Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1373 - 662: Victor? An Imbecile!

At nine o'clock the next morning, in the Presidential Palace's press conference room, Casare appeared before the reporters on ti.

The lights below flashed unreservedly.

"In the past three months, violent incidents against xican immigrants in Spain have resulted in 13 deaths and dozens of injuries."

He slamd a stack of case file copies onto the table, "The student attack at Atocha Station, the restaurant arson in Barcelona, the serial killings outside Madrid—these are not isolated events but a systematic violation of the basic rights of xican citizens."

"The Spanish governnt's inaction is not a simple lapse in law enforcent but a blatant disregard for the dignity of the xican nation."

Casare's voice echoed through the microphone across the venue, "We demand the Spanish governnt to imdiately conduct independent investigations into all cases, disclose the enforcent records of the police officers, and provide a clear explanation of the investigation progress within 72 hours. This is not a request, it's a diplomatic note."

An hour later, the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs issued a statent through official channels, with arrogant wording.

"The baseless accusations from the xican side are completely unfounded. The recent cases have, according to preliminary investigations, been linked to gang conflicts, primarily involving territorial disputes among xican gangs."

The statent emphasized: "The Spanish governnt consistently guarantees the rights of all legal residents according to the law. However, for certain groups with inherent violent tendencies and instability attributes, we are adopting necessary asures to strengthen control. We suggest the xican governnt address its dostic cri export issues first rather than criticizing the internal affairs of other countries."

The final sentence bore undisguised sarcasm: "Rather than creating hype in a press conference room, why not spend so effort fixing your own economy? Does Victor know what the economy ans? We know he doesn't have any remarkable educational background."

The statent soaked in arrogance from the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs made its way back to xico, instantly boiling the streets over.

Thousands of protesters gathered at Constitution Plaza, waving green, white, and red flags, stomping on simulated images of the Spanish flag, chanting slogans like "Down with Spanish colonizers" and "Blood for blood," their voices thunderous.

So, even more agitated, rushed into the city center's Spanish red-light district, overturning food trucks selling Iberian ham.

Within just half a day, four violent incidents targeting Spanish immigrants occurred across xico. In Guadalajara, a Spanish businessman running a winery was surrounded and beaten by protesters, sustaining a broken arm. In Monterrey, a Spanish-run dance school was splashed with paint, and the flanco guitar model at the entrance was snapped.

So even started openly collecting the addresses of Spanish residents, their words filled with hostility.

At three in the afternoon, the xico Presidential Palace had to issue an ergency announcent, with Casare personally appearing onscreen, "We understand the public's anger, but violence is never the answer. Attacks on innocent people play directly into the hands of certain forces. Keeping rational and adhering to the rule of law is the strongest counter to arrogance."

See, how civilized our leader is!

The autumn night in Paris was filled with the mingled scents of champagne and perfu.

Costa, the Treasury Minister of the Catalonia Autonomous Governnt, was attending an economic forum on the banks of the Seine River in a private capacity. During the forum's tea break, he t a British woman nad Isabella on the terrace. She wore a well-cut gray suit, her conversation laced with the unique sharpness of the London Financial City, and her insights into the European economic situation coincided with Costa's own views.

"Mr. Costa's economic proposals for the Catalonia independence referendum are simply a genius concept," Isabella said as she raised her glass, her earrings' diamonds flashing under the light, "Unfortunately, those old guys in Madrid will never understand."

This apt complint hit Costa right where it mattered.

The two chatted from Pound Zone inflation to the developnt rights of the North Sea Oil Field, becoming increasingly congenial. Before the forum ended, they paired off into a nearby five-star hotel.

The room's crystal light had not yet been dimd when Costa's hand was brushing over Isabella's unbuttoned shirt when a series of violent kicks at the door interrupted them.

Before the two could react, four or five burly n wearing black hoods burst through the door, and flashlights exploded like lightning, the sound of cara shutters as dense as hail hitting glass.

Costa instinctively pulled the quilt to cover his body, but one of the n yanked off the sheet from Costa's head, and a cara lens was shoved directly in his frightened face, while another person recorded the chaotic scene on a phone: scattered clothes, overturned wine glasses, and the "Do Not Disturb" sign still hanging on the wall.

"Seems like Mr. Costa's private life is more exciting than the forum topics."

The leading brute, with a heavy Eastern European accent, slapped a Polaroid photo onto Costa's chest, his face contorted in shock.

As the flashlights died down, Costa glimpsed a snake tattoo peeking from under one person's wrist, the sight making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—Hydra!!!!

Why would this world's most notorious "organization" target soone so insignificant as him?

Costa's pupils contracted sharply in the dim light, the Hydra snake tattoo writhing on his retinas like a living thing, tearing through his composure with bloody tales about this organization. He

rolled off the bed in a rush, his expensive silk robe twisted out of shape, his knees hitting the carpet hard yet he felt no pain, only the chattering sound of his teeth could be heard.