Showdown in the Rain

The cold iron cut through the skin, slicing the muscles, resembling a monarch representing the entire external world arrogantly invading the layers of flesh protecting the human body. Many surrendered at the moment of realizing the blade's attack, deeming themselves as powerless victims. However, Jorgen, drawing from countless battle experiences, took action before the pain could spread. He grabbed Aved's right wrist with his left hand, pushing it back to prevent the knife from penetrating further. At this moment, Jorgen observed Aved's eyes, noticing hesitation and an attempt to conceal a ferocious nature, devoid of any visible cruelty, like a soldier trembling behind a cannon despite leveling an entire camp.

As the intense pain set in, Jorgen slammed his forehead into Aved's face. Aved's nose started bleeding, but it didn't deter him from continuing to exert force on the knife. Jorgen rammed into him for a second time, and although Aved anticipated it and moved his head aside, Jorgen resorted to the most primitive attack when the instinct for survival prevailed. He sank his teeth into the side of Aved's neck. Aved screamed not only from the pain but also from the primal fear of teeth tearing into flesh. He pushed Jorgen away, covering his neck as he retreated.

Jorgen spat out a small piece of flesh, pulling out the knife lodged in his abdomen—a hesitant strike that missed a vital spot. Jorgen believed Aved's initial plan was to slash his neck from behind. After a momentary escape, Jorgen realized he was in a chaotic and perilous situation, with Dalia still somewhere unseen. The dual burden on his mind and body intensified, his heart pounding violently, and his limbs nearly losing strength as he knelt on the ground. The previously bearable pain suddenly intensified, as if the blade was still stirring inside him. Aved rushed in, delivering a powerful kick to Jorgen. Jorgen fell, and the weapon belonging to Aved slipped from his left hand. Then, subjected to several vigorous kicks, mainly targeting his abdomen, Jorgen seized the opportunity to grab Aved's ankle and pull him down.

The J-shaped dagger remained in Jorgen's right hand. Just as he was about to thrust it at Aved, Ivanov, on the side, seized his right hand and wrested the weapon away. Aved hastily stood up, delivering a forceful kick to Jorgen's wound. Jorgen, in agonizing pain, limbs contracting, and vision blurring, faintly saw Ivanov tossing his dagger over the parapet. He also witnessed Aved slicing open his left palm—a method to feign a gunshot wound. Such a naive ploy, and yet, he fell for it, precisely at a moment where deception was intolerable.

Aved strained his head to the left, attempting to close the dark red wound on his neck, cursing several times. He picked up his knife, gripping it tightly. As the blade was about to descend upon Jorgen, Ivanov stepped over Jorgen's body, firmly grabbing Aved's collar.

"Aved, what do we do? You said... you said the child is with her. She won't speak. She says nothing. You didn't deceive me, did you?"

"You didn't kill her, did you? If you kill her, how can she talk? You madman," Aved retorted.

"No, I didn't... come with me, Aved. I can't make her talk anymore. You must have a way. You have to help me, you must help me..."

"Get lost." Aved pushed Ivanov away. "Stay still. I'll deal with him first, then deal with that woman."

"Don't kill him! Why are you attacking him? I don't understand. He's Jorgen, from Military Intelligence Section 7, don't you know? Doing this will harm both of us!"

"You've reached your limit anyway." Aved said, then forcefully struck Ivanov's head with the knife handle, knocking him to the ground.

"Aved... why are you doing this?" Jorgen tried to raise his voice. It wasn't the question he truly cared about now, but he needed to delay time to regain strength, hoping to react before the inevitable fatal blow. If it weren't for Ivanov's mention that Dalia was still alive—setting aside the ominous "can't make her talk"—he wouldn't have been able to employ this strategy now.

"You want to know why? Jorgen, you have thousands of ways to force someone to answer this question, but now you're begging me to respond, aren't you? Good question, indeed. Look at you, in this pathetic state." Even in the heavy rain, Aved's breathing remained labored. "Everything happening now, all of this, that's why! See, you're begging me for an answer, afraid of dying without clarity. You, this hypocrite, who do you think you are, the savior of Section Seven? Do you know how much hope I had to be your assistant, and what did you turn me into? A lackey? A gofer? No chance to do anything worthwhile, just spending all my time babysitting your whore, and you humiliating me in front of her? Do you know what others call me in private? Birthday party clown! Oh, Special Agent Jorgen, I should have known that working tirelessly under you would doom myself. What Section Seven needs is me, Aved, not you, making a mess with a woman. Look, you even bit me, not even worth a dog! You've tarnished that silver badge."

"If you want to kill me... you don't need to make it so complicated."

"Killing you was never my first choice. If you want to complain, blame the prosecutor for not cooperating enough. Things didn't have to end so disgracefully. But now... everything is your own doing."

As Aved raised the knife, Jorgen noticed a small figure emerging from the short bushes to his right: Lindy. Holding a gardening shovel, Lindy thrust it toward Aved's left knee. As Aved dropped to one knee, Jorgen struggled to lift himself and lunged forward, knocking Aved down. He pressed his leg against Aved's chest with force. This impact was intense, causing Aved's head to hit the ground, leaving him momentarily unresponsive.

