Hong Kong variety show: The mastermind behind the scenes is emerging.

New Territories.

The night breeze blew in through the window, carrying the damp, earthy scent of the fields.

Jiahe Security's safe house is located deep within a cluster of abandoned village houses. The exterior walls are painted with ordinary gray-white paint, making it indistinguishable from the surrounding uninhabited old houses from the outside. However, once inside, you'll find that the corridor walls are thickened, the doors are made of steel, the windows are fitted with double-glazed laminated glass, and even the door locks are specially made triple-locking locks.

In the cell at the far end of the corridor, Harrison was doing push-ups shirtless in the open space. He did them perfectly, pushing down completely with each push-up, his chest almost touching the ground. Sweat streamed down his angular back, splashing onto the concrete floor and leaving a small, dark mark.

Thanks to Harrison's previous "cooperation in leaking information," their detention conditions were much better than a month ago. Tian Yangzhi had some practical furniture added, and even a small fan was placed in the corner. Although the fan blades made a creaking sound when they turned, at least it allowed the stuffy air to circulate.

After finishing the last set, Harrison propped himself up, wiped the sweat off with a towel, and finally had a chance to catch his breath.

In stark contrast to him, Thiago was slumped over on the metal bunk bed by the window, his back to him, curled up in a ball.

He had a stubble beard, his hair was messy and hanging down his forehead, and he looked thinner than he had a month ago. His cheekbones were prominent and his eye sockets were sunken, making him look like an old piece of clothing forgotten in a corner.

Harrison glanced at him, picked up an apple from the table, and tossed it over.

The apple arced across the floor, landed on the edge of Thiago's bed, bounced, and rolled to his side.

Thiago did not move.

"Hey, I'm telling you, all of this is being paid for by Golden Harvest, why not take advantage of it?" Harrison stood up, walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. "You just lie there like this every day, like a living dead person, never shaving, never washing your hair. Where did that confident and spirited guy from the Hong Kong Island branch go?"

Thiago's shoulder twitched, but he didn't turn around. After a long while, his muffled voice finally came from under the pillow: "...So what if I ate it?"

"Eat more and get back to health. This cage looks sturdy, but if we're patient and wait for the right opportunity, we can always escape again."

Thiago was silent for a few seconds, then slowly rolled over and lay on his back, looking at the fluorescent light tube on the ceiling. The tube emitted a low hum of electricity, making his face appear even paler.

"And then what happened after you ran away?" His voice was very soft, as if he were talking to himself.

Harrison paused for a moment, then didn't reply immediately.

"My parents died in a gas explosion when I was very young. I was adopted by MI6," Thiago said calmly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "They brought me out of the slums of South Africa, taught me to read, taught me skills, taught me how to be an intelligence agent. Even the meaning of my life was given to me by them..."

He paused, his voice lowering, carrying an indescribable weariness and self-mockery: "Sometimes I wonder... what am I to them? A useful tool?"

Harrison had been leaning against the wall, his expression still indifferent. But after hearing Thiago's words, his eyebrows suddenly twitched slightly.

"Wait," Harrison suddenly interrupted him, his tone suddenly taking on an inexplicable seriousness, "You said you're from South Africa?"

"...Well, my parents were South Africans. After they passed away, I ended up in a slum."

"So, in what year did you end up in the slums?"

Thiago was taken aback, not expecting him to ask this: "...1973."

Harrison's breath hitched.

"1973," he repeated the number, a hint of something in his voice, "In which city were your parents murdered?"

"Johannesburg," Thiago glanced at him sideways, "Why are you asking about that?"

Harrison took a deep breath, sat down on the edge of Thiago's bed, rested his hands on his knees, stared at the ground for a while, and then slowly said, "You know, I worked in MI6's South African branch for three years, from 1977 to 1979."

"In the 1970s, the South African branch mainly worked with the NP government to carry out targeted killings of certain people—you know, the group that advocated against apartheid. At that time, a senior colleague in the branch mentioned a case to me that still leaves a deep impression on him."

