Deadbeat

Beta's flight landed at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, but he did not linger. He walked straight out of the terminal and headed to a nearby café that offered paid computer access.

He went up to the counter and said to the clerk in fluent French, "Bonjour, one iced coffee, please. And I'll need a paid computer as well."

Beta carried himself as naturally as a native Parisian. Without even looking up, the clerk casually handed him a magnetic card and an iced coffee.

Just as he turned to leave the counter, the corner of his eye caught a man pushing through the door—thin, exhausted, blond, with a somewhat frail air about him.

Their gazes met briefly in midair.

Beta was certain he had never seen this man before, yet in that instant, he keenly sensed the presence of one of his own kind. Beneath that seemingly harmless, delicate exterior lurked something dangerous, like a blade hidden in velvet.

Beta did not make unnecessary trouble. Carrying his coffee, he went to a computer, swiped the magnetic card to power it on, then sat somewhere unobtrusive that still gave him a view of the entire café.

At that moment, the man carrying the black suitcase also came to this corner.

Their eyes met briefly again. The man gave a slight nod, and Beta returned it with a faint inclination of his head. They understood each other without words: both were in the same line of work, but neither knew the other, and no one had paid either of them to take the other out.

So, with that silent understanding, the man turned and headed for another suitable corner, each of them maintaining a safe distance.

Beta plugged the USB Drive into the computer and watched the progress bar crawl forward.

He casually took out his phone. A message from an unknown number popped up on the screen: [The pizza in Rome isn't as good as what we make ourselves. >->]

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as his fingers tapped the screen: [Tried it once. Strongly agree.]

The progress bar finished loading, and the original operating system was instantly replaced by an unfamiliar interface.

Beta skillfully opened the trading software and typed a concise message into the chat box: Final payment? Please confirm.

A line of fluorescent green text appeared in the chat window, sent by the system operator: Contacting the other party. Please wait.

The design of this communication software was unusual. It was not a real-time chat tool; instead, the operator served as an intermediary to relay messages. Whenever the two parties needed to communicate, the system would establish contact for them.

The greatest advantage of this mechanism was that both sides of the transaction retained perfect anonymity. Neither could trace the other's true identity.

Security was what this line of work valued most.

Beta leaned back in his chair, relaxed, lightly tapping his fingers against the tabletop as he waited for a reply.

His peripheral vision swept over the corner of the café. The man with the black suitcase had placed it by his feet and was likewise staring intently at his computer screen, his long fingers flying over the keyboard.

Second by second, time passed, but there was still no reply from Ashley.

Beta understood. She was most likely busy protecting her employer.

He was a Round Table family member from Rome, one of the supervisors of the Continental Hotel. At that very moment, he was surely in some undercurrent-filled setting.

Beta's acquaintance with Ashley had been nothing short of absurd.

Beta had been hired to assassinate Ashley's employer, while Ashley had been ordered to eliminate Beta, the assassin.

Fate played tricks on them. During their pursuit, they both fell into an ice crevasse. In the extreme cold of dozens of degrees below zero, they were on the verge of becoming two ice sculptures. At death's door, the sworn enemies had no choice but to join forces to survive. They hid in an abandoned wooden cabin and threw everything burnable into the stove—planks, furniture, even clothes.

Just as their body heat was about to run out, a group of backcountry skiers happened to pass by and rescued the two barely conscious people.

Ashley had developed feelings for Beta because, on that snowy night when they were dying in the ruined cabin, Beta stuffed the last piece of chocolate he had dug out from the rubble entirely into her mouth.

But in truth, that had nothing to do with kindness. Beta's calculations had been very practical: if they split the chocolate, half each, they could last a few more hours. The odds of two people surviving were much greater than the odds of one person surviving alone. Yet that woman, with no sense of fair play, had swallowed the entire expired chocolate bar whole.

By a twist of fate, a beautiful misunderstanding was born.

In Ashley's eyes, Beta had given her the last chance at life at the critical moment; the truth was that the man had originally planned to split those pitiful calories evenly.

The absurdity of fate was that these sworn enemies, who should have crossed blades, instead kindled the sparks of love on the edge of death. After they had entwined on the soft bed of a hotel, an assassin and a bodyguard silently forged the most dangerous alliance in the name of love.

There were no romantic confessions, no solemn promises—only two battered souls finding each other's warmth in the darkness.

The computer let out a sharp "Ding!," pulling Beta out of his memories and back to reality.

A line of red text appeared on the black chat interface: FUCK!U!

The message came from Beta's employer, an unseen mysterious figure who had hired him to assassinate that female reporter.

Beta's brows drew together slightly. His fingers paused over the keyboard for a moment before he replied: ?

The other party quickly replied again: FUCKU

The confusion vanished from Beta's face, replaced by a deathly calm, like the stillness before a blizzard. Even his breathing became slow and restrained.

The corner of his mouth did not move in the slightest, not even the faintest twitch. If anyone looked at him now, they would see only an ordinary citizen thinking about something—perhaps considering what to have for lunch, or something else.

Yet deep within those pupils, killing intent surged like a hidden current beneath ice. His gaze slowly swept across the words on the screen, each letter branding a scorching mark upon his retina.

The noise of the café abruptly faded away, and the world was shut outside a transparent film. Beta's right index finger lightly tapped the table.

This was not the first time Beta had encountered an employer trying to skip out on payment, but one who dared to send "FUCK U" so arrogantly while refusing to pay was truly a first.

Beta rubbed the hard stubble on his chin with his thumb, his gaze fixed on that blood-red line of "FUCK U."

After staring at it for more than ten seconds, he forced out an angry, icy sneer through his nose. "Heh!"

There were still fifteen days until May 25.

Before flying to New York, Beta decided to return to London first and personally "visit" that employer he had never met, yet who had dared to insult him.

He briskly pulled out the USB Drive. As he rose, the chair scraped across the floor with a shrill sound.

He was truly angry now.

Another character entered the stage.