Eh? You want to try the humanoid girl's iron fist too?

"Bankers still have some value, secretaries don't."

Adrian's gaze fell out the window; the dark forest looked like a bottomless pit.

"clear."

"Scientists...scientists...people obsessed with the foolish notion of reason. When a bullet pierces your skull, does 'why' still matter?"

His voice carried a hint of sarcasm, as if he were cursing someone, or talking to himself.

The next moment, he shoved all the documents off the table.

“You won’t die. An assassination attempt by someone renowned in academia would only embarrass us.”

Scientists are naive, too focused on the pursuit of truth, and start to flaunt their power once they have a little force, without ever considering that few people want them to discover the truth.

He thought naive people were all idiots and posed no threat.

Pascal's name flashed through his mind—that woman, always wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and white coat, holding a bunch of code in her hand, and spouting technical jargon.

He had seen her once, at a meeting, where she spoke eloquently, her eyes shining like stars, completely oblivious to the undercurrents around her.

And her mentor, who thought that becoming a member of the military-industrial complex meant he could act with impunity.

Last time, when dealing with their suspicious allies, they even misappropriated main battle tanks from the transport route.

Do they really think the National Security Bureau is useless?!

From now on, we should discard such self-righteousness.

……

"clear."

Jonas Krause hung up the phone and tapped his index finger on the edge of the phone.

He slammed his phone onto the table, screen down, making a soft "smack" sound.

On the table in front of me was a classic Bavarian dish—roasted pork knuckle, its golden skin glistening with oil, accompanied by a clump of sauerkraut and a small piece of mashed potatoes, steaming hot and emitting a wonderful aroma.

This is a dish he must try once a weekend; the taste of his hometown is especially nostalgic.

He picked up his knife and fork, cut off a piece of pork skin with a crisp snap, and juices seeped out. He chewed a couple of times, but his eyes weren't on the food; his mind was filled with the phone call he had just hung up.

The restaurant is small, but the decor is exquisite. The wooden floors are polished to a shine, and several old black and white photographs of Munich street scenes hang on the walls.

Jonas sat by the window, overlooking a quiet street on the outskirts of Leipzig, dimly lit by streetlights, with the occasional car slowly passing by.

He was wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms with an old knife scar.

The enemy is very powerful.

He has lost 19 men and is about to break 20.

Every time he received a report of casualties, his heart felt like it was being pierced by needles. Those were all carefully trained and skilled soldiers, and now they were all lost.

Such humiliation cannot be tolerated.

He took a bite of the pork knuckle, his teeth grinding together as if he were chewing up his anger and swallowing it.

Those who died were either sniped or blown to pieces; their bodies were not even fully recovered.

The streets of Leipzig had become a meat grinder, and he could only sit there, waiting for orders from above.

Adrian is no different from other politicians; the Stasi have a better-equipped counter-terrorism force, but they have always been unwilling to use these armed forces.

He sneered, plunged his fork into the pork knuckle, and the blade scraped against the plate with a grating squeak.

They simply don't understand the rules of survival in the real world.

They make decisions in temperature-controlled offices and high-walled fortresses, far removed from the real battles on the streets.

The underworld is about fear and respect. Once you lose both, you lose the war.

Jonas Krause made his own decision.

He swallowed the food in his mouth, picked up a napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth, his movements slow and deliberate.

He knew that sitting here complaining was useless; the situation in Leipzig was rotten to the core, and he had to take action himself to regain control.

"Misha."

He turned his head slightly and called out to the man who was eating heartily at another table.

The restaurant's wood-paneled rooms exude a faint woody fragrance, and fresh flower arrangements adorn the side tables in every corner. White daisies are placed in clear glass vases, with a few small candles burning nearby, their flames flickering.

The flat-screen TV on the wall is playing "Blade Runner" starring Harrison Ford.

Mikhail Bulgakov sat at a table against the wall, with a plate of grilled steak in front of him, cut medium-rare, with blood seeping into the plate.

He took another big bite of roast meat, his cheeks bulging as if stuffed with cotton, and chewed it with relish.

"Who do you want to punish?" Mikhail asked, his mouth still full of meat, his voice a little muffled.

He listened to the entire phone call from his boss and knew that Jonas was maintaining a facade of composure. The disastrous defeat in Leipzig had shaken his position in the underworld.

He swallowed the meat, picked up his glass and took a swig of beer. Foam got on the corner of his mouth, which he casually wiped with his sleeve.

To maintain power, retaliation must be swift and ruthless.

Misha went to the gym this morning. He's used to working out in the morning so that his tattooed arms and chest muscles bulge and look great under his tight black tank top—it's part of his daily routine.

