Chapitre 3189: Chapter 2235: Gotham Music Festival (37)_1

"We need to find a way to get him back to normal, or at least to stop," Natasha frowned after listening to the second round of game rules. "No one would allow Shiller to suffer such serious harm, not even if he himself were willing."

"His mental illness is acting up, so someone must intervene," Beihan expressed the same concern. "If a patient says he's willing to go through with something, and everyone just lets him be, then there would be no need for so many mental hospitals in this world."

Natasha looked at him and asked, "I saw Shiller holding an inhaler aerosol bottle. What do you think could be inside it?"

"I'm not sure," Beihan shook his head and said, "If, as you suggested, seasickness causes him a great deal of pain and this makes his mental state extremely unstable, it could well be medication to relieve seasickness. But it's also possible he actually has a respiratory issue, or perhaps it's simply meant to dilate bronchial tubes and increase oxygen supply."

Natasha massaged her forehead and said, "Whichever it is, it's beneficial to him, right?"

"Theoretically, yes. What are you thinking?"

"On a cruise ship of this level, there's definitely a variety of medications available. I want to find some and see if I can add them to his aerosol bottle, at least to get him to stop and rest for a while."

"Do you know how to mix medications?"

"I was a nurse. I know how to prepare various simple injectables, but I've hardly dealt with aerosols. Do you?"

"Yes, I do. But I must return to the VIP room before the game starts. Both of us disappearing for so long would be too suspicious."

"Trust me, you look like the type who could spend two hours with me in the bathroom," Natasha said as she walked towards the restroom exit.

With an "here we go again" look, Beihan watched her back, indeed sensing the undercurrents churning beneath the seemingly calm surface.

Batman could see that beyond the gamblers who were truly in big trouble, there were many purposeful individuals involved in the game, harboring intentions far more sinister than fulfilling wishes. Batman was never reluctant to suspect that these people might wish more than anyone else that all aboard the ship remained at sea forever.

No Batman would ever allow such a thing to happen, so Beihan returned to the VIP room. He knew that he could not let Shiller in the throes of an episode be the spark to ignite this bomb, as the situation would then spiral completely out of control.

Meanwhile, Natasha made her way down the staff corridor. She knew that Stark must have taken this route, and as expected, she found a message left by Stark in a staff break room.

Beneath a note pressed under a water dispenser read, "I've gone below for something. Ask someone else about that earlier matter."

Not too stupid, Natasha thought. If found, this phrasing would appear to be just an exchange between two employees.

Natasha understood the message Stark had left for her: "I'm going below to check on the ship's engines; you stay up here to catch a talkative one for information."

Looking around, Natasha saw signs that the room had been used a few minutes earlier, which meant that a fair number of staff would come here to rest temporarily. However, it was crucial to determine whose people they really were.

Natasha could tell there was something very odd about this ship; many of its staff weren't ordinary people. So if she caught an underling of the ship's owner, she might be unable to handle them.

Moreover, there were priorities among issues; what the owner of the ship really wanted could wait. Whether out of professional duty or personal sentiment, Natasha was more inclined to focus on the Federal Bureau of Investigation first.

Yes, even if Natasha didn't know Amanda, she could smell the stench of the hyenas she dealt with daily. She was aware that those agents were probably lurking in the corners, ready at any moment to let any situation deteriorate to a point beyond anyone's ability to clean up—that was their job.

A mop, still wet, left a vague water stain on the floor of the dim, narrow corridor. A janitor in uniform adjusted his cap with one hand and tucked the mop handle under his arm. With the other hand carrying a bucket, he opened the storeroom door and put everything away one by one.

He was always so unhurried, though his mind was completely focused on the task to be executed next. Still, he could instinctively perform any part of his undercover role with utmost proficiency.

Having stowed everything, the man sighed with relief, and as he relaxed, the urge to urinate came on. He staggered towards the restroom. Despite his relaxed demeanor, there was always a string taut in his mind—an agent's self-discipline.

Standing in front of the urinal, undoing his trousers, he heard a door open behind him. Through the reflection on the floor, he saw a figure wearing a red cloak—an attire likely of a gambler participating in the contest.

The agent relaxed again. With the second round of the game imminent, during his earlier restroom cleaning, he had encountered numerous contestants who wanted to take the opportunity for a quick break before it began; they would probably be out quickly.

