New York

On the 25th, while MI6 agents back in the United Kingdom were still searching fruitlessly through the forest for mosquitoes in an attempt to extract a DNA sample from "Beta," Beta had already returned to New York, the city he called home.

At the exit of New York International Airport, Beta wore understated clothes: a pale blue bespoke shirt paired with finely tailored dress pants, and handmade leather shoes that gleamed softly. Every detail of the casual outfit spoke of refinement, perfectly capturing the image of a wealthy young man who didn't flaunt his money.

Matilda, standing beside him, stuck to her distinctive personal style: sneakers, shorts and a T-shirt, with a lightweight jacket thrown over them, and short socks neatly tucked around her ankles.

The stubborn girl had always refused to change her style of dress. Even though Beta had bought her a whole new wardrobe, she still insisted on this "easy-to-move-in" outfit. As she put it, it was practical, and she could run and jump whenever she wanted.

Beta leaned against the railing, his gaze behind his sunglasses sweeping over the steady stream of cars in the pickup area. The familiar black Ford Mustang he was waiting for still hadn't appeared.

Matilda idly rubbed her shoe against the gum left on the ground, only to get the sticky mess firmly stuck to the sole. Wrinkling her nose, she pressed the sole against the metal railing and scrubbed back and forth until she had scraped off the stubborn wad.

The restless girl was like a cat with too much energy. As soon as she had dealt with the mess on her shoe, she turned her attention to the stickers on her suitcase.

When she found that the plastic luggage tag was hard to peel off, she dug at it with her fingernails, determined to get it off. At last, she managed to pick a small hole in the edge, then eagerly grabbed the torn bit and tugged hard.

Beta watched Matilda fuss over it, in a good mood. Having an energetic kid around really did make things more fun.

Just then, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of them.

Beta recognized the vehicle at a glance. He had bought it himself and left it in New York.

The window slid down silently, revealing a stern-faced, middle-aged man in the driver's seat: unkempt beard, long hair reaching his ears, and eyes that always seemed weary.

John Wick. His name was legendary at the Continental Hotel. "Night Demon," "Baba Yaga"—the fearsome titles all belonged to him. But at that moment, he was simply an ordinary father who had just lost his beloved wife.

Beta and John met each other's gaze.

There was so much Beta wanted to ask. Had Helen still been suffering from her illness when she passed? Had she left him even a few words? How had Helen managed to get through this past year? Countless questions churned in his heart, but in the end, they all became a silent stare.

After holding Beta's gaze for a long moment, John Wick slowly nodded and forced out a low, "Yeah."

"That's it? Just 'yeah'?" Beta's voice was tinged with disbelief. "You and I haven't seen each other in a whole year, and that's all you have to say when we meet again?"

Matilda rose onto her tiptoes, both hands gripping the edge of the car window as she peered curiously at John Wick. "Hello, Mr. John."

Unlike the stiff manner he'd shown while talking to Beta, John's expression softened noticeably.

He leaned forward slightly and replied, "Hi, Matilda. Leon told me about you."

Beta opened the trunk and loaded in his and Matilda's luggage, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Matilda hopped into the back. She took a curious look around the luxurious interior, then soon pulled out her phone and started playing with it.

Before long, Leon returned from the restroom, opened the door, and got in, nodding to John Wick in greeting.

The black Escalade drove smoothly onto the expressway, and silence settled over the cabin. The faint sound of videos playing on Matilda's phone mingled with the soft hiss of the tires rolling over the road.

After a moment of silence, Beta asked, "Did Helen leave me any messages?"

John gripped the steering wheel. "A lot."

His voice was low and restrained. "In her final days, she spent nearly all her time holding a camcorder. She recorded so many things—so many things she wanted to say."

Beta turned his face toward the window. "A lot? Were they all for me? I'm sure she must have left plenty for you, too."

John kept his eyes on the road. "A lot. There's a lot for both you and me."

Beta took several deep breaths to quell the emotions churning in his chest, his nostrils flaring a few times.

"Was she in pain toward the end?" Beta asked softly.

John shook his head. "She wasn't in pain. Out of compassion, the doctors stopped limiting Helen's pain medication. In her final days, she was actually more energetic than before."

"Did you choose the headstone she wanted? She said a long time ago that she wanted one shaped like a sunflower," Beta asked.

"I did," John answered softly. "White marble. She said it was a flower from me that would never wilt."

A barely audible sob sounded in the cabin. Beta looked around. It wasn't Matilda; the girl had never known Helen, so naturally she wouldn't be crying over her.

It was Leon. He turned his face toward the window, his shoulders trembling silently. Even his sobs were restrained to the point of silence. This usually expressionless killer was now crying over the death of his sister, Helen. Even the coldest people had hearts made of flesh and blood. It was just that, much of the time, their actions concealed what was in their hearts.

Beta handed him a tissue. "Out of the three men here, one of us is allowed to fall apart. The other two have to hold it together. Go ahead and cry. No one here will laugh at you."

Leon covered his face, tears streaming down uncontrollably. Matilda gently took his hand, silently comforting him.

Watching them, Beta said quietly, "I want to cry, too, but I could probably only squeeze out a couple of tears. I'm grateful to Helen for taking care of me, and I miss her, but I just can't cry. What about you, John?"

He gave a self-deprecating smile. "I don't think you can, either. There's something wrong with both of us. Someone close to us is gone, and we can't even shed a single tear."

John didn't answer.

The Escalade kept overtaking cars, weaving nimbly through traffic.

Suddenly, the first raindrop bloomed on the windshield, followed by a second, then a third. In an instant, the whole world was drowned in the sound of rain. The wipers swung mechanically, sweeping from left to right, then from right to left, with a "ka-chunk, ka-chunk" sound. The scrape of rubber against glass rang especially clearly in the silent cabin.

Beta's gaze went unfocused as he watched the rainwater snake down the glass, swept aside by the wipers, then fall again, swept aside, then fall again.

The sadness in the car was impossible to measure. Perhaps true pain didn't find its voice in sobbing.