Departure

Doyle's gaze swept past the window, and when he turned back, his face had regained its composure.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Speak," came a low male voice from the other end of the line.

Doyle stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the ant-like crawl of traffic. "My son was killed by assassins you hired. MI6 is investigating. I don't understand, why would my son die at the hands of the same person as that bitch?"

"The balance of payment for the assassin is still in your son's account," the other party said. "Think about it, what would an assassin whose payment is overdue do? You should think about why your son owed an assassin the final payment."

Doyle's expression soured.

"The one named Mei Wa wants to investigate the flow of funds," the call continued. "We're preparing to destroy all records and make the case a dead end. Your opinion?"

Doyle stared at the matchbox-sized vehicles below, his voice hoarse. "Keep the original records, then forge more evidence. Make people believe Eliot was blackmailed by that woman, hired an assassin, and then tried to renege on the payment, only to be killed by the assassin himself. The entire matter must be completely severed from us."

"We will compensate you," the other party's tone softened. "You lost a son, and you will receive an equivalent reward."

Doyle silently gazed at the rolling dark clouds on the horizon.

"Good," he said, hanging up the phone.

Raindrops began to tap on the glass, quickly forming a downpour.

Doyle's reflection merged with the dark clouds on the window.

Raindrops hammered the black umbrella surface, making dull thuds.

Beta was the last person to remain at Helen's grave.

The white marble tombstone, shaped like a sunflower, was as good as new, with no extra embellishments. Only raindrops splattered on the petal-like stone surface, making crisp "patter" sounds.

Helen's photo was embedded on the base, below which were engraved her name, birth and death dates, and a short epitaph:

I deeply love my husband and son—this was her final message to the world.

Beta closed his black umbrella and tilted his face up to face the pouring rain. The rain instantly soaked him, yet he stood unmoving like a sculpture, eyes closed, enduring the baptism of the rain.

Rainwater snaked down the car windows, blurring the outside scenery. Silence filled the car, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of the wipers.

Matilda, leaning by the window, let out a breath that fogged the glass. "He'll get sick."

In the passenger seat, Leon's eyes were still red. The usually stern assassin rarely showed such vulnerability.

He blew his stuffy nose and said in a low voice, "Let him stay for a while."

John, in the driver's seat, rested his hands on the steering wheel, his gaze never leaving Beta. He pursed his lips, maintaining a sculptural silence.

Raindrops hit Beta's face, initially a faint sting, gradually turning into a numb ache. The dense curtain of rain seemed to swallow him, making even breathing difficult.

He slowly lowered his head, water droplets rolling down his taut jawline.

With a "bang," the black umbrella opened again, shielding him from the downpour. Beta cast one last glance at the sunflower tombstone before turning towards the Cadillac.

The car door was yanked open, and the soaked umbrella was tossed aside carelessly. When the door slammed shut with a "bang," puddles had already formed on the leather seats from the water dripping off him.

Matilda silently offered him tissues. Beta took them but didn't wipe himself. Instead, he gently brushed away raindrops clinging to the girl's hair.

"Let's have dinner at home," Beta's voice was calm. "There's still the steak and vegetables Helen bought in the fridge, and a whole tub of Häagen-Dazs."

His tone was as casual as if he were discussing the rain outside.

Leon's eyes reddened again. He turned his face away, directing his gaze to the blurred rainy scene outside the window.

"That's fine too," John's tone was as calm as Beta's. "If we leave it any longer, it won't be fresh."

The Cadillac slowly started, its tires crushing puddles with a dull splash. The car bumped along the gravel path, passing through the rusty tomb gate, leaving the white marble sunflower behind forever in the torrential rain.

The Cadillac slowly drove into the sky-blue villa's garage. The electric roller door emitted a low hum, finally sealing shut with a "click."

Beta was the first to get out of the car. His soaked clothes left wet trails on the floor as he went straight upstairs.

John locked the car and walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator.

Under the refrigerator light, Helen's purchased ingredients were neatly arranged: prime steaks, shrimp, fish, seasonal vegetables. And the unopened tub of Häagen-Dazs.

Leon sat at the counter, arranging the ingredients one by one. Matilda quietly held his trembling fingers.

"I'll cook the steak," John said, opening the vacuum-sealed package. "It definitely won't be as good as Helen's."

Leon's reddened eyes trembled slightly, and he nodded in silence.

Footsteps sounded from the stairs.

Beta, dressed in a linen-grey shirt, casual shorts, and slippers, walked downstairs.

He picked up the tub of Häagen-Dazs, the silver ice cream scoop flashing coldly under the light. He scooped several round balls, placing them into a whiskey glass and handing it to Matilda, then inserted a delicate coffee spoon. "Ice cream on a rainy day has a special flavor."

He did the same for another glass and pushed it in front of Leon. "Sweets can make people feel better."

Matilda took small sips of her ice cream, her eyes secretly following Beta's movements.

Beta scooped a large, irregular chunk of ice cream and plopped it into Helen's favorite glass bowl. He grabbed a soup spoon and shoveled a large mouthful in, immediately smearing white ice cream around his mouth.

In the kitchen, John was frying steak in butter. The oil sizzled in the pan, and the aroma gradually filled the air.

Beta swallowed large mouthfuls, finishing the entire bowl of ice cream in moments. He stood there, dazed for a few seconds, looking at the glass bowl, then silently washed the bowl and spoon, and meticulously put them back in their place.

Matilda keenly sensed the strangeness permeating the room; beneath her seemingly calm actions, turbulent emotions were suppressed. This understanding young girl could always perceive the ripples in others' hearts.

In the frying pan, John flipped the steak.

The originally tender steak was now burnt black on both sides. He stared at the failed steak for a moment in silence, finally plating it, and then silently put in a new one.

This dinner could hardly be called delicious: four steaks, either dry as wood or burnt to a crisp, a bowl of vegetables blanched in plain water and haphazardly mixed with salad dressing, and a few casually cut fruits.

The steak John had burnt black lay on his plate.

The others' weren't much better; their knives moved across the meat, but it was like cutting through stubborn rubber.