Chapter 78 Chapter 78 So this is the famous Yi...
I won't elaborate on the "magic cards" Elio received. Overall, he successfully explained them, but also successfully was dismissed as a lunatic. But after Solomon Lane, the Syndicate leader, allowed him to kill a guard worthy of the silver card; after the assassin tossed the card in a bloody silence, and everyone present clearly saw the beautiful silver-white stars rise from the blood...
No one dares to use the word "madman" anymore.
They only dare to hide this kind of evaluation in their averted eyes.
It's not just because of Solomon's obvious preference for this young man, but also because...
"That wasn't even a fight," the sympathetic members murmured. "Believe it or not, my friend's friend was there."
"What else could it be?" another member said disdainfully. "Don't forget, we're all former operatives, and so is that guy. There's no way we can't defeat that kid who just showed up out of nowhere."
"If you look down on this new guy from a different background, you're in trouble, idiot." The member put the empty bottle of wine on the table. "Because in my opinion, it was an overwhelming massacre."
The other members were silent for a few seconds. "But you just said it was your friend's friend who was there."
The drinking group was silent for a moment. "That's what I just said."
"So you weren't there," another member said.
"Of course I wasn't there," the drinking member said. "No, man, what's your point?"
“I’m just saying, if you weren’t there, you can’t say ‘in my opinion’…”
It sounded like they weren't going to say anything useful. Ilsa Foster rolled her eyes silently, turned around and left the tea room door with her coffee cup in hand.
As a British MI6 agent newly assigned to infiltrate the Syndicate, she knew little about the terrorist organization, knowing only that it was a criminal organization comprised of retired operatives from around the globe, dedicated to conducting covert operations worldwide. Perhaps because of their shared MI6 background, or perhaps because of her exceptional personal abilities (Ilsa preferred this), Solomon Lane showed her considerable appreciation, even generosity.
But of course, her boss Atri also treats her so "kindly" when he can use her.
At this thought, a mocking smile played at the corners of Ilsa's lips. As she passed other hurried members in the hallway, Ilsa's expression transitioned perfectly into a friendly greeting; the hint of sarcasm quickly vanished like a sugar cube melting in dark coffee. With a smile on her face, she gracefully walked further down the hallway.
This afternoon, Ilsa's assignment from Solomon was to interrogate Ethan Hunt.
·
"Who is Ethan Hunt?" Elio asked casually.
He honestly had no idea who this was. But his question immediately sparked a flurry of questions, as if he really should know who it was. Comments like, "He's a legend among spies," "Nonsense, he just got lucky," and "Who can save the world with luck? Can you?" The flurry of explanations left Elio bewildered. It wasn't until Vint, with his buzz cut, started laughing that the argument, which had threatened to turn into a feud, finally stopped.
"He's an American agent." Wente waved his hand, and the others immediately picked up his backpack. "He's a member of the IMF, that's what."
The backpack clanked, sounding quite substantial. Elio glanced over and pressed on. "That's it? But what does IMF stand for?"
"Are you curious, boy?" said Vent.
He turned his head. The others scratched their heads, patted their pockets, and avoided his gaze. Only Elio looked him in the eye. "Don't call me 'boy,' Vent. I have a name."
Vent stared back at him. Silence reigned, no one speaking. Just as the atmosphere was about to become tense, Vent suddenly laughed. The others followed suit, and somehow the laughter became a sea of laughter. Only Elio remained expressionless, his face stern.
"I heard what you did the other day, 'Elio.'" Vent clapped him hard on the back. "You did it beautifully, I'd say. Too beautifully."
Elio almost lost his balance. His back was aching slightly from being slapped, but he pretended it wasn't a problem and just looked at Wente, who was pretending to be friendly, expressionlessly. "Really?"
"Yeah. That's so French," Vent said. "I'll admit you're good with knives, but you can't just be good at fine work. One day you'll find yourself doing some rough manual labor, and then? That's when you need a hammer."
He tilted his head meaningfully, motioning Elio to follow. They walked through the gray-walled corridor, the cold white light illuminating the black uniforms of the agents, until they stopped in front of two guarded iron doors.
"It's like interrogating a criminal," said Wendt.
He whistled frivolously. The guard opened the door and ushered them into the dark interrogation room. A few dim yellow lights barely illuminated the corners of the brick wall. A short-haired man, stripped to the waist, was tied to an iron bar in the center, staring at the group of people in surprise.
