"Are you going to the crime scene, Professor?" Natasha turned to Schiller. Though she did not particularly like calling him "Professor," everyone in this universe called him that, so she went along with it.
The reason she disliked the title was simple. It was an overly formal and serious form of address, at least in the United States. Only during the first few meetings with a professor would someone address them that way. Afterward, most students simply used the professor's surname or first name, and would not use that title even in casual greeting emails.
Words with such explicit professional connotations carried a chilly distance that kept people at arm's length. They generally did not help efficient, friendly communication. Natasha genuinely wanted to have a proper conversation with this Schiller, because he was obviously difficult to deal with.
Schiller nodded lightly. Natasha watched him rise, apparently to get the car keys. All right, the female agent thought. Even if they had nearly identical faces, she could not be expected to casually accept a ride from a stranger she had only met a few times—especially when she was a CIA agent.
Soon, Schiller walked to the door and picked up an umbrella. Natasha followed him into the garage. Just as she had expected, there was a classic Bentley. Its polished body gleamed brightly without being sharp, exuding the same elegance as its owner. This man was covered from head to toe in the trappings of the Old World.
As Schiller got into the driver's seat, Natasha took the passenger seat. By the time the car pulled out of the garage, it had started raining again.
"This damn weather." Natasha could not help complaining. "Why is it raining in this city every second of every day? Have you ever seen it clear