The ballroom of the upper-class society is always lively but not excessively noisy. Well-dressed n and won with noble deanors adhere to the sa set of guidelines: they do not force their way into the dance floor when it’s crowded; and when the lively atmosphere becos sowhat stagnant due to an empty dance floor, they are more than willing to offer themselves, becoming a fragrant spice in this cup of aromatic hot red wine, modestly yet gracefully showcasing their beauty.
But so people are naturally more eye-catching than others, like Bruce Wayne. And if currently dancing in his arms is Natasha Romanoff, the suspected forr Soviet female agent recently exposed, who happens to be a hundred tis more beautiful than in the photos, it’s as if a nuclear bomb is dropped into the ocean of human attention, and no one can avoid turning their heads.
Natasha’s red hair looks like a dazzling fla, and when she spins, every move leaves traces like spreading sparks, igniting the entire dance floor in an instant. Before this, almost no one believed that one person could stand beside Bruce Wayne and not be overshadowed, yet Natasha, with her beauty as sharp as a knife, pierced through Wayne’s veil of wealth and power.
The rhythm of the music gradually softened, indicating that the the on the dance floor shifted from dance to socializing. Arkham Batman, holding Natasha, slowly moved to the edge of the dance floor, whispering in her ear: "During that last song, at least 50 people were staring at you intently."
"How do you know they weren’t staring at ?"
"Ever since I beca president, those who covet my good looks have restrained themselves a lot, at least not daring to stare so openly for so long. So they must be staring at you."
"Do you think there’s soone behind the scenes among them?"
"Possibly." Arkham Batman’s voice grew deeper, "I’m certain so of them harbor ill intentions; they would be more willing to see you as the beginning of the decline of my administration."
"Thanks to you, I’m afraid I can’t be an agent in this cosmos anymore. But the position of ’President’s lover’ doesn’t quite suit either. Believe it or not, I don’t really enjoy acquiring intelligence through social interactions."
"That’s okay, maybe soon they won’t have the ti to worry about your identity. Alright, my dear, I think you should go to the restroom to touch up your makeup."
The two left the dance floor. Natasha subtly scanned everyone’s face in the banquet hall—there were too many ill-intentioned people, making it impossible to determine which malice was the strongest. However, when she left Arkham Batman’s embrace, everyone’s eyes followed her.
Natasha headed towards the nearest restroom. She deliberately walked slowly, just to give soone a chance to catch up. She noticed a few elegantly dressed socialites approaching her, but their jewelry indicated they were experiencing so economic crisis, and their attempts to curry favor were too apparent—not her target.
There were also so young ladies. Of course, they appeared much better: wearing dresses worth millions, with jewelry from head to toe that could buy a building in Gotham, their expressions haughty, their gaze undisguisedly disdainful. Clearly, at so point, they and their families envisioned becoming the future First Lady.
Then ca the n. Those covetous glances did not sway Natasha, and so were purely appreciative. Natasha guessed these people’s orientations might be Bruce Wayne. So showed obvious wariness, as if wishing to have "Cold War Victim" written on their faces, and there were so younger children’s curiosity.
None of this information was useful. Natasha pressed her lips together, completely unlike other socialites who would nod and smile at everyone. She simply maintained a stern look and walked all the way to the restroom.
She did not imdiately stand in front of the makeup mirror to touch up her makeup but instead entered a stall in the restroom. She simply stood there, carefully listening to the sounds outside the door. Her excellent agent training allowed her to judge whether a person was trained based on their footsteps.
A few girls ca in, discussing her matter with undisguised disdain in their tone. They kept chirping, which disrupted Natasha’s hearing. And when the girls left, she keenly sensed there was still soone in the restroom.
Since the person didn’t move, Natasha couldn’t judge their body type or know if they had a weapon. Though she was confident her surprise attack could instantly take down anyone, she also knew she was here as bait today—missing today, the mastermind might not appear again.
Natasha took a deep breath, pretending nothing had happened, and pressed the flush button. The mont she pushed the door open, she only saw a cleaner tidying up a toolbox.
The work clothes were washed-white, fingers showed traces of bleach, a spot of foam residue marked the cheek, the body was thin, and steps were feeble—all of which said: no traces of training.
But Natasha was also well aware that with the advancent of modern chemistry and dicine, the possibility of an untrained ordinary person taking down an agent is not zero, likely with anesthetics, sedatives, or other drugs.
Natasha acted as if she noticed nothing, stepping past the cleaner. Then, unsurprisingly, the cleaner took sothing out of the toolbox and covered her mouth and nose from behind.
Slling the familiar scent, Natasha sighed inwardly. This dose of anesthetic couldn’t possibly affect her, and even for ordinary people, it would only cause short-term dizziness. It seed the opponent hoped she would wake up quickly after being knocked out, clear-minded to exchange with others—truly a madman.
