Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 195 FaceOff
It was early morning, and the sky was just beginning to lighten.

The old house in Arlington was converted into a temporary operating room.

A gray plastic sheet was laid on the living room carpet, and several fans were running continuously, driving the pungent smell of paint outdoors.

Ben Stafford was tied to a wooden chair in the corner, with a tattered towel stuffed in his mouth.

He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his armpits and chest soaked with sweat.

My left foot was trembling uncontrollably, whether from fear or from circulatory problems caused by prolonged pressure on my blood vessels.

The man occasionally let out moans, seemingly begging for mercy from the three people in front of him.

However, it was no use.

He could only helplessly watch as the face of that Eastern man was gradually changed, slowly becoming incredibly familiar.

Zhou Yi leaned back in the sofa chair, surrounded by a man and a woman.

He had been sitting there for more than two hours, letting them apply the lotion to his body, until half of his buttocks started to feel numb.

"Where's your boss?" Zhou Yi finally couldn't help but ask.

“Lucas is in Florida,” the woman replied. “He was in Jacksonville this morning and is flying to Miami tonight.”

"How's it going?"

"The draft motion should be completed by tomorrow," she said, using tweezers to pick up a small piece of translucent film and stick it on Zhou Yi's cheekbone.

"Media coverage, governor's signature."

"To become the sixth state after California," the man then added.

"Then?"

“Then, no one can speak on behalf of the Federation anymore,” the woman said casually, as if discussing dinner. “You can also take action now.”

Ben Stafford was still trembling, watching helplessly as his identity was being "stripped away."

He tried to break free, but the plastic cable ties only tightened further.

"Don't look at him." The woman twisted open a small bottle. "Take two deep breaths."

Zhou Yi did as instructed.

The next second—

"Ah!"

He let out a loud sneeze.

A few seconds later, they hit the second and third.

My nasal cavity suddenly felt swollen, my eyes turned red, and my brain felt like it was blocked with cotton.

Zhou Yi sighed.

"I hate allergies."

“Allergies are a good friend of disguise,” the woman explained. “Others won’t suspect why your voice has changed.”

The man picked up the spray gun and continued finishing up.

The woman turned around, picked up two soft, translucent patches from the table, and gently placed them on the back of his hand.

"This area shows the texture of blood vessels, with some raised structures added."

"You have too many calluses on your hands, so you can't make them completely consistent."

She used tweezers to hold down the edges, dipped them in clear adhesive, and applied the silicone to her skin.

Next, I switched to a fine brush and used solvent to soften the edges, making the transition more natural.

The woman stopped what she was doing, took a half step back, and examined her masterpiece.

Overall, it's acceptable.

She nodded, then changed the subject and earnestly instructed, "Remember, don't roll up your sleeves."

"No matter what, don't roll it up."

"Your forearm muscles are too developed; even if you have a patch, it will still be noticeable."

"A man like Stafford has never touched a dumbbell in his entire life."

Only then did Zhou Yi manage to stop the urge to sneeze.

He instinctively reached for the cigarettes in his breast pocket.

However, just as she pulled one out and put it in her mouth, the man next to her snatched it away with lightning speed.

"Don't smoke," he said, stuffing the whole pack of cigarettes and lighter into the toolbox.

"Staff doesn't smoke, and he doesn't even drink alcohol."

“Even though he’s the kind of lonely old man nobody cares about, you can’t take the risk of something like this.”

Zhou Yi didn't answer, but sighed again, which was taken as acknowledgment of his statement.

Time passed by, second by second.

After some time, Zhou Yi still felt bored, so he simply turned his head to look to the right.

A strange face was reflected in the mirror.

Sagging cheekbones, sparse eyebrows, puffy eye bags, and sallow skin.

The waist was stretched two full sizes larger, the front of the shirt was loose, and the shoulders dropped.

He stared at that face for a while, lost in thought.

Suddenly, the woman moved behind them, half-squatted down, and then abruptly asked, "Where were you born?"

“Peoria, Illinois.” Zhou Yi only realized it then.

"Mother?"

"A university professor who passed away in 2003."

"Father?"

"Think tank analyst."

"Undergraduate degree?"

"Purdue University, Control Engineering, minor in Computational Mathematics, enrolled in 1983, graduated early in 1986."

"master?"

"I was hired by the Department of Energy before I finished my studies."

Marital status?

"No history of marriage, no children, and the duration of each relationship does not exceed eight months."

"Eating habits?"

"A sandwich and a latte for lunch. Hot water for black tea at 4 p.m. sharp."

"Political leanings?"

"Non-partisan, never registered to vote."

Have you made any public appearances in the past two years?

"Yes, but they were all closed-door briefings."

"Which kind?"

"For COG units, DOE/NNSA, and DTRA, there will be no live broadcasts or recordings; only the serial numbers will be retained for record-keeping."

The woman wanted to ask more, but the man coughed lightly twice and raised his hand to indicate the time:

"He has fifteen minutes left before he has to go to work."

“Okay.” The woman straightened up.

"You did alright," she said casually.

Zhou Yi nodded and couldn't wait to get up and stretch his shoulders a little.

But before they could fully stretch out, they were quickly forced back into a hunched posture by the corrective belt.

In the corner, Ben Stafford still sat stiffly in that broken wooden chair.

He stared in horror as the other "self" put on a coat, straightened his cuffs, and then picked up the briefcase.

Every detail felt so familiar, yet so jarring.

The depth of his eye bags, the contour of his chin, and even the curve of his brow bone all resembled the face he saw every morning when he looked in the mirror.

But right now, there's no emotion on that face.

The next second, the other person bent down and picked up the pistol from the sofa.

Upon seeing this, Stafford immediately began to struggle violently, causing the entire chair to shake.

He wanted to speak, to shout, to question, but he couldn't utter a single syllable.

He walked over step by step without any hesitation, raising his gun and aiming.

"Don't."

The woman suddenly spoke.

"not now."

Zhou Yi turned to look at her.

"You can't fire yet," the woman said.

"Martial law is now in effect in Washington."

"If you leave with the smell of gunpowder, three rapid response teams can storm into the Department of Energy in no time."

"In that case, all our plans from the past few days will have come to nothing."

Zhou Yi remained silent for a few seconds, then removed the magazine, unloaded the bullets, and handed over the empty pistol.

The woman gave a smile that could be described as gentle.

“Of course,” she said softly, “you don’t need to worry at all.”

"We will handle everything."

“Trust the CIA,” the man added, his tone light and somewhat joking. “We’re always the most professional when it comes to handling these kinds of issues.”

The woman stuffed the pistol into her work case, then seemed to remember her boss's identity, adding, "And they do it even more quietly than the military."

Zhou Yi smiled and said, "See you tonight."

"Go on, Ben." The woman's lips curled up. "Don't be late."

“They really value guys like you who ‘don’t belong to any party.’”

　The film *Face/Off* had a profound impact on the then-young author. Prior to that, his impression of Travolta had been limited to his Pulp Fiction days.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)