American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 140 New Events
British MI6 headquarters
In the glass office at the end of the corridor, Medea was buried in piles of documents. Since Bianca's death in the line of duty, her team had been completely disbanded, and the remaining six agents—two analysts, three field agents, and one technical support—were all crammed into her office, waiting for the final handover signatures.

The manager's leather shoes tapped on the marble floor. He stopped outside Medvedeva's glass office, bent his knuckles and tapped the glass three times, the crisp sound drawing everyone's attention.

Medvedeva's pen stopped on the paper. After looking up and seeing who it was, her expression stiffened, and she quickly lowered her head again.

The agents who had been talking in hushed tones in the office immediately fell silent, picking up their folders one by one and filing out. The technician who left last quietly closed the door, leaving the two senior executives alone.

Outside the glass wall, the six detectives tacitly dispersed to nearby workstations, but all of them slowed down their movements. Everyone knew that the supervisor coming to talk to the temporary person in charge was definitely not a routine matter.

The supervisor gently closed the glass door, the metal frame making a soft clicking sound.

He walked slowly to Medvedeva's desk and saw that the female agent was keeping her head down, mechanically tracing lines on the documents with her pen, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.

The supervisor slightly turned his head, glancing out of the glass wall. The agents immediately withdrew their curious gazes, pretending to be engrossed in their computer screens.

He then sat down in the leather chair opposite Medvedeva.

“I apologize for my rudeness a few days ago.” The supervisor’s voice was low and sincere: “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had been through those things.”

The pen nib paused on the paper, spreading a small patch of ink.

Medvedeva looked up abruptly, a flash of shame and indignation in her eyes: "What is it? You checked my file?"

Her voice unconsciously rose a few decibels, her knuckles turning white from gripping the pen so tightly. Those records, sealed away in the file folders, were the painful memories she least wanted to revisit.

The air conditioner in the office was humming softly, while the sound of keyboard tapping outside the glass wall suddenly became more frequent.

The supervisor met Medvedeva's gaze calmly: "I just want to know where I went wrong so I can apologize to you."

"Snapped!"

The pen was slammed heavily onto the solid wood table, ink splattering onto the documents. Medvedeva abruptly stood up, bracing herself on the table with both hands.

"So you just openly went through my file?" Her voice began to tremble. "Looking at all the humiliation and suffering I've endured?"

Her eyes reddened, but she stubbornly refused to let the tears fall: "Were you excited when you looked at those records? Did you think, 'Ah, so this is the kind of woman Medea Lake'?"

Her voice grew increasingly shrill, as if she were about to unleash years of pent-up anger: "Locked in a water dungeon like a dog, subjected to all sorts of unimaginable torture."

Her nails dug deeply into her palms: "When you see these, aren't you happy? Ha!"

Outside the glass wall, none of the agents pretending to work dared to look up.

The supervisor remained seated calmly, but his eyes gradually darkened. Only Medvedeva's rapid breathing filled the office.

The supervisor's gaze slowly swept across the office area outside the glass wall.

At first, the agents who were pretending to be focused on their work stood frozen in place, at a loss. Then one of the older agents, Watson, with fifteen years of experience, suddenly closed his laptop, got up casually, and walked to the break room.

This action is like pressing an invisible switch.

The other agents, as if waking from a dream, followed suit. Some suddenly remembered the "important phone call" and hurried away, some pretended to go to the archives to check documents, and others simply grabbed their coats and claimed they were going on a field mission.

In less than thirty seconds, the entire open office area became empty, with only a few unlocked computers still lit up.

Inside the glass wall, the supervisor remained seated upright. "Now," the supervisor's voice was so soft it was almost a soliloquy, "we can have a proper talk." His gaze fell on Medusa's trembling fingertips, still stained with the ink that had just been spilled.

Medvedeva's eyelashes trembled slightly, and two teardrops escaped from her eyes, falling heavily onto the ink stains on the document, spreading the black ink into two dark flowers.

"What are you talking about?" She raised her hand to wipe her eyes, her knuckles leaving a faint ink mark on her cheek.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, yet she stubbornly kept her jaw clenched, maintaining a cold, expressionless face. This woman, known for her iron will, only allowed herself to shed these two tears.

The supervisor's gaze fell on her slightly trembling fingertips: "When I saw your file..."

His voice was low and restrained: "I had no other thoughts. I only saw the pain and helplessness you were going through."

He paused for a second: "And the loneliness of these years."

Medvedeva slowly sat back in the leather seat, the backrest making a slight creaking sound.

"So?" She raised her chin, a sarcastic smile playing on her lips. "Hmm?"

Outside the office, someone's coffee machine suddenly started up, emitting a buzzing vibration. At that moment, a flurry of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Young analyst Thompson rushed out from around the corner in a fluster, his face flushed, and stopped the coffee machine that had suddenly started. He then disappeared into the end of the corridor like a rabbit.

The steam from the coffee machine stopped abruptly, and the office fell silent once more.

The supervisor looked away, his fingertips lightly tapping his knee: "So I was thinking."

His voice was a little softer than before: "With my current qualifications and position, I should be able to protect you better."

He leaned forward slightly: "I just want to say sorry, and I hope we can put aside the unpleasantness of the past few days."

The manager unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a sincere expression: "Perhaps we can get to know each other again?"

The only sound in the office was the ticking of the wall clock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Medvedeva stared coldly at her supervisor. For a full three minutes, the only sound in the office was the ticking of the wall clock.

The supervisor's gaze remained unwaveringly sincere until Medvedeva finally looked away and lowered her head to look at the ink-stained documents on the table.

"You're at work," she said, her voice deliberately calm. "You chased everyone away from the entire office just to talk about this?"

She bent down to pick up the broken pen from the ground, trying to straighten the deformed nib with her fingers.

The supervisor suddenly reached out, his warm palm gently enveloping her cold fingers, and took the pen. That instantaneous touch caused Medvedeva's fingers to curl slightly.

“Of course not.” His voice was soft, but every word was clear: “There has been a new development in the assassination attempt on the US presidential candidate.”

Medvedeva looked up abruptly: "β?"

Snapped!Snapped!
The supervisor used the bottom of the ink bottle to neatly tap the deformed pen nib straight, but the nib was already completely damaged, and ink was seeping out from the crack.

He gently placed the pen back on the table: "This pen is no longer usable."

“I’m going to America. Jackal will be going too.” He pulled out a tissue and slowly wiped his ink-stained fingers. “I’ll take this opportunity to turn Jackal and Beta into one person, to give Moore an explanation first.”

(End of this chapter)