Chapter 500

In the dimly lit interrogation room, the atmosphere was always unnaturally quiet—it was a psychological tactic, as people in extreme silence tend to make noise to relax themselves and more easily reveal their inner secrets.

On the interrogation chair sat a doctor in a white coat, his hands secured to the armrests; he tilted his head upward, staring at the bulb above him—a crude, ordinary incandescent bulb flickering erratically, its dimming and brightening light making the room feel even more oppressive.

"Do you know? I once suggested to someone that he replace the faulty bulb in his office, but he told me it was a psychological tactic—unstable light stimulates the subject's mind, heightening their anxiety."

Schiller's voice echoed through the room; Mark, seated across the barrier, looked up and asked: "The person you're talking about must be a professional agent—who is he? Where's he from? Is he your accomplice?"

"Why do you assume he's a professional agent?" Schiller countered.

"Answer my question," Mark refused to be distracted, repeating the same question over and over; no matter what Schiller asked, he gave no reply.

"Looks like you're a professional agent too," Schiller tilted his head slightly but kept his posture unchanged, leaning back against the chair and staring at the bulb as he continued: "But the reason that guy didn't replace the bulb wasn't because of that bullshit excuse—he just didn't want to spend the money."

Schiller and Mark's exchange went poorly; between them, they displayed two of humanity's finest qualities—one was a parrot, the other answered only with the sky when asked about the ground.

Mark kept repeating the same question, using agent interrogation techniques to pressure Schiller, while Schiller only spoke what he wanted to say and asked only what he wanted to ask; after hours of talking past each other, Mark finally stood up from behind the table.

He opened the gate of the barrier and stepped in front of Schiller; as he stood there, his shadow fell across Schiller, blocking his view—from this angle, Mark had a strikingly handsome face, a tall frame, and the solemn expression common to all agents.

This posture was meant to create intense pressure, but Schiller still stared only at the bulb, saying: "It seems you've realized—the first-chapter interrogation tactics from the agent handbook don't work on me, so now you're moving to the techniques in chapter two."

"Need me to refresh your memory? Stand in front of the subject, use your physical stature and posture to dominate, make gestures with violent connotations to make the subject feel they're in a potentially dangerous environment..."

"If you're more skilled, when you notice the subject starting to feel insecure, you ease off slightly to let them relax, then tighten the pressure again—after a few rounds, they'll talk..."

Mark's movements visibly froze; from his current stance, he'd clearly intended to twist his wrist or crack his knuckles—but now, if he did either, it wouldn't look like a threat, but like a rookie's clumsy attempt.

Yet without a doubt, Mark had extensive agent experience; he didn't lose his composure. He stepped back two paces, leaned against the barrier, turned slightly, reached behind him, and picked up a file from the table, saying:

"We received a tip—intelligence indicates you've been conducting espionage within New York State..."

"What nationality does the intelligence say I am?" Schiller asked.

Mark's hand paused again as he flipped through the file; since Schiller entered this room, every word he spoke had caught Mark off guard—in short, he refused to follow the script.

In Mark's agent career, he'd faced many difficult opponents, but most of them weren't like this.

Some turned mute the moment they entered the interrogation room—no matter the method, not a single word could be extracted; others used elaborate rhetoric to prove their innocence, even tricking Mark and interrogation experts into logical dead ends.

Undoubtedly, all these people shared one trait: they were highly aggressive, attacking every weakness in the interrogator, doing everything possible to escape.

But Schiller gave Mark the feeling that he didn't want to escape at all—he seemed to want to stay a while longer. No, maybe not just a while; judging by his demeanor, he looked like he planned to move in.

"You must understand the consequences of your dangerous actions," Mark stared at Schiller with a stern expression.

"What consequences? The CIA has no law enforcement authority—only emasculated investigative powers. You could bring me here only because the person who reported me provided extremely detailed information."

"I imagine this is the smoothest case you've handled in the last decade—you could've stormed straight into my sanatorium, pointed a gun at me, and dragged me away. Normally, you'd have to sneak around your target, wary not just of the target but also of the FBI..."

Schiller sat up straight but still leaned back relaxedly, saying: "Perhaps you think this is a simple case—that my intelligence is so abundant you assume I'm far less dangerous than the threats you've faced before, since they'd never leave so many gaps and clues behind..."

