Behind him, General McAuff, Director Cliff, and the others also snapped out of their daze at the sight.
They hurriedly put away their weapons and followed the president's example, bowing deeply to Chen Lin with humble postures and earnest words, as though he were not the destroyer who had just turned Washington upside down, but the savior they had long awaited.
Watching this ridiculous, absurd spectacle, Chen Lin's amused smile grew even wider.
He ignored the three generals and directors standing there. Instead, he strolled leisurely over to the president's desk, settled into the leather chair that had belonged to Donald Trump only moments earlier, and crossed his legs.
By turning the tables on his hosts, he instantly became the sole master of this underground command room.
"Oh? Is that so?"
His gaze swept over Donald Trump, whose forehead was beaded with sweat from sheer tension, and he asked mockingly, "Then you won't hold it against me that I killed your younger brother Donald? You're not going to avenge him?"
He had deliberately touched the sorest spot, tearing open Donald Trump's bloody wound before the entire world and subjecting him to the cruelest psychological torment.
"Avenge him?"
Yet Donald Trump reacted as though he had heard the funniest joke of the century. Righteous indignation instantly filled his face, and he even waved an arm in agitation.
"Mr. Chen, you must be joking! That fool Donald used my position to run wild, and he had long since disgraced our family! He was shortsighted and utterly stupid. To think he dared offend a great being like you-he was simply asking to die!"
He paused, his tone turning unbearably sorrowful, as though discussing something that had nothing whatsoever to do with him. "He brought everything upon himself. He deserved to die!"
General McAuff