Chapter 3865

The rain in Cat Getan tonight is exceptionally cold. The dense raindrops look like misty white fog under the illumination of the car lights. The wheels of luxury cars always seem to be spinning backward. The emblem standing on the front of the car flashes with bright light. All the umbrella boys in Cat Getan only hold a black umbrella, covering their faces, walking to the front of the car, pulling open the car door with gloved hands, silently stepping back two steps, waiting for the expensive leather shoes to splash water on the wet ground.

First one foot, then a thin, bony hand holds the door frame of the car. When slightly exerted, the veins revealed on the back of the hand always remind people of black reefs between white waves, like the imperceptible blue rust on the edge of a sharp blade.

This hand is exceptionally pale, revealing a coldness like ice, even more so than the white cuffs. With a slight exertion of the arm, the man who steps out of the car is tall and thin, with a head of black hair neatly combed back. Gray eyes are hidden behind slightly gleaming lenses.

The other side of the car seems to be on fire. A head of red hair like fire stands straight with the beautiful woman, slowly burning up from the ground. The red silk dress is smooth and supple, swaying with charm, a scenery that shouldn't exist in this cold and gloomy city.

High heels splash small water droplets on the ground. The silk long dress sways like a fish tail when the legs are crossed. She is like a siren who swam here along the rain, her fair and slender fingers climbing onto the cold and hard suit fabric. The deep red nails seem to be recording the heart that once beat in these hands.

"Let's go, Professor," she said.

The two of them walked up the steps of the manor banquet hall together, arms linked, walking in unison. They looked so close, yet like singularities at the two ends of the world, hanging alone in every rainy night, yet so far apart.

Two waiters pushed open the glass doors from both sides. The moment they walked into the banquet hall, everything was illuminated: frames, brooches, gemstone rings, pearl necklaces, instantly becoming brilliant. Inside the door was like another bright world.

Only the two people walking in at this time were like a knife stabbing into the dark world. No amount of brilliant jewelry could illuminate them—that kind of thick danger and sharp aura cut through the crowd like cutting butter. Gothamites with a dangerous sense of smell unconsciously made way for them.

Passing through the venue, passing the dance floor, then bypassing the high champagne tower and the gorgeous and exquisite dessert table, they walked all the way to the window. Natasha finally let go of the arm she was linking with Shiler. She felt that if she touched him for one more second, she would be poisoned to death.

Of course, she is the Black Widow. Usually, it's only her poisoning others to death. But physical poison still can't compare to mental venom. The biggest shortcoming of the Shiler in front of her is that he has a mouth.

Standing by the window, Natasha finally had another opportunity to carefully examine Shiler. This man was wearing a quite well-fitting custom black three-piece suit. The shoulder line was a very retro high-shouldered style of British suits, but the waistline was thin and neat like Italian suits. The tie was a deep red that matched the color of her dress, which could be considered a rare highlight in an extremely solemn retro suit. Although half an hour ago, he had delivered a ten-minute unfriendly evaluation of the color of this suit, as if he were trying to persuade God to delete red from the world.

Have to admit, Natasha felt this Shiler was interesting. In fact, she didn't care at all whether any man's suit tie matched the color of her dress, but she still stubbornly demanded that Shiler use this tie, even patiently listening to all his opinions on the color red.

In fact, she felt it was incredible that she could make Shiler use a deep red tie. Because the Shiler in front of her was the most inhuman person Natasha had ever seen. He was very stubborn, following a certain unchanging pattern of action, as if no one in this world could change him.

But out of a certain curiosity and provocative psychology, Natasha insisted on her opinion. She believed that what finally defeated him was the sentence, "Polite people should show respect to the other person in their attire on occasions where both need to appear." Natasha felt the key might be "polite," almost like lecturing a child who wasn't cooperating.

Or maybe not. Natasha carefully recalled what happened in the cloakroom. It was also possible that after they argued for more than ten minutes, she couldn't help but curse in Russian, and then Shiler finally gave up being stubborn, resignedly putting on that red tie.

Strange things happen every year, especially this year. Why don't people in this universe have red allergies, but instead are all more willing to listen to Russian? Some even only understand Russian?

Natasha had never felt she would possess such a native language advantage, but now she felt she should make good use of this advantage. She didn't believe at all that the murders that happened in this universe had nothing to do with the man in front of her.

"Shiler?" Natasha said softly, "Want a drink? (Russian)"

Those eyes that were originally focused on staring out the window turned over instantly. Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise. She seemed to have found a way to deal with this inhuman Shiler.

"Champagne or whiskey? (Russian)" Natasha smiled and said, "Want some cheese? (Russian)"

Natasha saw Shiler have a moment of distraction. She immediately realized why Russian would especially attract his attention. This reminded Natasha of what Shiler said that day.

