Truth?

London, MI6.

The Mei Wa team's pursuit finally yielded a breakthrough.

Following the trail of an antique Mauser rifle, they tracked down a private collector. Under the guidance of a profiler, the collector provided a detailed description of the buyer's appearance, forming a precise sketch of the suspect.

Mei Wa stood with her arms crossed in front of the intelligence wall, her gaze sweeping over the dense case files. The entire wall was divided into several sections, each case accompanied by a corresponding suspect profile.

In the case of the murdered American businessman, surveillance captured an old man with graying hair; in the antique firearms transaction, the buyer had disguised himself as an Irish gentleman and then as a Swedish military historian; in the Eliot Financial Company theft, surveillance had caught the likeness of a wanted criminal.

Each portrait was vastly different: hair color, eye color, height, build, even vocal patterns. Beta was like a man of a thousand faces, wearing a flawless mask every time he appeared in public.

Mei Wa's eyes darted back and forth between the portraits on the wall, her brow furrowing into a tight knot.

The starkly different faces seemed to mock MI6's intelligence network.

She sat in her swivel chair, burying her face deep between her arms. The coffee on her desk had long gone cold, condensation dripping down the sides of the mug onto the mountain of files.

This was the most difficult situation in intelligence work; all the information they had on Beta was useless. Every "true likeness" drawn by the profiling team based on behavioral traits and psychological analysis had ultimately proven to be merely "possibly so."

That phantom-like killer, appearing each time with a flawless new identity, even mimicking the subtlest muscle memory and micro-expressions seamlessly.

Mei Wa looked up, her eyes bloodshot.

The portraits on the wall glowed white under the fluorescent lights, their false faces seeming to say in unison: You'll never catch me.

Mei Wa's slender fingers tapped lightly on the desk, posing a question: "Why do you think Eliot dared to default on the payment?"

Her deputy put down his coffee cup, the ceramic clinking crisply against the glass tabletop. "Perhaps. The Chief Superintendent's son believes a mere killer is beneath him?"

He shrugged. "After all, his father controls the entire London police force, so he thinks the killer wouldn't dare do anything to him?"

Mei Wa slowly shook her head, her fingertips tracing a water mark on the desk with condensation from the coffee cup. "Too far-fetched."

She stood up and walked to the window, the London rain streaking down the glass. "A Chief Superintendent's son, would he be foolish enough to gamble his life on such a reason?"

The reflection of the rain cast dappled shadows on her face. "Unless. He's certain that killer will never come to collect."

Doyle's gaze swept across the computer screen, the blue light of the bank records flickering in his pupils.

He snatched up his phone, his fingers nearly crushing the buttons as he dialed a number.

"Tell me," his voice was a growl from between his teeth. "When did you transfer the final payment to Eliot's account?"

The cold light of the computer screen reflected on his ashen face. "Did you explicitly tell Eliot that the killer's final payment hadn't been settled? Did you assure him that you could deal with the killer?"

A suffocating silence came from the earpiece. The second hand on the office clock ticked past a full minute, the call was suddenly hung up, leaving only the frantic dial tone echoing in the empty office.

Doyle stared at the darkened phone screen, the truth churning in his gut like a venomous snake.

With a dull thud, the phone hit the solid wood desk, leaving a crack and making the pens and folders jump.

He looked back at the screen. The raw bank data, accessed through special privileges, now seemed to mock his stupidity. Every line of transaction records proved that someone had meticulously planned this misunderstanding.

Doyle's fingers trembled as he pressed the redial button. The call was answered almost instantly.

He suppressed the rage churning in his chest. "What the hell do you want?! Why did you drag my son into this?! Are you declaring war on me?!"

A long silence stretched from the earpiece, so long Doyle thought they had hung up.

A voice slowly spoke, "Doyle, you personally brought that female reporter into your bed. You couldn't control your mouth and leaked secrets you shouldn't have. You let us leak the list, causing immeasurable losses."

"Doyle, did you really think a mere female reporter had the power to expose us on a TV show? You're dumber than I thought. She was just the vanguard of our rivals."

"You can't even imagine how much core interest we gave up to cover the hole your leak created. The nomination rights for three key positions, controlling stakes in five overseas assets, and the handover of the entire Eastern European intelligence network – these should have all been ours!"

"And you? You're just a useless piece of trash who can't control his lower half! When we executed that female reporter and started damage control, who do you think should be held accountable? Us?"

"Your son is just the beginning. We will slowly collect, until every bone of yours pays for our losses!"

Doyle's voice exploded in the office. "Go to hell!"

The veins in his forehead bulged. "You bloodsuckers parasitic on the nation's lifeline!"

Spittle flew onto the documents on his desk. "When I was serving the country, you were still counting dirty money in the gutters!"

"You want war?" Doyle loosened his tie. "Then bring it on!"

He roared into the microphone, enunciating each word: "Let's see who gets hanged on the flagpole in Parliament Square first!"

The phone was smashed violently against the wall, shattering into pieces with a loud bang. Amidst the flying plastic shards, Doyle gasped for breath.

Outside, London's night sky was being swallowed by dark clouds, the muffled rumble of thunder faintly audible in the distance. The rain intensified, the drops hitting the glass like a dense war drum.

Doyle's thoughts churned like a stormy sea.

His son, not brilliant but by no means stupid, had been meticulously set up by those people as the killer's prey over a small final payment.

How ironic. They had coaxed Eliot with sweet talk, claiming they would deal with the killer, yet deliberately concealed the outstanding final payment. Thus, a carefully woven lie, a deliberately manufactured "misunderstanding," had made his son's life a sacrifice in this conspiracy.

And the source of it all was that damned female reporter.

Doyle remembered that night, remembered the Whiskey, remembered the woman's soft body and sweet smile. It was a meticulously designed trap, and he had walked right into it like a foolish donkey.

Now, retribution had arrived. Not for him, but for his only flesh and blood.

Doyle let out a beast-like roar, sweeping the files on his desk to the floor.

Many readers have asked why Eliot defaulted. This explains the reason. But is it really just that? Impossible. There are many ways to play the political game.