New York

On the 25th, while MI6 agents far away in Britain were fruitlessly searching the forest for mosquitoes, trying to extract DNA samples of "Beta," Beta had already returned to New York, the city he called home.

At the exit of New York International Airport, Beta was dressed inconspicuously, a light blue custom shirt paired with a well-tailored dress pants, his handmade leather shoes gleaming with a warm luster. This casual ensemble exuded refinement, perfectly embodying the image of a low-key, wealthy young man.

Standing beside him, Matilda maintained her distinct personal style: sneakers, shorts with a T-shirt, and a light jacket, her short socks neatly tucked at her ankles.

The stubborn girl consistently refused to change her dressing style, even after Beta bought her a whole new wardrobe. She insisted on this "easy to move in" attire, which, in her own words, was practical for running and jumping anytime.

Beta leaned against the railing, his gaze behind sunglasses sweeping over the endless stream of cars in the passenger pickup area. The black Ford Mustang, familiar to him, had yet to appear in his sight.

Bored, Matilda scuffed the sole of her shoe against a patch of leftover bubble gum on the ground, inadvertently sticking the gooey mess firmly to her shoe. She wrinkled her nose and rubbed the sole against the metal railing back and forth until the stubborn gum was completely scraped off.

This restless girl was like an over-energized cat. As soon as she resolved the trouble with her shoe, she immediately started fiddling with the stickers on her suitcase.

Discovering that the plastic luggage tag was difficult to peel off, she stubbornly picked and pried at it with her fingernails. With great effort, she managed to create a small gap at the edge and then eagerly grabbed the torn edge, pulling with all her might.

Beta watched Matilda's antics, his mood pleasant. Having a lively child around certainly added a lot of fun.

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

Beta recognized the car at a glance; it was the vehicle he had purchased and left in New York.

The car window silently rolled down, revealing the stern-faced middle-aged man in the driver's seat: messy beard, hair down to his ears, and eyes that always held a hint of exhaustion.

John Wick, a name that symbolized legend in the Continental Hotel. "Night Demon," "Baba Yaga" – these terrifying titles all belonged to him. But at this moment, he was just an ordinary father who had just lost his beloved wife.

Beta and John's eyes met.

Beta had so many questions. Was Helen still suffering from illness when she left? Did she leave any last words for him? How did Helen endure during this time? Countless questions churned in his heart, but ultimately, they dissolved into a silent gaze.

After a long stare, John Wick slowly nodded, a low "Yeah" escaping his throat.

"Just 'Yeah'?" Beta's voice held disbelief. "We haven't seen each other for a whole year, and this is all you have to say upon reuniting?"

Matilda stood on tiptoe, her hands gripping the edge of the car window, curiously observing John Wick. "Hello, Mr. John."

Unlike his stiffness when talking to Beta earlier, John's expression softened considerably.

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

Beta opened the trunk and put their luggage in, then got into the passenger seat. Matilda slipped into the back seat. After curiously examining the luxurious interior, she soon took out her phone and started playing with it.

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

The black Escalade smoothly merged onto the highway, and a brief silence fell over the cabin. Only the faint sound of Matilda's phone video and the rustling of tires on the road mingled together.

Beta was silent for a moment, then asked, "Did Helen leave any message for me?"

John gripped the steering wheel. "A lot."

His voice was low and restrained. "In her final days, she held the DV player almost all day. She recorded many, many things she wanted to say."

Beta turned his face to look out the window. "A lot? All for me? You must have had quite a bit left for you too, right?"

John's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "A lot. Both you and I have a lot."

Beta suppressed the emotions surging in his chest with a few deep breaths, his nose twitching rapidly.

"Was she in pain during her final days?" Beta asked softly.

John shook his head. "No pain. The doctors, out of humanitarian consideration, no longer restricted Helen's pain medication dosage. During that last period, she actually had more energy than before."

"Did you choose a tombstone she liked? She said long ago she wanted one shaped like a sunflower," Beta asked.

"I did," John replied softly. "A white marble one. She said it was the flower I gave her that would never wither."

A barely audible sob echoed in the car. Beta looked around, but it wasn't Matilda; the child had no connection to Helen and naturally wouldn't cry over this.

It was Leon. He turned his face towards the window, his shoulders heaving silently, even his crying was restrained to the point of being almost silent. This usually expressionless killer was now weeping for his sister, Helen. It turned out that no matter how cold-blooded a person was, their heart was still made of flesh and blood; it was just that their actions often concealed their inner selves.

Beta handed him a tissue. "Of the three men, one is allowed to break down. The other two still have to hold on. Cry, no one will laugh at you here."

Leon covered his face, tears streaming down uncontrollably. Matilda gently took his hand, offering silent comfort.

Beta watched the scene unfold and said in a low voice, "Actually, I want to cry too, but I can probably only squeeze out two drops of tears. I'm grateful for Helen's care, and I miss her, but I just can't cry. What about you, John?"

He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I imagine you can't either. We're both sick. When people close to us leave, we can't even shed a single tear."

John did not answer.

The Escalade weaved through traffic, overtaking cars with agility.

Suddenly, the first raindrop appeared on the windshield, followed by a second, then a third. In an instant, the entire world was drowned in the sound of rain. The windshield wipers moved mechanically, from left to right, then right to left, emitting a "swish-swish" sound. The friction between rubber and glass was particularly clear in the silent cabin.

Beta's gaze unfocused, watching the raindrops meander down the glass, pushed away by the wipers, then falling again, pushed away, falling.

The sorrow within the car was immeasurable. Perhaps true pain is not expressed through the sound of crying.