"There is a great tombstone in your heart." Shiler's voice echoed. When she heard it for the first time, Natasha paid too much attention to the content of the words, missing the fleeting complex emotions in the tone.

Caught you. Natasha thought in her heart.

"What are you thinking about again?" Shiler suddenly asked, "Using your self-proclaimed superior psychology level to taste a few differences from my past words, and then thinking you've caught my weakness?"

Natasha stretched out a hand, made a stopping gesture, and then said, "First turn off your mind-reading, and listen to mine."

"Is the phrase 'you can't get ivory out of a dog's mouth' more impolite than not wearing a red tie? Mrs. Romanoff?"

"You be quiet for a while first. (Russian)" Natasha said, "Give me a chance to guess. If I guess wrong, you can correct me. How about that? (Russian)"

"If you're really bored, go upstairs and walk around," Shiler reached out and took a wine glass from the waiter, looking up at the upstairs and saying, "The Penguin should appear soon. He is determined to catch that daring imitator who dares to kill on his turf. He will definitely use this banquet to ferret the other party out."

"I have no interest in the Penguin or the imitator," Natasha's Adam's apple moved and she said, "I just want to know what's going on with you now."

"You want to shoot me? Or dig out my heart?"

"No, no, no, that's too boring. How can I return your mind-reading in such a mediocre way?" Natasha knew very well how much she looked like a beautiful poisonous spider when she smiled. Although she wasn't good at reasoning at all, and had nothing to do with psychology, people can always overcome all difficulties when doing bad things.

"You have a Russian friend," Natasha said, "To be precise, a Soviet friend? No, judging from your expression, it's not as simple as friends between you. He has a certain control over you. Your foster father or foster mother?"

Natasha carefully observed Shiler's expression, but didn't see much. She had no choice but to say, "I have to use the exhaustive method. Foster father? Foster mother? Siblings? Teacher? Doctor?"

Shiler's expression never changed. Natasha gently pursed her lips. "Comrade? (Russian)"

Shiler remained silent. Natasha also fell silent.

The wine and light spanning between the two suddenly turned into the same huge tombstone. The summer of St. Petersburg, the spring of Lake Baikal, the autumn of Minsk, the winter of Moscow, turned these short syllables into a long masterpiece. Natasha didn't dare to ask any further, afraid of seeing the name Shiler remembered on the page after her own name.

"Father. (Russian)"

The moment she heard Shiler speak Russian, Natasha was shocked. She knew Shiler spoke many languages. English, of course, went without saying, Chinese was also fluent, and he could speak French and Italian, and had also dabbled in Spanish. But Russian? She had never heard it.

Even though Greed claimed to be a Soviet relic in Congress, and everyone speculated that he might have a Soviet lover, Natasha had never sincerely believed that Shiler had ever had any intersection with people from this country. The female agent knew that it was just a stance used to confront Congress.

But now Natasha was convinced she had seen another part of Shiler's soul, coming from someone who had a profound influence on him, having intricate ties with her motherland, so much so that he would have a moment of distraction when hearing a familiar accent.

This was something only people of that era knew. Old Russian was a language with very low information content, and because it wasn't very advanced, it was often alienated during the spread, and the accents were even more strange, so much so that it derived Ukrainian, Belarusian, and even Polish-Russian fusion languages.

When the young country was just established, people from all over the country had very different accents, and communication was very difficult. So they introduced "Mandarin" based on the northern accent of Russian internally, and required all personnel within the organization to learn and use it.

In the era Natasha lived in, she learned this accent in the Red Room and has used it ever since. The vast majority of government personnel and intellectuals of that time used this "official accent."

But after the disintegration, seemingly to get rid of the shadows of the past, and also to highlight personality in democratic elections, government officials in the Russian era preferred to use different local accents, and Mandarin was no longer emphasized in education. This led to the official accent becoming a unique symbol of that era.

"The accent of that person is very similar to mine, right? (Russian)" Natasha asked.

Shiler nodded. "Yes. (Russian)"

Natasha carefully examined Shiler again, seemingly wanting to find more shadows of the past on him. But he seemed to hide it very well. Natasha couldn't find anything.

"Can you say a longer sentence? (Russian)"

Shiler stopped talking. Natasha was convinced he could understand, just didn't want to say. She turned her head and glanced at the center of the venue. The band hadn't arrived yet, which proved there was still a long time for socializing. She could strike while the iron was hot.

"I'm very interested in psychoanalysis. Perhaps you can see a little more in me," Natasha said, "The Penguin probably won't come for a while, you can say more. This time I promise not to interrupt you."

"Are you really just retaliating against me for poking you?" Shiler said, holding the wine glass to his lips, "Although it might not be very polite to say so, Madam, but your current attitude is like a betrayed crazy woman eagerly wanting to dig up her late husband's grave."

Natasha fell silent. After a long while, she opened her mouth and said: "To punish him for not loving me?"

"To confirm he's really dead."