young man was already far gone.
Mark clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath:
“That kid is way harder to deal with than me…”