Jonas glanced at him without saying a word, his gaze sweeping over Mikhail's tattoos, a plan already forming in his mind.

He put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and tapped his fingers on the table, making a soft thumping sound.

Mikhail wasn't the smartest of his men, but he was definitely the most ruthless. He worked like a wild beast, never showing any mercy.

"Take care of a few people. I'll give you the list later. Hurry up and don't leave any loose ends."

"Give the order, I'll handle it."

“Unlike before, we may encounter unrestricted androids and have to interrupt their plans. The person we need to protect is the representative of the Will Revival Opportunity Fund—you escorted him before.”

"I remember that guy."

"Bring the person back safe and sound."

"What about the other one?"

“If those androids don’t touch him, then you should chop him up and feed him to the fish.”

Mikhail considered for a moment and said, "Dealing with people is a piece of cake. If there really are androids, then you'll have to prepare some big ones for me."

"Make a list when you get back, and try to meet your needs as much as possible."

"it is good."

……

Vidak Vorhovacs stepped up the stairs and into his heavy-duty motorhome, which was decorated with a dazzling gold and black paint scheme.

The car body gleamed with a metallic sheen in the sunlight, with a subtle brand logo printed on the side and the wheels polished to a shine, as if it had just been driven out of the showroom.

The RV was parked in the equestrian club's private area, surrounded by a neatly trimmed lawn. In the distance, several horses could be seen trotting slowly in the training area, and the air was filled with the faint scent of hay and stables.

The driver had already driven the RV to the venue in advance, while two full-time equestrian instructors brought the stallions in a Sportchasis truck.

They had arrived the day before.

The horses were led to a makeshift stable, their intermittent neighing breaking the silence of the area.

Therefore, when Vidak, his wife Maggie, and their 13-year-old daughter Clara arrived at the horse farm, all the water and electricity were already connected.

This will be a wonderful vacation.

Vidak cherished this vacation and set off for West Berlin after the holiday ended.

It's not a very peaceful place there.

Although they would still go home to sleep that night, Vidak insisted that the driver move the luxury RV to the site of each equestrian event.

No matter how far he is from the equestrian club, he can relax and conduct business in a temperature-controlled environment, and may even have a midday rendezvous with his wife on the oversized bed in the back of the RV.

Unlike others who have to search for a signal or hide in the shade to make a phone call, Sidney has all the conveniences of home in this motorhome worth over two million marks.

A linen-lined infinity ceiling light illuminates the 45-foot-long four-sliding RV. White leather sofas, a dining table, a fireplace, two flat-screen TVs, and a double lounge chair showcase a modern style.

The RV equipped with the "Smart Suite" can adjust the blackout curtains and lights on command. Brushed aluminum trim, carbon fiber cockpit, large-capacity refrigerator and freezer with wine rack, semi-bathroom and master bathroom with shower, and custom tiles on the underfloor heating system together create Sidney's luxurious mobile sanctuary.

His daughter Clara was influenced by him from a young age and became fascinated with equestrianism very early on.

Due to his busy work schedule, Vidak rarely had time to spend with his daughter, so the responsibility of teaching her horseback riding fell to his wife, Maggie.

They purchased five fine horses from Europe specifically bred for dressage, and ultimately selected three for Amanda to use.

The Dutch Warmblood was used for show jumping, while the black Friesian horse and another Arabian horse were deemed mediocre and relegated to decorative roles.

Custom-made saddles, equipment, Italian handmade riding boots, veterinary bills, and private equestrian club fees cost another 200,000 marks, making my daughter's hobby far exceed the expenses of a typical youth team.

However, he was happy to do so.

He thought Clara looked like a little princess on horseback and deserved the best.

Although Maggie doesn't ride horses, she ensures her daughter enjoys top-tier resources.

However, he was somewhat worried about his wife's fidelity. Her daily routine at the cosmetic surgery clinic was gradually changing her appearance—Botox, lip augmentation, cheekbone fillers, facelifts, buttock augmentation, and breast augmentation, the latter of which Vidak particularly liked.

Although it was only 11 a.m., Vidak had already poured brandy.

There were more than a dozen unread emails in my inbox, mostly travel arrangements and meeting notices for West Berlin.

He planned to finish replying to emails before his daughter entered the room, and perhaps even have some time to spend with Maggie while she warmed up—after all, he had paid for the silicone implants, and he deserved to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

The sound of the RV's front door opening could be heard.

“Maggie?” he called out.

No answer.

"Clara?"

Still no response.

When he got up and walked over, what came into view was not his wife who had taken off her tight pants, but a petite woman with an incredibly delicate face wearing a baseball cap.

Even more deadly was that the dark muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at his face.

"Hello, Mr. Flöhwatz."