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

When the final performance came to a close, the applause from the audience lasted for nearly ten minutes. The dancers of the Silver Moon Dance Company had to go on stage three times to take their final bows before the deep red curtain was finally closed.

The exchange performance was a great success.

Three days, six shows, all sold out.

The art sections of major European media outlets were filled with praise, with some critics even using weighty terms like "the purest classical ballet in half a century."

However, in the backstage corridor, the young dancers didn't even have time to hug and celebrate; instead, they were busy tidying up their things.

Because they had just received a notice that they should return home immediately after the performance, without lingering, giving interviews, or attending any kind of celebration banquet.

At four o'clock in the morning, a dark gray bus discreetly stopped at the back door of the theater. Members of the Silver Moon Dance Troupe filed in, carrying their luggage and prop boxes as they entered the bus.

The bus then quietly drove to the airport, seamlessly connecting with the earliest flight of the day.

However, there was one more person in the return group compared to when they set off.

Silva wore a low-key dark gray jacket, looking like an accompanying technician. He sat in a seat towards the back of the cabin, leaning against the window, his gaze fixed on the European continent shrouded in clouds outside, and he barely spoke throughout the journey.

At 7:00 AM, the plane landed at Warsaw Okenche Airport.

Outside the VIP passage, several burly Slavic men had been waiting for some time. One of them, a slightly shorter, rugged-looking middle-aged man, stood at the front, his hands clasped in front of him, his face ashen.

His name is Jan Kowalski, and he is Rosingarom's day-to-day manager at headquarters.

Ever since Maggie rescued him from a pile of corpses seven years ago, he has been wholeheartedly working for Maggie. He is the kind of old-school backbone whose abilities are not top-notch, but whose loyalty is extremely high.

Seeing Maggie descend the gangway, Kowalski quickly stepped forward, lowered his head, and said in a hoarse and heavy voice, "Director... it was my dereliction of duty, and I am willing to accept any punishment from the organization."

He made no attempt to explain himself, after all, the humiliation of having his headquarters raided by the High Table was his responsibility from any perspective.

He personally set up the defense line, arranged the duty roster, and even personally selected the backup passage at the back door—but the High Table members just happened to sneak in through that passage.

If everyone didn't trust him, they would probably all think he was the mole.

Maggie looked at him for a moment, then reached out and patted him on the shoulder: "Forget it, the opponent's resources and strength far exceeded our expectations. You've done your best. The responsibility for losing the game isn't yours."

"But--"

"I've already taken care of this matter," Maggie interrupted him calmly. "A six-month salary deduction is imposed, and there's no need to mention it again."

Kowalski looked up at her and nodded heavily.

However, Xina, who was following behind, was not so "easy to talk to." As she passed Kowalski, Xina glanced at him sideways, her tone carrying a hint of barely suppressed mockery: "Kowalski, you really embarrassed yourself this time, your reaction was so slow... Were you drunk on some street back then?"

Kowalski's face instantly turned bright red.

In the past, he would have immediately retorted—Xina, relying on Maggie's trust, had often given the organization attitude, and he had long disliked her.

But today, he just bit his lower lip until it turned white, without uttering a sound.

Seeing his attitude, Xina felt a little uncomfortable. She snorted and strode away.

The group got into the car and drove along the streets of Warsaw toward the Praga district. Soon, the streetscape outside the window gradually changed from the open area of ​​the airport expressway to the dense buildings of the city, and then to the narrow streets and old alleys of the Praga district that bore the marks of the post-war era.

When the off-white exterior of the Royal Marble Theatre came into view, Maggie's tense back finally relaxed a little.

Back at the theater, Maggie first went backstage and to the dormitories. The children had already started practicing, and the sounds of pianos and pointers hitting the floor could be heard from the rehearsal room.

As they reached the corner of the corridor, the old woman was tying the shoelaces of a little girl of about seven years old, muttering something to herself. Seeing Maggie approach, the old woman looked up and nodded at her, and the little girl called out "Director" in a clear, bright voice.

Maggie hummed in agreement, raised her hand to pat the little girl's head, and then went upstairs.

Silva followed her, quietly observing the building where art and danger coexisted. Finally, the two arrived at the office on the third floor, one after the other.

"Please sit down."

The office curtains were half-drawn, and the afternoon sunlight streamed in through the gaps, casting a bright golden line along the edge of the dark green velvet curtains.

Maggie sat down behind her desk, took out a box of elegant women's cigarettes from the drawer, lit one, took a deep drag, and then slowly exhaled a wisp of pale white smoke.

“I’ve read your assessment,” Maggie said bluntly. “If what the intelligence says is true, then someone like Pushkin doesn’t really care about money. His essence… is actually pursuing a sense of fulfillment.”

“Yes, Pushkin’s entire life was driven by an insatiable ‘hunger,’” Silva nodded. “Every time he swallowed up a new territory, a new business, a new channel, he would get a brief moment of satisfaction, and then the craving would soon return.”

Maggie flicked the ash into the ashtray and looked at Silva: "So to deal with this kind of person, you have to give him bait—something that looks big and tempting enough, but which he simply can't digest. Make him burst out of his shell trying to eat it."

The office fell silent for a moment.

Silva leaned back in his chair, his smile deepening. "As expected of the director, you think exactly the same thing as me."

"The question now is—what kind of big bait should we choose?"

"My suggestion is that if we're going to use bait, we should start with what Pushkin is best at and most attached to," Silva said, picking up a sugar cube and chewing it expressionlessly. "He made his fortune through smuggling, so if we want to lure him in, we should start with that—give him an exorbitantly priced but high-risk commission."

"So straightforward... will he really take the bait?" Maggie frowned slightly as she listened. "The reason Pushkin has been able to dominate the political scene for so many years is because of his steadiness. He might not take on a deal like this that seems so strange."

"No, of course he will," Silva said, picking up another sugar cube with an undeniable certainty, "because I'll give him a reason he simply can't refuse."