"But the truth is, even with all this intelligence, you still can't touch me—you can only take me to court."

"Now you're trying to extract more information just to gain an advantage at trial—otherwise, I'll walk out of court unscathed, like your past opponents, and give you a mocking smile and a middle finger right outside the courtroom door."

"Enough," Mark's voice dropped low. Schiller lowered his head and smiled, saying: "Looks like today's interrogation is over. Go fix your shattered psyche—we'll meet again tomorrow."

Mark tossed the file back onto the table, walked again to Schiller's side, swung his fist—but Schiller shifted his body slightly and dodged.

Mark retracted his fist without attacking further, saying: "Your movement just revealed you're a trained agent—normal people couldn't have dodged that."

"Your movement just revealed you're a trained boxer—agent combat training doesn't include professional boxing techniques."

Mark took a deep breath, his chest heaving; he paused in place, then shook his head, and Schiller said: "Does anger destabilize your mental state? How long has this lasted? Have you seen a doctor?"

After calming down, Mark gave Schiller a long look, then turned and left the interrogation room.

After a while, the interrogation room door opened again; Mark stood by the doorway, speaking with an interrogation specialist, occasionally pointing at Schiller.

Schiller sat upright, stretched his neck, and shouted: "Are you calling your parents now? I promise I won't tell anyone about how you cried like a baby—so you'll still want to come back to kindergarten tomorrow!"

Schiller could see Mark's fist clenched tightly by the door.

But Schiller waited a long time—Mark never exploded. Schiller shook his head, seemingly disappointed.

Seeing Mark turn to leave, Schiller suddenly fell silent. Just as Mark glanced back at him one last time, Schiller spoke: "Alright, I'm Hydra."

Mark turned to look at Schiller; Schiller looked back. Then Mark walked away without turning around.

Schiller shouted: "Can't you hear me?! I said I'm Hydra! The Hydra Captain America fought! The Hydra that nearly destroyed the world in WWII!"

"Wait! Come back! Okay, I'm the KGB! The KGB! Posing as Hydra—happy now?!"

My Healing Game

Instantly, Mark returned with a team of interrogation specialists; Schiller sat in his chair and sighed deeply.

Mark picked up the file again from the table; the interrogators stepped forward, placed a table before Schiller, and attached multiple physiological monitoring devices—the so-called lie detector.

"How's the weather today?" Mark asked.

"Not bad," Schiller replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, Schiller saw technicians staring intently at the physiological monitor; Mark asked a few more irrelevant questions to confirm the device was working properly, then began the real interrogation.

"What's your real name?"

"Schiller Rodriguez."

"You're not Russian?"

"No."

"Are you a KGB spy embedded inside Hydra?"

"Yes."

Mark glanced at the technician behind the screen; the technician gave a slight shake of his head—no anomalies in the readings.

Although lie detector data isn't always accurate and can't serve as evidence, it can still largely indicate a person's emotional state.

Schiller didn't use any special ability to control his physiology—he was telling the truth, just a very convoluted one.

"Are you a KGB spy embedded in Hydra, then sent by Hydra to work inside S. H. I. E. L. D.?"

"Yes."

"How many accomplices do you have inside S. H. I. E. L. D.?"

Schiller fell silent at this question; the technician watching the screen frowned slightly. Mark caught the expression instantly—the readings had changed.

"More or fewer?" Mark pressed: "Are there many or few spies like you inside S. H. I. E. L. D.?"

"There's only one like me," Schiller answered. Mark immediately looked at the technician, who shook his head again.

Mark frowned and said: "If you're willing to become a cooperating witness, we can apply for witness protection and reduce your sentence—so you'd better tell us everything you know about Hydra, S. H. I. E. L. D., and the KGB. It won't hurt you."

"What do you want to know?" Schiller asked.

Mark stood again and began pacing before him: "You should know that recently, the Russian Federal Security Service arrested a high-ranking Hydra operative—and they revealed that the KGB infiltrated Hydra, then used Hydra's influence to place themselves at the top..."

Mark turned to look directly into Schiller's eyes and asked: "What role did S. H. I. E. L. D. play in this?"

"Did they provide cover for Hydra or the KGB's operations?"

"Most importantly—is Director Nick Fury suspected of negligence that led to the current situation?"