What the agent found odd, though, was that the closest restroom to the venue was the one he had just cleaned, not the current one. This one required an extra turn, at least a hundred meters more walking. With no line at the other restroom, why would someone purposely take a longer route?

Just when he had that thought, he suddenly felt a piercing gaze appear out of nowhere, as if the person hadn't been looking at him before, but was now staring intently at his back.

An alarm went off in his mind, and his muscles tensed, his legs powered up, and in the moment he bent his knees and swung his elbows, a long mop handle pinned him against the wall.

Blood gushed from his mouth instantly, and he let out wheezing breaths from his fish-like mouth, desperately struggling to turn his head.

The next second, his hair was grabbed, and with two thuds, his head made intimate contact with the wall, smashing his brow bone and nose bridge to pieces.

Blood flowed from his nose and mouth simultaneously, severe pain emanating from within him, because the assailant didn't withdraw the iron rod that had impaled his body, but instead pressed down on the weapon, instantly mangling his internal organs beyond recognition.

Both hands released their grip, and the agent collapsed to the ground, but the blood flowing from his forehead completely covered his eyes. The severe pain brought on dizziness, and his vision turned pitch black. He couldn't see who the attacker was, only noticing them taking a deep inhalation from an asthma inhaler.

"Who is Amanda's target?"

The agent felt it laughable — if the other party wanted to use torture to extract information, they shouldn't have inflicted such serious injuries. He was close to death, and the pain would soon end. Under these circumstances, how could he possibly reveal anything?

"You're different from the rest," he heard the other person mutter to himself. "You weren't assigned the target that most people are watching. You have a special task. Who are you observing?"

The agent, in shock, grabbed onto the iron rod that had pierced through his wound. He struggled desperately, but One Hand was steadier and more forceful, gripping the head of the rod. He turned the rod upright while the fish skewered on it kept sliding downwards due to its own weight.

An overwhelming amount of blood choked his lungs, rendering him unable to scream. One second before drowning in his own blood, he heard the other person say softly, "Amanda wants to kill two birds with one stone? Two plans?"

When Shiller's figure reappeared at the gambling table, he finally had the leisure to carefully observe his opponent.

The opponent was very strong, with thick body hair and fierce eyes, a look usually seen in weightlifting competitions or among strongmen, and sometimes amongst groups of dockworkers.

But Shiller noticed a detail — the opponent had no tan lines. That was unusual. The summer had just ended and even ordinary people who commuted to work walking would have tan lines on exposed limbs, which wouldn't fade in just a month.

Unless he stayed indoors 24 hours a day without going outside. But his fierce demeanor didn't seem to fit that of a homebody.

Shiller wanted to wait, to see his opponent's true face when his vision blurred again.

It wouldn't be a long wait — the periods of clarity were getting shorter. Just as ripples began to stir on the edge of Shiller's vision, a clear ringing of a bell woke him.

The game began, and both parties stretched out their arms for the staff to draw blood.

Everyone rolled up their sleeves, revealing their arms. Shiller was no exception, now he only had one hand left to lean on the table.

The staff member approaching with the needle couldn't help but look up at Shiller's pale face and equally bloodless lips, as if he wasn't just suffering from blood loss, but was already close to death.

The needle pierced into the arms of both participants. Their arms were secured to the table with equipment to prevent instability during the blood drawing, and the blood from both flowed through tubes into the pump, looking like fine vintage red wine.

One rarely has the chance to observe how their life ebbs away because the lengthy process of growth and aging allows one to forget all the details, making it difficult to deeply experience the despair of life reaching its end.

The process of blood loss was like a condensed version of the demise of life, a few minutes to appreciate the decline that would otherwise take a lifetime, seeing tremendous waves in all the minutiae.

Shiller began to feel an increasing dizziness, followed by an excitement that drugs could no longer suppress. His heart was beating too fast, so much so that no amount of inhaling from the aerosol bottle could cool down his boiling blood.

In the end, he pressed the button for 1000 milliliters on the remote control.

Shiller's move clearly shocked both the staff member and his opponent, so much so that the staff member, who rarely spoke other than to explain the rules, confirmed with him, "Are you sure? 1000 milliliters? The blood drawing process won't stop once it begins, and it could lead to your direct death."

"Yes, I'm sure."

Shiller closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he gave his opponent a mad smile.

"Hello, ocean."

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