The rain in Gotham tonight is exceptionally cold. Dense raindrops, under the car lights, resemble a misty white fog. The wheels of the luxury car always seem to be reversing. The upright emblem on the car hood flashes bright light. All the umbrella boys in Gotham only carry a black umbrella, hiding their faces as they walk to the car, gently open the door with gloved hands, silently step back two paces, waiting for expensive leather shoes to splash on the wet ground.
First a foot, then a slender hand grips the car door frame. The veins that reveal themselves when a slight force is applied always remind one of black reefs amidst white foamy waves, like the faint rust on the edge of a sharp blade.
This hand is particularly pale, even more so than the white cuffs, exuding an icy chill. As the arm exerts a gentle force, the man stepping out of the car is tall and lean, with neatly combed black hair. His gray eyes are obscured behind slightly glowing lenses.
The other side of the car seems to be on fire. A head of fiery red hair accompanies a stunning woman who stands straight, gradually igniting from the ground up. Her red silk dress, smooth and flowing, sways with flair, a sight this cold and gloomy city should not possess.
High heels splash small droplets on the ground. As the silk dress sways with her crossing legs, it ripples like a fishtail. She seems like a siren swimming here along with the rain, her fair and slender fingers climbing up the cold, hard fabric of the suit. The deep red nails seem to record the heart that once beat in these hands.
"Let's go, Professor." She said.
They walked up the estate banquet hall steps together, arm in arm, in sync. They seemed so close, yet like singularities at opposite ends of the world, suspended alone in every rainy night, so distant.
Two waiters pushed open the glass doors from either side. The moment they stepped into the banquet hall, everything lit up: picture frames, brooches, gemstone rings, pearl necklaces, all suddenly radiated brilliance. Inside was like another world of light.
Yet the two entering seemed like a knife thrust from the dark world. No amount of dazzling jewels could illuminate them—the dense aura of danger and sharpness cut through the crowd as easily as slicing through butter. Those with a sense of danger in Gotham unconsciously made way for them.
Passing through the hall, past the dance floor, circumnavigating the towering champagne fountain and lavish, exquisite dessert table, they finally arrived by the window. Natasha finally released Shiller's arm. She felt that if she touched him even a second longer, she would be poisoned to death.
Of course, she is the Black Widow. Usually, it's her who poisons others. But physical poison isn't as potent as spiritual venom. Shiller's biggest flaw in front of her is having a mouth.
Standing by the window, Natasha finally had the chance to scrutinize Shiller closely. The man wore a well-tailored custom black three-piece suit. The shoulder line was the extremely vintage high style of a British-style suit, while the waistline was tapered and neat like an Italian suit. The tie was a deep red, matching the color of her dress, a rare highlight in the otherwise solemnly vintage suit. Despite half an hour ago, he had delivered a ten-minute unfriendly critique on the color of this tie, as if persuading God to eliminate red from the world.
Natasha had to admit that she found this Shiller interesting. In fact, she didn't care which man's suit tie matched the color of her dress, but she stubbornly insisted that Shiller use this tie, even patiently listening to all his opinions about the color red.
In fact, she felt it incredible that she could make Shiller use the deep red tie. Because this Shiller in front of her is the most inhumane person Natasha has ever seen. He is extremely stubborn, following a certain immutable pattern of behavior, as if no one in this world could change him.
Yet out of a sense of curiosity and provocation, Natasha insisted on her opinion. She believed that what ultimately defeated him was the phrase "A polite person should show respect to the other in attire when the occasion calls for the presence of two people simultaneously". Natasha felt the key might be in "politeness", as if preaching to an uncooperative child.
Or perhaps not. Natasha carefully recalled the incident in the cloakroom. It could have been that after their argument lasting over ten minutes, she couldn't help but curse in Russian, and then Shiller finally gave up his stubbornness, resignedly putting on that red tie.
Strange events happen every year, but there are especially many this year. Why aren't people in this cosmos allergic to red, yet they're even more willing to listen to Russian? Some can only understand Russian?
Natasha never thought she would possess such an advantage with her mother tongue, but now she felt she should make good use of it. She didn't believe those murders in this cosmos had nothing to do with the man in front of her.
"Shiller?" Natasha whispered, "Would you like a drink? (Russian)"
The eyes, which were originally intently staring out the window, instantly turned around. Natasha, somewhat surprised, raised her eyes. It seemed like she found a way to deal with this inhumane Shiller.
"Champagne or whiskey? (Russian)" Natasha chuckled, "Care for some cheese? (Russian)"
Natasha saw a momentary daze in Shiller. She immediately realized why Russian particularly attracted his attention. This reminded Natasha of what Shiller said that day.