But another female voice asked the question first, "What are you doing here?"
Having locked the door, Vent didn't answer her question. He walked over to Ethan and regarded him thoughtfully. The people brought in by the buzzcut agent dispersed, moving to different corners of the room and dropping Vent's tool kit on the table. Only Elio glanced over, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"What are you guys doing here?"
She emerged from the darkness. Like her voice, her face was softly contoured, framed by long, rosy brown hair. As she spoke, her brows gently, elegantly raised the wrinkles on her forehead. But that wasn't the main reason Elio stared at her in a daze. It wasn't her classical Greek-god-like beauty, the kind that seemed so natural even in her black casual clothes, devoid of any makeup. Deep down, Elio felt she looked familiar, but he couldn't place who she was.
Perhaps noticing that Elio was staring at her in a daze, she turned her eyes and gave him a meaningful look.
"Interrogating the prisoner?" Elio came back to his senses and scratched his face awkwardly. "You are?"
"Ilsa." She turned her head. "Our orders were to talk to him, not kill him."
"Don't bother. Hunter's a warrior," said Vent, already drawing his hammer. "That's the only way you can talk to a warrior. Learn, Elio. You won't see prisoners this tough every day."
"I know how to beat a guy up." Elio frowned.
"Yes. You know how to kill people." Vent arranged the iron tools he could use on the table. "But you don't know how to torture people."
"Why should I know this?"
Elio walked towards the captive who was tied there. His hands were tied there, high above his head, and his ankles were also tied with chains; from Elio's perspective, this was not very safe. He could even see the agent's thumb struggling as little as possible, trying to break it off to survive.
But of course, Elio pretended not to notice. An agent who had saved the world shouldn't be treated like this. So when the agent followed his gaze, glancing upward, his expression stiffening, Elio simply leaned in closer, pretending to be oblivious, and asked, "So, this is the famous Ethan Hunt?"
The agent looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "I wish I wasn't. But thanks anyway."
"I'm not complimenting you."
"I'm flattered."
"Stand back, Elio." Vent interrupted their conversation. "Or do you want to play with him first?"
Despite this, Vent clearly had no intention of letting Ethan go. He licked his middle finger, removed a crude ring dangling from it, and tucked it into his pocket. Vent, known as the "orthopedic surgeon," picked up his hammer, walked over to Elio and Ethan, and gestured to them.
It seemed like another argument was about to break out. Everyone else was focused on Ethan and the two people around him; no one noticed Ilsa quietly take the keys from the table. She waited. Only Ethan saw her actions from across from him, his brow furrowed in confusion.
But neither Elio nor Vent noticed. Elio grunted, lifted a corner of his jacket, pinched out the corner of a card from his pocket, and gestured to Vent.
Golden.
"I need Ethan Hunt to break this card for me," Elio said. He quickly shoved the card back into his pocket, careful not to reveal any more information. But it was enough for Vent to make his own connection. He clapped his hammer in confusion, glancing from Ethan to Elio.
"He's Gold level? Seriously?"
Elio shrugged, "That's what the cards say."
"So what level am I?" Wente said.
Elio glanced at him, his expression a bit like hesitantly wanting to say something, a bit like, "There's nothing we can do about this." Ethan, though he didn't understand what they were discussing, followed Elio's lead and tilted his head at Vent. Realizing that further questioning would only embarrass him, Vent sneered in response and delivered an uppercut to Ethan's face.
"I really want to know what's so special about you." Wente said while pinching Ethan's face.
"You're the 'special one,' Vent." Ethan breathed, "Because officially, you were declared dead three years ago. But apparently, you're still alive and well, just like all the other dismissed agents here."
"Oh no," Vent laughed. "We're not special at all. You're the only one who's been kicked out so many times and still alive, even working for the authorities, Ethan Hunt."
The room erupted in laughter.
"Well, let's see how tough you are." Vent had laughed enough. "You're going to kill him, right, Elio? I'll save the finishing blow for you. Don't worry about your little card game."
But Elio coughed.
"Actually," he said, crossing his arms, "that's not a kill card."
Wente, who was about to continue beating Ethan, froze for a moment. He glanced at the clueless Ethan who was tied up, then at Elio who raised an eyebrow at him. "Seriously? You like this?"
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