Chapter 14: Gift – Do You Really Like It That Much?

In the following days of training, Verlaine pushed himself even harder than before.

No matter how Rimbaud designed the regimen to test his physical limits, Verlaine would silently persevere until the end even when his clothes were soaked through with sweat and his breathing came in ragged, damp gasps.

Endurance training to temper his will, comprehensive physical conditioning and combat techniques, reconnaissance and counter-reconnaissance, emergency response drills, adaptation and survival in extreme environments…

These were merely the foundational requirements to become an exceptional Special Agent.

As for the more specialized skills that demanded extensive time to master such as multiple languages and cultures, intelligence gathering and analysis, emotional and psychological resilience, interrogation and anti-interrogation techniques, identity concealment, mainstream cryptography and decryption, electronic devices and technical applications, accurate insight and decision-making in complex situations Rimbaud could only teach them sporadically.

Fortunately, since Verlaine would be accompanying him on missions, Rimbaud could prioritize these trainings by urgency, ensuring Verlaine first mastered the most critical skills that didn’t require excessive time investment.

Truth be told, even most current operatives within DGSE and DGSS needed one to two years to fully master these competencies.

Unlike them, however, Verlaine also had vast amounts of general knowledge to acquire everything in this world remained new and unfamiliar to him.

That he persevered without complaint was already remarkable and exceptional. Though Rimbaud never openly praised Verlaine for this, maintaining his usual stern and merciless demeanor during training…

The accumulating appreciation in his heart inevitably seeped through in subtle details.

Like on those starless late nights when Rimbaud, preparing to sleep, would always hear the melody drifting from Verlaine’s adjacent room faint and intermittent, the mere 27-second piece playing on repeat, lasting for hours.

Do you really like it that much?

Rimbaud closed his eyes, a genuine smile touching his lips.

Tomorrow, I’ll make more of his favorite dishes.

…………

A few days later, Rimbaud finally received the confirmation for Verlaine’s psychological evaluation appointment that Mr. Gao had arranged.

Thus, when Verlaine dressed and ready as usual stood at the doorway today, he heard:

“Rest day today.”

That these words came from Rimbaud’s mouth made Verlaine’s eyes widen in astonishment, almost doubting his hearing.

Immediately, he straightened his expression, adopting a battle-ready seriousness.

“Mission?”

He remembered Rimbaud receiving a document folder days earlier but never disclosing its contents or indicating any new assignment.

“Not fully prepared yet. I’m waiting for the signal.”

Rimbaud shook his head slightly. “This operation is special we’re heading to conflict zones in the Middle East. The forged identities required are particularly complex. The disguise experts in operations said they need more time.”

Verlaine still lacked concrete geographical understanding of where the Middle East was located.

But he simply responded, “Mm,” waiting for Rimbaud to continue.

After all, he didn’t truly believe he would be granted an entire day of rest.

Even his body had grown accustomed to high-intensity extreme training. He could feel his mental focus and physical stamina steadily improving, and his adaptability to balance and flexibility exercises was increasing as well.

At the very least, he no longer accidentally fell off the I-beams while walking blindfolded.

Since the gravity he imposed on himself could completely neutralize the impact of any fall, there were never any serious consequences except for the blow to his pride, which refused to accept failure.

Overall, however, Verlaine didn’t resent this overly demanding and exhausting lifestyle, especially since Rimbaud was accompanying him throughout.

“Today…” Rimbaud paused briefly, choosing a more tactful phrasing, “we’ll be attending psychological counseling together.”

Verlaine: “……”

Verlaine frowned in confusion. “Psychological counseling? For both of us?”

Aside from finding that plump woman’s words nauseating, Verlaine didn’t believe he had suffered any psychological harm whatsoever.

As for Rimbaud, he appeared completely unfazed it was hard to imagine a single mission leaving even the slightest mark on him.

In fact, Verlaine often found it difficult to discern Rimbaud’s true thoughts. The latter always carried himself with unshakable composure, as if nothing could ever trouble him.

“It’s a standard post-mission procedure to ensure we don’t develop trauma or similar aftereffects,” Rimbaud explained, his expression as calm and natural as ever. He simply checked his watch to confirm the time, treating it as nothing more than a routine task assigned by their superiors a tedious but mandatory formality.

Everyone had to go through it, but no one took it seriously.

Hearing that this wasn’t another test specifically targeting him, Verlaine visibly relaxed his tense posture.

“Well, alright then.”

Verlaine shifted aside to let Rimbaud unlock the specially reinforced door and lead him outside, stepping onto the morning sun-drenched streets.

Instead of heading to their usual secret base disguised as an abandoned factory, they took a bus toward the more central part of the city.

“What kind of questions will they ask?” Verlaine whispered to Rimbaud midway, seeking guidance. “How should I answer to make it appropriate?”

“Just answer truthfully. They’re all very simple questions.”

Since this wasn’t genuine psychological counseling, Rimbaud who had never participated in such evaluations couldn’t accurately describe the process or content. But based on the psychological knowledge he’d acquired during his training, he assumed it wouldn’t be too different.

At the very least, Rimbaud wasn’t worried about Verlaine failing the mental health assessment.

After all, even in that notebook, Verlaine had chosen betrayal of his own volition not due to external pressures, especially not from the French government or DGSS.

