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Inside the taxi heading to Heathrow International Airport in England, Fujiwara Che sat in the back seat. He opened a brown paper bag in his hand and carefully took out a thick stack of documents to examine them closely.
Contained within were detailed records of everything about Mary Sera—from her birth to her disappearance. These documents provided an exhaustive account of Mary Sera's life and many of her behavioral habits.
Inside the file, there were also clear photographs of Mary Sera from the front, back, and side.
"She doesn't look like someone her age at all," Fujiwara muttered under his breath.
In terms of age, Mary Sera should be around the same as Vermouth.
Even though she was older, recent photos taken within the past year showed that she had aged gracefully, resembling a mature woman in her early thirties.
However, after being drugged, Mary Sera would now appear as either a grade school or middle school student.
After placing the photos and documents back into the file, Fujiwara arrived at the airport. He paid the driver in pounds, quickly exited the taxi, and entered the terminal.
Heathrow International Airport was similar to most airports around the world—bright and spacious but lacking a certain sense of modern fashion.
After collecting his boarding pass, Fujiwara didn't head to the VIP lounge to rest. Instead, he made his way toward the boarding gate.
Passing by an airport café, Fujiwara paused for a moment, considering buying a cup of coffee.
Just then, someone suddenly bumped into him from behind.
The person who collided with him was petite and soft, with very little strength behind the impact.
As a result, Fujiwara stood firm, while the one who had bumped into him let out a small cry of pain and fell to the ground.
Judging by the voice, it seemed to belong to a young girl.
However, Fujiwara immediately became alert, his hand instinctively reaching for his waist.
Oh, right—he wasn't carrying a gun at the moment.
But it didn't matter. With his current mastery of karate, he was nearly invincible in close combat.
Being a spy, this sort of vigilance was almost second nature to Fujiwara.
He was extremely cautious of any coincidences. For instance, someone bumping into him could mean that an organization was targeting him, planning to attack or steal something important from him.
Fujiwara quickly checked himself over and found that nothing was missing. The file in his hand remained intact.
Only then did he turn his attention to the person who had collided with him.
It was a girl with long pink hair, dressed in a stylish British-style plaid shirt and pleated skirt. She looked fresh and fashionable, pushing a small carry-on suitcase that could fit in the cabin of an airplane.
Her skin was fair, her delicate face exuding youthful energy. She rubbed her bottom, which had landed on the floor, wincing as she sucked in a breath of cold air.
But upon seeing Fujiwara turn around, she quickly got up, bowed deeply, and apologized: "Sorry, I…"
Hearing her broken English and heavy Japanese accent, Fujiwara, wearing sunglasses, raised an eyebrow.
He quickly scanned her, paying particular attention to her hands. She didn't seem like someone who frequently handled guns or was a trained pickpocket.
It appeared that this collision was truly accidental.
At this point, Fujiwara's guard lowered slightly.
Looking at the nervous expression on the girl's face as she fumbled for words to apologize, he smiled and said, "Relax, relax."
Hearing the familiar language, the pink-haired girl's face lit up with joy. Excitedly, she asked, "Are you Japanese?"
"Something like that," Fujiwara replied ambiguously.
Deep down, he considered himself Chinese, but as for his current identity, he technically had no nationality.
As a top CIA agent, his passports could fill an entire drawer. He could claim any nationality he wanted.
Although his response was somewhat strange, the girl didn't dwell on it. Bowing once more, she apologized again:
"I'm really sorry. I was lost in thought and didn't notice you standing there. I feel terrible for bumping into you!"
Seeing the girl bowing at a ninety-degree angle, practically turning into an apology machine, Fujiwara chuckled and said, "It's fine. It's my fault too—I shouldn't have been standing there blocking the way."
"No, no, it's entirely my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."
Realizing that this exchange of apologies could go on forever, Fujiwara interrupted her. "Answer one question for me, and I'll accept your apology."
"Please, ask."
The girl tensed up slightly, instinctively gripping the handle of her suitcase. Was she dealing with some kind of weirdo?
"What kind of coffee do you like? Latte, Mocha, Cappuccino, or Americano?"
The pink-haired girl blinked her bright gray eyes, finding Fujiwara's question odd but still answering, "Mocha, I guess. I like it relatively more…"
Fujiwara nodded and, without another word, walked into the nearby café.
The girl felt confused. She muttered to herself, shook her head, and continued pushing her suitcase toward the boarding gate.
Chihaya Aine couldn't help but feel that she was incredibly unlucky.