"Give it to me." Jorgen reached out to Lindy, grabbed the shovel, and forcefully thrust its sharp end into the right side of Aved's neck. Jorgen pressed against the wooden handle with his entire upper body, applying downward pressure. Blood sprayed out, splashing into Jorgen's eyes, but he didn't wipe it away. He continued to exert force with his eyes tightly closed. When he felt the shovel touch the soil, it took several more seconds before Jorgen used the back of his right hand to wipe his face, opened his eyes, and saw Aved's contorted face in agony as he died. Jorgen released the shovel, stood up, and his hands went limp, fingers trembling.

"Jorgen, Jorgen," Lindy gasped for breath, bloodstains dried on his left temple. "You're injured."

Jorgen glanced back at Lindy and then at the lifeless body of Ivanov lying on the ground.

"I really want to settle the score with this guy right now."

Jorgen didn't hear Lindy's words, and he had no intention of asking anything, as if Lindy didn't exist at all. Perhaps Lindy said something like, "I'll go get help" or perhaps he walked away; these were all possibilities Jorgen didn't care about. He covered his wound and continued walking along the path. The rain showed no signs of letting up. The wound continued to bleed, not just from the abdomen, but it seemed there were bleeding spots on his face and hands, though he wasn't entirely sure. After the ugliest and most chaotic fight of his life, he survived, but the words associated with victory didn't appear in his mind, even for a moment. He couldn't walk fast, as if taking slightly larger steps would throw off his balance and make him fall. Rain whipped against his eyelids, and the wet mud hindered his footsteps. These seemingly inconspicuous elements of nature, on any other day, now radiated a chilling resentment, directed at Jorgen alone. They wanted to exhaust Jorgen's strength with impure thoughts, soaking his clothes and making his steps difficult. But Jorgen had no other choice.

Dalia. On the journey to the central courtyard, Jorgen struggled to move his neck and looked around. Didn't see her. Still didn't. Still didn't. Still didn't. None, none, none. He saw countless raindrops coming towards him, as if each droplet had eyes, mocking his foolishness. It seemed every leaf had grown a mouth, jeering at his mistakes. The real mockery and scorn became indelible marks, while falsehoods turned into rumors. Facing them, Jorgen didn't shake his head or wave his hand. He just tried to quicken his pace. He was like a broken yet still substantial stone on the beach, involuntarily moving with the ebb and flow of the waves, leaving behind a long and exhausted trace.

Jorgen saw the pond in the center of the yard. In the middle was an artificial fountain, but the pond had long ceased its operation. Although the water was shallow, in the sunlight, it always appeared as a bright and clear pond.

He also saw her. She was right there.

Under the water.

When Jorgen stepped into the pond, he almost stumbled. He pulled Dalia out; her head hung on Jorgen's shoulder, and her cold face pressed against his neck. Jorgen discovered an obvious but not fatal wound on her head, beginning to understand the meaning behind Ivanov's words, "Can't make her talk." He had knocked Dalia unconscious and left her in the pond. The water in the pond was originally shallow, not enough to cover a person lying flat. But the rain kept falling, as if it had been raining since the day the first brick was laid in Stormwind, and it had no intention of stopping. It wanted to overflow everything, and no one could stop it.

Jorgen knew how to perform first aid on a drowning person; he knew, he knew! So he did everything he could, but how could it be enough? He dared not look at her tightly closed eyes, but he had to look because he thought he couldn't miss the moment when her eyes opened. She had lost her breath and heartbeat, so he gave her artificial respiration, as if he could really breathe for her. He performed chest compressions, as if he could infect Dalia's heart with the rhythm of life pulsating in his own wrists, representing life, and make her heart beat again.

At the same time, Jorgen's own wound was still bleeding. He knew this because he saw his blood flow onto Dalia's skirt, then washed away by the rain. The lost blood took away his strength, his arm strength. His everything. Then, like a fragile hedge in a blizzard, he fell down, next to her.

Jorgen had a little strength left to turn his head before losing consciousness, looking at her face. This face, which he had gazed at for how many years, how many days, how many hours, had never been so clear. How long had it been since he could lie next to her and watch her when he woke up too early due to years of habit, not wanting to wake her up? —Jorgen never told Dalia about this because it sounded weird. Maybe she knew but just didn't say.

Dalia, Dalia. This face had never changed; she had never changed. He used to secretly watch her like a real clumsy teenager, harboring a hint of envy for the excellent man beside her. Once, filled with anger and incomprehension, he accused her, letting her confess to murder without considering the consequences. Once, he questioned her with easily shaken suspicion under the deep purple sky, and the trust between them seemed to vanish. Once, faced with her question, he said without hesitation, "I love you," on the day he gave her the portrait of Elaine's portrait — all the moments of their time together, Dalia had never changed.

The sound of rain and wind gradually blurred. They wrapped around Jorgen, throwing him into a prison without space or time. Before losing consciousness, Jorgen believed that in the moment he fell just now—the moment when his palm was about to leave Dalia's chest—he felt—a heartbeat.