Natasha pretended to faint, clearly feeling herself being dragged. But the opponent was crafty, bringing a janitor’s cart to put her in the box, and wheeling around the building for several turns, taking the elevator up and down, finally stopping in a dimly lit room.
Natasha knew she should now be in a room on the top floor. The opponent apparently never thought she wouldn’t be knocked out and could judge the number of floors traveled by the elevator ascent ti. As Shiller said, the mastermind deed her an ordinary agent, possibly just a vase who relied on beauty, not taking her seriously, and with minimal precaution.
Natasha thought the opponent probably allocated most of the effort to guard against Batman. After all, logically, the threat of a female agent couldn’t be greater than that of Batman.
As the box was opened, Natasha felt herself tied to a chair with ordinary handcuffs, the kind that could be easily escaped using a dislocation thod. Of course, Natasha wouldn’t use that thod, because she could simply snap the handcuffs.
The lights in the room turned on. Natasha knew it was ti to open her eyes. She was too lazy to keep acting and didn’t pretend to wake up from a coma; she just opened her eyes.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t imdiately see the behind-the-scenes manipulator. A Black man stood in front of her, looking a bit surprised at the way she woke up.
"So you were awake all along, Mrs. Romanoff," he said. "I’m sorry to invite you here in this manner, ma’am, but we have so questions regarding the President."
Natasha didn’t want to beat around the bush. She said, "I know you’re not after the President. Where is she?"
"What?"
"A red-haired woman," Natasha said. "Her appearance should resemble mine sowhat, but she’s further from Batman than I am."
Natasha tried to provoke him with these words, but the Black man remained unmoved. Natasha began to survey her surroundings: she was under a skylight, and there must be soone upstairs. To avoid alerting them, she had to feign civility and circle around with the man.
After chatting for a while and probing without useful information, Natasha simply broke free from the handcuffs, knocked down the Black man with a swing punch, and smashed the chandelier with a Widow’s Bite. The first floor plunged into darkness, and Natasha turned to head upstairs.
She treaded lightly and focused on the sounds coming from upstairs. Just as one foot stepped onto the second-floor landing, the lights there suddenly went out too.
As the wind noise rose, Natasha sorsaulted onto the second floor, glanced back, and her punch was dodged by the opponent, followed by a sweeping kick that also missed.
The darkness amplified her senses. Natasha heard the sound of a gun being loaded. With a muffled "bang," a bullet flew from a silenced pistol and hit Natasha’s calf, but the agent didn’t pause for a mont and delivered a kick in the direction the bullet ca from.
Feeling the kick land solidly, Natasha instinctively followed up with an elbow strike and then a whip kick, hitting the opponent’s gun-holding arm. Realizing the opponent was a woman of similar body type to hers, Natasha didn’t dare to rashly use the Widow’s Bite for fear the Venom might be lethal, so she resorted to kicking her opponent in the stomach, knocking her to the ground.
The kick felt off—her opponent’s body fat was too low, and she had tensed her abdominal muscles before impact, clear signs of training. Could the red-haired woman be an agent too?
Natasha drew out a concealed pistol from her calf, switched on its tiny flashlight, revealing a very unfamiliar face—a petite white woman, neither red-haired nor resembling Natasha in the slightest, very young, like a student from a police academy.
"An impressive display," a voice called from the first floor.
Natasha turned and shone the flashlight but didn’t see the shadow of the speaker. She slowly descended and saw a tape recorder appear on the once-empty floor. She realized she had been tricked.
The puppeteer had seen through her baiting plan, sending only an inconsequential intern to spar with her briefly. But she didn’t believe the opponent went to such lengths just to fool her for entertainnt.
Sure enough, the next second, journalists burst through the door, flashlights bright as moonlight. The young woman she had knocked down lay painfully on the ground, quickly recognized as one of the President’s security advisors, the young Trish Tawar.
"She attacked !" the woman shouted, "And Mark! She nearly killed him! Because we uncovered her plot to alter the President’s routine visit itinerary, she sabotaged Arica’s diplomacy with the Amazon!"
Natasha lowered her eyes, thinking: Clever, so this is the setup. Want her to fight against Wonder Woman?
"Gotham Daily, why did you do this? Miss Romanoff, are you a KGB spy?!"
"Gotham River Evening News, what’s your purpose in approaching the President? How did you allure him? Can you answer our questions?"
"I’m a reporter from tropolis Planet Daily. Do you admit to attacking the President’s security personnel, ma’am?"
Natasha had no ti to listen to them. She rembered what Shiller had told her about certain psychopathic psychology and began to scan the crowd with her eyes—until she caught sight of blazing red hair.
"Stop! Don’t run!!!"
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