A Friend

On the Colonel's desk sat a decorative set—a row of suspended little balls that kept knocking into one another through the conversion of kinetic energy and gravitational potential energy. Deathstroke's gaze seemed to have been fixed on them the whole time.

The little balls collided continuously, producing faint clicking sounds like the gears of a clock turning.

The atmosphere in the office had deadlocked because of Howard's earlier remarks. The Colonel's expression looked as though he had eaten shit, his features twisted grotesquely.

His white hair trembled incessantly, as if the suggestion to "call the police" had enraged him so much he was shaking.

Howard, on the other hand, had simply taken a seat on the sofa to one side, propped his legs on the coffee table, and pulled a cigar from his suit to leisurely puff away.

He had gradually figured it out: as long as he stayed at Caspian Camp headquarters, he was safe.

The people who wanted to kill him relied on guns, and SSR had more guns here.

"Colonel, you were looking for me?" The arrival of someone eased the awkward atmosphere. It was a young man in a suit vest beneath a white lab coat. "Ah, Dr. Stark, you're here too."

He had short blond hair, a mustache very similar to Howard's, and an enthusiastic smile on his face.

Before his words had even faded, he pushed open the door and entered, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere. He greeted Howard and happily began chatting with him.

Howard's mustache twitched as he turned his head aside. "Doctor Richards, you really got me into a mess. What exactly was that blood sample you gave me? Assassins are practically waiting to ambush me in my toilet now."

Nathaniel scratched his head and hooked an arm around Stark's shoulders.