"You have a great tombstone in your heart." Shiller's voice echoed. The first time she listened, Natasha focused too much on the content of the words, missing the complex emotion that briefly flashed in the tone.
Got you. Natasha thought to herself.
"What are you thinking about?" Shiller suddenly asked, "Using your self-thought superior psychology skills, picking up any differences from my past words, thinking you've caught my weakness?"
Natasha extended a hand, making a stopping gesture, then said, "First, turn off your mind-reading technique and listen to mine."
"Isn't the saying 'A dog's mouth can't spit ivory' ruder than not wearing a red tie? Mrs. Romanoff?"
"Be quiet for a moment. (Russian)" Natasha said, "Give me a chance to guess. If I'm wrong, you can correct me. How about that? (Russian)"
"If you're really bored, take a walk upstairs." Shiller reached out to take the wine glass from the waiter's hand, looking up towards the upper floor, "The Penguin Man should show up soon. He's determined to catch the audacious copycat daring to kill on his turf. He'll definitely use this banquet to ferret them out."
"I have no interest in the Penguin Man or the copycat." Natasha's Adam's apple moved as she spoke, "Right now, I just want to know what's going on with you."
"You want to shoot me? Or dig out my heart?"
"No, no, no, that's too boring. How can I reciprocate to your Mind Reading Technique in such a mediocre way?" Natasha was well aware of how much she resembled a beautiful venomous spider when she laughed. Although she was not good at reasoning and had nothing to do with psychology, people always manage to overcome all difficulties when doing bad things.
"You have a Russian friend." Natasha said, "To be precise, a Soviet friend? No, from your expression, it's not as simple as just friends. He has a certain control over you. Your adoptive father or mother?"
Natasha carefully observed Shiller's expression but didn't detect much. She had no choice but to say, "I'll use the Exhaustion Method. Adoptive father? Mother? Siblings? Teacher? Doctor?"
Shiller's expression remained unchanged. Natasha lightly pressed her lips. "Comrade? (Russian)"
Shiller still remained silent. Natasha was also silent.
The wine and light between them suddenly transformed into the same massive 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 lengthy epic. Natasha dared not continue her questions, fearing that she would see the name Shiller remembered next to her own on the subsequent page.
"Father. (Russian)"
As soon as she heard Shiller speak Russian, Natasha was shocked. She knew Shiller spoke many languages. English, of course, went without saying, he was fluent in Chinese, also spoke French and Italian, and had dabbled in Spanish. But Russian? She had never heard it.
Even though Greed claimed in Congress to be a remnant of the Soviet Union, and people speculated he might have had a Soviet lover, Natasha had never truly believed that Shiller had any real connection with people from that country. The female agent understood it was merely a stance used to oppose Congress.
But now Natasha was sure she saw another part of Shiller's soul, deeply influenced by someone intricately connected to her own homeland, to the point where hearing a familiar accent caused a moment of dazed bewilderment.
This was something only people from that era would know. Old Russian was a language with very low information density, and precisely because it was not very advanced, it often became distorted during dissemination, with accents that varied wildly, spawning Ukrainian, Belarusian, and even Polish-Russian hybrid languages.
When the young country was first established, people from all over had very different accents, making communication challenging. Thus, they internally promoted a "standard Mandarin" based on the northern Russian accent, requiring all personnel within agencies to learn and use it.
In the era Natasha lived in, she learned this accent in the Red Room and continued to use it to this day. Most government officials and intellectuals of her time used this "official dialect accent."
But after the dissolution, perhaps to escape the shadows of the past and to emphasize individuality in democratic elections, the government officials of the Russian era leaned towards using different regional accents, and the education system no longer emphasized Mandarin. This made the official dialect accent a unique hallmark of that era.
"The person who spoke to me has a very similar accent, right? (Russian)" Natasha asked.
Shiller nodded. "Yes. (Russian)"
Natasha scrutinized Shiller again, seemingly looking for more remnants of the past on him. But he seemed to hide it well. Natasha found nothing.
"Can you speak longer sentences? (Russian)"
Shiller no longer spoke. Natasha was sure he could understand; he just chose not to speak. She turned her head to glance at the center of the venue. The band hadn't arrived yet, indicating there was still plenty of social time. She could take advantage of the situation.
"I'm very interested in spiritual analysis. Maybe you can observe something more in me." Natasha said, "The Penguin Man probably won't come for a while, so you can talk more. This time I promise not to interrupt you."
"Are you really just retaliating because I poked at you?" Shiller held the wine glass against his lips, "Though it might not be very polite to say, ma'am, but your current attitude resembles that of a betrayed madwoman desperately wanting to dig up her deceased husband's grave."
Natasha was silent. After a while, she spoke, "To punish him for not loving me?"
"To confirm he's truly dead."