C89 Disgusting!

The sound was jarring and utterly irritating.

In a flash, it yanked Olivia from her reverie back to the harsh light of day.

Olivia turned to see who was at the window, her mood souring instantly.

Outside, grinning with that signature smug smirk, was Westley. Who else could it be?

Drenched in sweat, his grin was shamelessly triumphant, making her visibly uncomfortable.

"Why are you here?" Olivia asked with an icy edge to her voice.

"I'm out for a run. Can't you see I'm sweating?" Westley fibbed.

To make it seem like he was earnestly exercising, Westley wiped off his face, feigning a downpour of perspiration.

Olivia turned her face away in disdain, her features as frosty as a winter's day.

"You ran all the way here?" she questioned, skepticism lacing her words.

She found it hard to believe Westley.

From the Rogers family estate to this point was easily over ten kilometers.

"Yeah, I've been running since last night. Did you forget?" Westley said, batting his eyelashes innocently.

A memory struck Olivia.

Last night, he had "left home," and she hadn't expected him to turn up here of all places.

"So, you're skipping work at the company? Do you no longer care about your job?" Olivia deftly changed the subject.

"The job's just a front, as both of us know very well. So, there's no need for you to try so hard to push me away. I can just keep my distance," Westley conceded.

Olivia remained silent, giving Westley a long look.

Internally, she wavered but didn't validate Westley's words.

Her heart was already wholly claimed by another.

Seeing Westley only reminded her that he was her husband in name only, which filled her with revulsion, anger, and an inexplicable rage!

For someone with her need for mental purity, his presence was intolerable.

Westley simply had no place in her life, let alone her line of sight.

"I don't need your input on what I do. Just mind your own business," she retorted frostily.

With that, Olivia hit the gas and sped off with poise.

"He's got her throwing fits of temper, so things must be going pretty well," Westley mused with a smile.

But his amusement faded when he noticed the desolate surroundings of the Freeman Mansion, and he let out a wail directed at the departing car's exhaust.

"Honey, there's no car around. Could you give me a lift?"

"Freeman really doesn't play fair. He sent a car just for me when I arrived, but now that I'm leaving, I'm left high and dry."

Westley grumbled like a man with a grievance, continuing his way in the growing darkness.

The evening air was refreshingly cool.

Westley reached an overpass.

The overpass wasn't crowded. A blind man in sunglasses played "The Moon's Reflection on the Second Spring," with a porcelain bowl set out for alms.

Westley dropped a hundred-yuan bill into the bowl before the blind man. Then, leaning on the bridge railing, he surveyed the Lindzac City nightscape, silently smoking.

The city was a tapestry of light, bustling with traffic and throngs of people.

Such a beautiful city, such a beautiful life—sadly, the Hidden Dragon Squad would never see it again.

Living alone was truly terrifying.

But Westley had to keep living.

He had to live well.

He needed to uncover the villain behind the Hidden Dragon Squad's downfall, to exact revenge with his own hands.

Lost in thought, Westley's keen senses picked up an anomaly.

Instinctively, he glanced aside and noticed a quartet approaching from the other end of the overpass.

The leader was a tall figure with shoulder-length hair, clad in a black leather jacket and sunglasses, embracing a petite woman.

Though short, the woman had a stunning figure. Despite the cold, she wore only a stretchy tank top, her arms as delicate as young lotus stems, her toned abs visible.

Beneath her chestnut hair was a face as flawless as a doll's.

Trailing them was a towering man, his dark skin and stern features giving him a formidable presence. He was dressed in faded work clothes and slung with an enormous backpack, its contents a mystery.

Bringing up the rear was a man of average height, donning a cap and mask, with only his slender eyes visible.

Judging solely by appearance, he was the most unremarkable among the four.

Yet, Westley sensed an irregularity in his gait; he limped, but not like someone with a disability.

Westley surmised it was a deliberate style of walking.

Despite his keen hearing, Westley couldn't detect any sound from the man's footsteps.

The man seemed to notice Westley's gaze and abruptly lifted his head.

His eyes twinkled, bending into crescents – it was Westley's first encounter with someone whose eyes could smile.

Westley also noted a chilling sharpness in his gaze.

"These four are likely no ordinary folk; they've probably taken lives," Westley concluded swiftly.

The dashing man with long hair must be a master with a handgun, given the thick calluses on his fingers.

The woman appeared to be an assassination expert, with movements that were free yet perpetually poised for attack.

Only someone with Westley's extensive battlefield experience could discern such subtleties.

The burly man resembled a flesh-and-bone tank.

But the one who baffled Westley the most was the last in line.

He was exceedingly plain, ambling with a casualness as if strolling through his own backyard.

Were it not for his peculiar walk and the smile that played on his lips, Westley might have doubted his association with the trio.

Westley continued to draw on his cigarette, unflinchingly holding his stance.

The quartet approached him, drawing ever nearer.

Suddenly, Westley caught a whiff of a faint, blood-tinged scent.

Three years off the battlefield, yet the smell of blood was still unmistakable to him.

"There's someone playing the urheen over there."

The diminutive woman noticed the beggar with the urheen and dashed over, crouching down to listen intently.

Her crouch was unapologetically bold.

Blinking her large eyes, she pouted like a porcelain doll.

The group of four came to a halt.

Instinctively, Westley shifted his weight to one side.

Balancing on one foot, he poised the other on the railing's edge, ready for any sudden onslaught.

Observing the petite woman's actions, the Longhaired Man crouched down as well.

His gaze settled on the porcelain bowl before the blind man, and a sly grin suddenly played at the corners of his mouth.

The man with the long hair reached out stealthily, making a grab for the hundred-yuan note in the blind man's bowl.

But before his fingers could even graze the rim, another hand seized his wrist in a firm grip.

"You're actually stealing from a blind man! That's despicable!"