On the slightly bumpy bus, Rimbaud’s golden eyes flickered as he glanced sideways at Verlaine, who was leaning against the window to feel the breeze.

Verlaine still wasn’t quite accustomed to enclosed vehicles with their peculiar smells. His lips were pressed together unconsciously, his breathing shallow, and his gaze fixed intently on the scenery rushing past outside.

Perhaps annoyed by the way the wind blowing through the window gaps kept obscuring his vision with his hair and the constant brushing against his cheeks was uncomfortable he propped his elbow on the window frame and used his palm to press down all those unruly strands.

From the time he rescued him to their period of cohabitation, Rimbaud hadn’t observed any signs that would ultimately lead to the other’s betrayal. All developments had progressed reasonably and steadily under control.

Rimbaud frowned slightly in his heart.

Could it have been the tremendous shock from that final mission?

The notes were too vague, only mentioning that they had carried out a highly dangerous mission in an enemy nation one with [no material support, no backup from headquarters, and no internal collaborators].

The outcome of that mission was exceptionally brutal: DGSS permanently lost a pair of top-tier special agent partners. In exchange, he lost all his memories and drifted in the enemy nation until his death; while Verlaine cast off worldly moral constraints and became the [King of Assassins] who struck fear throughout the world.

Were there still overlooked details he hadn’t noticed?

Rimbaud watched Verlaine for a while without speaking.

But unlike his previous perceptual dullness, the trained Verlaine had finally developed an awareness to maintain vigilance toward his surroundings. He clearly realized Rimbaud had been staring at him since earlier.

He initially thought Rimbaud had something to say, but after waiting, no words came.

Was he just spacing out?

Verlaine felt uncertain, but then reconsidered what if Rimbaud was silently evaluating his training progress? If he showed no reaction, wouldn’t he be judged as failing again?

“Rimbaud?”

So he actively withdrew his gaze from the window, replacing his question with a soft call.

“…It’s nothing. I was just distracted.”

After a moment of silence, Verlaine finally heard Rimbaud’s explanation.

He nodded without further inquiry even though compared to usual, the other’s reaction had been slightly unusual.

Perhaps the psychological counseling he was about to receive wasn’t… ordinary?

After much thought, Verlaine could only connect it to their upcoming destination and silently heightened his alertness.

If what awaited was actually an assessment, he wasn’t ready to be eliminated yet.

After getting off the bus and switching to walking, Rimbaud led Verlaine into an imposing high-rise in the city center. This neighborhood could be considered the area least shadowed by war, still bustling with flowing crowds mixed with shouts and honking sounds.

This was Verlaine’s first time here, and he examined everything around him with intense curiosity:

Potted flowers at the entrance, polished glass revolving doors, adults in suits and ties… Everything was so orderly, like screws embedded in the modern city.

“I thought it would be somewhere more concealed.”

The place was too quiet, making him instinctively whisper to Rimbaud.

“She receives regular clients too… well, those not from security departments.”

Rimbaud replied equally softly, “This is just one of her office locations.”

Different from what Verlaine imagined or remembered from the cold white observation room he entered a bright and spacious room.

The walls were adorned with elegant textured plain wallpaper. Three comfortable single armchairs were placed by the window, with a low table nearby holding landscape photo frames, cute doll ornaments, and several fresh flowers in a glass vase.

Within his field of vision, Verlaine could hardly spot any cold, hard edges or dark colors. Everything was composed of gentle curves, adorned in soft hues like cream, pale blue, and warm yellow.

Sunlight streaming through the large windows imbued the space with a warm and tranquil atmosphere, devoid of any hint of aggression that might warrant caution.

Verlaine first cautiously surveyed this highly unfamiliar “observation room” before letting his gaze settle on the young woman occupying one of the sofas leaning forward with her legs crossed and chin propped on one hand, she was smiling cheerfully at him.

Two other empty sofas sat opposite her, clearly reserved for him and Rimbaud.

“Finished looking?”

Noticing Verlaine was finally willing to meet her eyes, she grinned and gestured for him to take a seat, her demeanor remarkably casual.

Verlaine didn’t respond, quietly walking over and choosing a sofa to sit in still maintaining his habitual upright posture, hands resting properly on his knees rather than on the armrests.

A standard and impeccable sitting posture, flawless in every way.

“My full name is too long just call me Mary.”

Once Rimbaud had also settled into the other sofa, Mary introduced herself, even winking playfully at Verlaine first before turning to Rimbaud.

“Yachong… Oh, you go by Rimbaud now, right?” she teased with a laugh “When I first heard you were raising a pretty boy, I didn’t believe it. But he really is quite lovely no wonder you’ve been guarding him so closely.”

The atmosphere abruptly grew deathly quiet.

Verlaine: “…………”

Rimbaud: “…………”

Verlaine: “…I’m not a boy.”

Rimbaud: “…I’m not guarding him because he’s pretty.”

Verlaine immediately turned to stare at Rimbaud.

Feeling the weight of his gaze, Rimbaud: “………”

After a moment of restraint, Rimbaud couldn’t hold back.

“Why are you here?”

But instead of meeting Verlaine’s eyes, he unusually confronted his colleague directly.

“Shouldn’t you be on a mission in Ireland right now, Cleef?”