American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 129 Unbearable (Two Updates)
A night breeze, carrying damp moisture, gently swept across the riverside walkway. On the river, the lights of the boats swayed in the night, and the shimmering ripples shattered the reflections of the lights into glittering spots.

The manager, with his hands in his trouser pockets, strolled side by side with Medvedeva along the riverside promenade.

Tonight, Medvedeva looked different from usual; she had traded her signature black jacket and cargo pants for a well-fitting black dress.

A silver necklace shimmered around her neck, and the ladies' watch on her wrist reflected the light under the streetlights as she walked. Her long, golden hair, which she always wore tied up, cascaded down her shoulders, swaying gently in the night breeze. At this moment, she didn't resemble the decisive and efficient businesswoman in the office, but rather a gentle and refined lady well-versed in literature.

Along the riverbank, where a gentle night breeze caressed their faces, the two walked silently side by side. They had drunk quite a bit at dinner and were now slightly tipsy, their steps unsteady with the effects of the alcohol.

As they passed a street performer, the saxophone music made the supervisor stop. Medvedeva took a few steps before realizing someone was missing, so she turned back and stood beside the supervisor.

The supervisor shook a cigarette out of the pack, and the metal lighter flickered and a flame shot out. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke swirl in his lungs: "Can you tell what tune this is?"

Medvedeva shook her head.

The supervisor hummed softly along with the saxophone melody: "Some flowers never get to bloom and see the day. Some flowers are content to wish their lives away." His voice was deep and husky, intertwining with the sound of the instruments.

After exhaling a smoke ring, he turned to Medvedeva and said, "This song is called 'This Is Who I Am'."

The supervisor took a few coins from his wallet and put them into the instrument case in front of the street performer. He continued his stroll along the riverbank, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the cigarette butt glowing intermittently in the night, with Medvedeva following beside him.

“My code name is ‘Tomato Sauce’,” the supervisor said, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the night breeze. “Compared to your code name, ‘Traveler,’ doesn’t it seem particularly ridiculous?”

Medvedeva remained silent, only slightly turning her head to indicate that she was listening attentively.

The supervisor's voice mingled with the night wind: "That undercover operation aimed to infiltrate enemy research institutions long-term."

He flicked his cigarette ash: "She and I pretended to be Estonian exchange students, spending our days and nights together on enemy soil."

Smoke swirled between his fingers: "The intelligence came more smoothly than expected; we always managed to obtain crucial information. As our time undercover went on, we fell in love on enemy territory."

The supervisor's fingertips trembled slightly, and cigarette ash drifted onto the walkway.

“That was in 1990. I was 20 and she was 19. We had been undergoing rigorous spy training since we were 15, including a compulsory course called ‘emotional control.’ It taught us how to cultivate emotions, how to perform perfectly, and, more importantly, how to suppress real emotions.”

Ironically, we both got A's in this course, the highest grade of 'Amazing'. But the two of us with the best grades ended up living like an ordinary couple in enemy territory for fifteen years, pretending to be lovers.

The night wind swirled the smoke he exhaled: "In 2005, we even had our own child. In these fifteen years, we have witnessed too many historical moments and turned our lives into a part of history."

Medea saw the supervisor's Adam's apple bob, and the glow of his cigarette flickered in the night.

“We were still exposed by accident.” His voice was hoarse. “Given the value of the intelligence we provided, MI6 initiated emergency evacuation procedures and dispatched a special operations team.”

The supervisor took a deep drag on his cigarette, the butt suddenly glowing brightly. "The head of Special Operations at the time was Moore, the one sitting in the Director's office now." "The operation was half successful, because I'm standing here now, and she's gone forever." The supervisor looked at Meva. "And you, Meva Lake? Would you like to share your story with me?"

As Medvedeva stared at her supervisor's face, countless memories flashed uncontrollably through her mind.

The carefree joy of childhood, excellent grades leading to university admission, being secretly recruited by MI6, joining the army to receive assassination training, being jokingly called "Mushroom" by teammates, then leaving the army to carry out missions, assassinations, evacuations, infiltration... all sorts of past experiences come rushing back.

She turned her face away, her fingers gripping the cold river railing tightly. The most painful memories suddenly assaulted her mind and heart.

Exposure, arrest, and then endless darkness.

The cold, damp water cell, heavy iron chains around her wrists and ankles. Disheveled men moved in and out of the cell like a revolving lantern. Inhuman torture, strange hands roughly caressed and pressed against her skin, inflicting every imaginable atrocity upon her. She collapsed to the ground, her vision filled only with those demonic, grotesque smiling faces.

Then came gunshots, shouts, and chaotic footsteps. The stretcher swayed violently, the transport plane roared, and the hospital ceiling was blindingly white. And then there was the medical report: hysterectomy. A complete emotional collapse; once close family members drifted further and further away.

All of this flashed wildly through her mind, colliding violently, and a strong feeling of nausea surged up her throat.

Medvedeva gagged, gripping the railing tightly with both hands, curled up against it. She gagged violently twice, a few mouthfuls of bile spilling from the corners of her mouth, then with a loud "whoosh," she vomited up her stomach, emptying it completely. Her body trembled uncontrollably, and she used all her strength to tense her legs, barely managing to maintain her posture and prevent herself from collapsing into the sour, foul-smelling vomit.

A pair of strong hands firmly supported her arms, lifted her up, and carried her away from the messy ground.

The supervisor asked, "Do we need to go to the hospital?"

Medvedeva didn't look up, but instead turned her face away forcefully, avoiding his gaze. Her eyes were fixed on the shimmering river, her voice trembling: "No, no need. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm really sorry."

She broke free from her supervisor's hand and staggered to grab the railing. At first, she walked unsteadily, as if she might fall at any moment.

But when the supervisor stepped forward again to help her up, her steps suddenly became firm. Her hand holding the railing gradually loosened, her pace quickened, and finally she completely shook off the railing, walking away quickly under the dim streetlights and soon disappearing into the night.

The supervisor stood blankly under the streetlight, watching Medvedeva's figure disappear completely from sight. He stood there for a good half minute.

Medvedeva did not return.

The manager's bewildered expression vanished instantly, replaced by a sinister smile.

He let out a soft, short, and clear hum through his nose: "Ha!"

He received an A in his required course on "emotional control".

This A not only stands for "Amazing," but also symbolizes an amazing and perfect performance. He was the only student in the entire 89 graduating class of the secret service to receive this honor—a truly unique A-grade student.

(End of this chapter)