Thiago lay there, motionless, but his eyes gradually fixed.

"In the winter of 1973, there was a fire in a residential building in western Johannesburg," Harrison said in a deep voice. "The newspapers reported it as a gas leak that killed twenty-three people, but it was actually a failed assassination attempt. They were targeting an ANC member who lived on the third floor, but MI6's intelligence went wrong. They got the building's structural plans wrong, which resulted in the high explosives collapsing the entire floor."

Thiago's body stiffened abruptly, and he turned to look at Harrison in disbelief, as if confirming something, or as if trying to avoid something.

"Because this incident was considered a serious political scandal, MI6 took measures to cover it up afterward, using various official channels to suppress the news and bury evidence at the scene. As for those who survived, they were all placed under surveillance."

He paused for a moment, then continued, "My colleague remembers it very well; he said that area was called—"

"Alexander," Thiago finished the sentence for him, his voice hoarse and weak to the point of being almost inaudible.

Harrison shut his mouth.

The detention cell fell silent. The fan was still running, the fluorescent lights were still humming, and the night wind outside whistled softly through the cracks in the window.

Thiago slowly sat up. He placed the apple on the edge of the bed, braced his hands on the edge, lowered his head, and hunched his shoulders slightly, like an archway about to collapse.

"So..." His voice was terribly hoarse, as if something was stuck in his throat, "that explosion that destroyed everything I had back then...wasn't an accident at all, but a failed assassination attempt by MI6?"

"Yes."

"My parents...were killed by them."

Harrison did not answer, but he did not deny it either.

He certainly didn't overhear these secrets by chance, but neither did he fabricate them himself; rather, Tian Yangzhi found them and told them to him.

It's unclear whether the Japanese Empire is confident in its brainwashing techniques or simply has an insanely high level of audacity. After causing the destruction of someone's family, they can still comfortably recruit their enemy's son to serve as a slave for them.

Thiago sat on the edge of the bed, frozen for a long, long time. The cold light from the fluorescent tube shone on his profile, making the stubble on his chin exceptionally clear.

His eyes moved slightly, and those fragmented memories, those pieces he once regarded as acts of kindness, suddenly all changed color.

The next moment, he suddenly stood up and rushed towards the heavy steel security door like a madman, gripping the bars with both hands and shaking them violently.

"Guards! Guards!"

His voice echoed down the corridor, one after another. Soon, footsteps came from the other end of the corridor, and two guards hurried over, watching them through the bars, their hands already warily on their waists.

"I have something to say," Thiago gasped, still gripping the railing with both hands. "I'll tell you everything, everything I know—MI6's system vulnerabilities, communication protocols, hidden nodes… I'll tell you everything, but I demand to see your superior."

The guards exchanged glances, and one of them pressed the intercom and whispered a few words.

Half an hour later, footsteps came from the end of the corridor, and Tian Yangzhi came out from around the corner.

He walked to the door of the detention cell and looked down at Thiago, whose eyes were bloodshot, through the steel bars: "Speak, what are your conditions?"

Thiago looked up, meeting his gaze, his eyes burning with a vengeful rage: "I need you to find all of MI6's files from the first half of the 1970s in South Africa—operation logs, personnel lists, mission codenames. Everything you can find, I want it all."

Tian Yangzhi raised an eyebrow: "...This is a huge project. I can't make the decision on this myself; I need to report it to my superiors."

"Then go report," Thiago said firmly. "Don't worry, the information I provide is absolutely worth the price."

"Okay." Tian Yangzhi glanced at him, then turned and walked towards the end of the corridor. His leather shoes made a slow, deliberate sound on the concrete floor as he disappeared around the corner.

The detention cell fell silent again.

Thiago loosened his grip on the railing, staggered back two steps, bent down to pick up the apple that had fallen at the foot of the bed, wiped it on his sleeve, and took a bite.

Harrison looked at him without saying a word.

Outside the window, the night in the New Territories had deepened. Occasionally, a dog barked in the distance, its bark carried intermittently by the night wind across the empty fields before fading away.