After Flying Fish received confirmation from Yvette, she was stunned. Taking a deep breath, she exclaimed, “Boss, Silas is the director of Mysonna's top medical lab! How did you get him to deliver the antidote to Charles’s apartment? It’s unbelievable!”
While they spoke, Yvette changed into a simple tracksuit, canvas shoes, and a black baseball cap. Her androgynous style was incredibly cool. Noticing a hair tie on the table, she paused, picked it up, and casually tied her hair. “I’m heading over now,” she said indifferently.
Silas, sixty years old but appearing much younger, was impeccably groomed. He glanced at his vintage watch; ten minutes had passed since the door closed, yet he remained perfectly composed.
The door opened again. Silas remained gentlemanly. “Hello, miss. I’m here to deliver the antidote for Mr. Jameson’s No. 7 Toxin,” he said.
Flying Fish, already in casual clothes, was taken aback by his politeness. She remembered his temper firsthand from her time undercover in his house. He wouldn’t hesitate to scold even his son. The thought that he’d waited patiently for nearly ten minutes, maintaining such a pleasant demeanor, was terrifying.
Quickly composing herself, she stepped aside and extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Walson. Please come in,” she said.
Silas smiled slightly as he entered. A trinket in the entryway caught his eye—a unique item from last year’s West Auction House, sold for $3.3 million. “Impressive,” he thought, “to casually place it at the entrance.”
Maintaining his impeccable manners, Silas proceeded to the couch. Flying Fish, trailing behind, noticed his gaze linger on the entryway for a few seconds—a detail she, as an assassin, didn't miss. What could have caught his attention amongst her few knick-knacks? she wondered.
An awkward silence filled the living room. Silas sat upright, a glass of water before him. Flying Fish sat opposite, avoiding eye contact, fearing he might recognize her.
Silas spoke neutrally, “Ms. Fish, where is the patient? I can administer the antidote immediately.”
Flying Fish’s eye twitched. “Seriously? Ms. Fish?” she thought, glancing at the black suitcase by his foot, which likely contained the antidote. “Charles is in the next room. Let me take you to him,” she replied.
Silas nodded, slightly disappointed that Yvette wasn't there. He simply wanted to finish the task and leave. Flying Fish felt the same.
Charles, lying in bed, had been consumed by anticipation all night. Hearing sounds outside, he longed to greet them. Could I really get my life back? he wondered until the knock came. “Come in,” he whispered, his voice weak; after a night of agony, he could barely speak.
Charles’s reaction upon seeing Silas was even more intense than Flying Fish’s. His wide eyes and expression betrayed his astonishment. Silas Walson, he thought.
Charles knew Silas, the head of the medical lab Braydon had desperately tried—and failed—to win over, even offering a fortune.
For the Goodman family, eliminating an ordinary person would be easy. But Silas, supported by Mysonna's president and hailing from a distinguished family, was untouchable. Braydon's attempts had been fruitless.
Seeing Charles’s shock eased Flying Fish’s apprehension. Anyone would be bewildered by Silas’s presence, she thought.
“Hello, Mr. Walson,” Charles greeted, the words requiring considerable effort.
Silas, aware of Charles’s identity and reputation, knew the potency of No. 7 Toxin. His survival was commendable. He’d consistently refused the Goodman family, yet they’d infiltrated his lab; he’d had high hopes for Fiona, a talented but ultimately compromised protégé.
Silas smiled gently. “Ultimately, I bear some responsibility. No. 7 Toxin originated from my lab. Charles is Yvette’s friend. It's right to save him.” His tone held admiration. “Hello, Mr. Jameson. You’re incredibly strong. This is a miracle.”
Charles managed a weak, “Thank you.”
Silas retrieved a syringe of light blue liquid from the case and injected Charles's numb arm. As the liquid emptied, Charles's gaze sharpened, and he could slightly move his fingers.
Silas returned the syringe—poisonous to anyone uninfected—to the case. “Mr. Jameson, there’s no need to rush. In an hour, your bodily functions will recover. You should be back to normal in two hours.”
Charles calmed his excitement, realizing Yvette and Silas had saved his life. I no longer owe the Goodman family. My life belongs to Ms. Zeller, he thought.
Silas left the room, followed by Flying Fish. At the door, he paused, turning to her with an inquisitive, stern yet gentle gaze. A chill ran down Flying Fish’s spine, but she quickly composed herself, smiling casually, transforming her demeanor instantly. “What’s going on, Mr. Walson? Is there something on my face?” she asked. Before he could respond, she continued, “You don’t need to say it; it’s called beauty. Lots of people have mentioned it.”
Even Silas was momentarily speechless at her audacious confidence.