The days of being a spiritual mentor in Meiman.

Chapter 3856 The Nameless Bat (26)

Chapter 3856 The Nameless Bat (Twenty-Six)

The dance floors of high society are always lively yet not overly noisy. Well-dressed and elegant men and women adhere to the same set of rules: they do not force their way into the crowded dance floor; but when the lively atmosphere subsides due to the empty dance floor, they are more than willing to offer themselves up, becoming a spice in this fragrant cup of mulled wine, displaying their beauty with restraint and elegance.

But some people are just naturally more eye-catching than others, like Bruce Wayne. And if the person dancing in his arms right now is Natasha Romanov, the former Soviet female agent who was recently exposed, and who is a hundred times more beautiful than she appears in photos, it would be like dropping a nuclear bomb into the ocean of human attention; no one could help but turn their head.

Natasha's red hair was like a dazzling flame. When she twirled, every movement left a trail of fire that spread outwards, instantly igniting the entire dance floor. Before this, almost no one had ever believed that someone could stand next to Bruce Wayne and not be outdone. Natasha, with her beauty as sharp as a knife, sliced ​​through the curtain of Wayne's money and power.

The music gradually slowed down, signifying a shift in the dance floor's focus from dancing to socializing. Arkham Batman, arm in arm with Natasha, slowly moved to the edge of the dance floor and whispered in her ear, "During that last song, at least 50 people were staring at you."

How do you know they're not watching you?

“Since I became president, those who coveted my good looks have become much more restrained, at least they don’t dare to stare at me so openly for so long. So they must be watching you.”

Do you think there might be a mastermind behind this?

“Perhaps,” Arkham Batman’s voice grew lower, “I’m sure some of them are ill-intentioned, and they’d be more inclined to see you as the beginning of the decline of my administration.”

"Thanks to you, I'm afraid I won't be able to be a secret agent in this universe. But the position of 'presidential lover' isn't quite right for me either. You might not believe it, but I actually don't like gathering intelligence through social connections at all."

"It's okay, maybe soon they won't have time to worry about your identity. Okay, honey, I think you can go to the bathroom to touch up your makeup."

The two left the dance floor. Natasha subtly scanned the faces of everyone in the banquet hall—there were simply too many ill-intentioned people to discern who harbored the strongest malice. However, as she left Arkham Batman's embrace, all eyes followed her.

Natasha headed toward the nearest restroom. She deliberately walked slowly, giving others a chance to catch up. She saw several elegantly dressed socialites approaching her, but their jewelry suggested they were facing some kind of financial crisis, and their obsequiousness was too obvious—they weren't her target.

There were also some young women. Of course, they looked much better: dressed in million-dollar custom gowns, adorned with jewelry that could buy a building in Gotham, their expressions haughty, their eyes filled with undisguised disgust. Clearly, at some point, they and their families had imagined themselves becoming future First Ladies.

Then came the men. The covetous glances didn't sway Natasha, and some were simply admiring. Natasha guessed these men were probably attracted to Bruce Wayne. Others were clearly wary, practically screaming "Cold War victim" on their faces, and there was also the curiosity of some younger children.

This information was completely useless. Natasha pursed her lips, unlike other socialites who nodded and smiled at everyone. She simply maintained her aloof expression and walked to the restroom.

Instead of immediately touching up her makeup in front of the mirror, she went into a restroom stall. But she simply stood there, listening intently to the sounds coming from outside. Her excellent spy training allowed her to judge a person's training level by the sound of their footsteps.

Several girls approached, gossiping about her with undisguised disdain in their voices. Their incessant chatter disturbed Natasha's hearing. After the girls left, she keenly realized that there was still one person in the bathroom.

Because the other party didn't move, Natasha couldn't judge his size or whether he was armed. Although she was certain her surprise attack could take down anyone in an instant, she also knew she was there as bait—if she missed today, the mastermind might never reappear.

Natasha took a deep breath and pretended nothing had happened as she flushed the toilet. The moment she stepped out the door, she saw only a cleaning lady organizing her toolbox.

His work clothes were faded from washing, there were traces of bleach on his fingertips, and there was a tiny white mark left by foam on the side of his cheek. His body was thin and his steps were unsteady—all of this told the story: he showed no signs of training.

But Natasha was also well aware that, due to the development of modern chemistry and medicine, the possibility of an untrained ordinary person taking down an agent was not zero; it was just a matter of anesthetics, sedatives, or other drugs.

Natasha pretended not to notice and walked past the cleaner. Then, unsurprisingly, the cleaner took something out of the toolbox and covered her mouth and nose from behind.

Smelling the familiar scent, Natasha sighed inwardly. This dose of anesthetic couldn't possibly have any effect on her; even for an ordinary person, it would only cause temporary dizziness. It seemed their intention was for her to wake up quickly after being drugged and be able to communicate with others clearly—what a madman.

Natasha pretended to be unconscious, but clearly felt herself being dragged. However, the other party was cunning and brought a cleaning truck to put her in a box. They drove her around the building several times, taking the elevator up and down, before finally stopping in a dimly lit room.

Natasha knew she was currently in a room on the top floor. Clearly, the other party hadn't considered that she wouldn't be drugged, or that they could determine how many floors she had passed by the elevator's ascent time. It seemed, as Schiller had said, that the mastermind considered her just an ordinary agent, perhaps even the kind who rose to power through her looks, and therefore didn't take her seriously or have strong defenses against her.

Natasha figured the other side was probably focusing most of their energy on guarding against Batman. After all, no matter how you looked at it, a female agent couldn't possibly pose a greater threat than Batman.

As the box was opened, Natasha realized she was strapped to a chair with ordinary handcuffs—the kind that could easily be dislocated to free herself. Of course, Natasha wouldn't use that method, because she could simply tear the handcuffs off.

The lights in the room came on. Natasha knew it was time to open her eyes. She was too lazy to pretend anymore, so instead of waking up from her unconsciousness, she simply opened her eyes.

Unfortunately, she didn't get to see the mastermind directly. A Black man stood in front of her, somewhat surprised by the way she woke up.

“So you were awake all along, Mrs. Romanov,” he said. “I’m sorry to have brought you here in this way, madam, but we have some questions for you about the president.”

Natasha wasn't going to beat around the bush with him. She said, "I know you're not here for the president. Where is she?"

"what?"

“A red-haired woman,” Natasha said. “She looks somewhat like me, but she’s much less like Batman.”

Natasha tried to provoke him with those words, but the Black man remained unmoved. Natasha began to survey her surroundings: she was below a courtyard, and there must be people upstairs. To avoid alerting him, she decided to play along and begin to engage the Black man in circles.

After chatting for a while without getting any useful information, Natasha broke free of her handcuffs, knocked the black man to the ground with a single punch, and then smashed the chandelier with her widow's sting. The first floor was plunged into darkness, and Natasha turned and went upstairs.

She walked very quietly, listening intently to the sounds coming from upstairs. Just as one foot touched the second-floor floor, the lights on the second floor suddenly went out.

The moment the wind whistled, Natasha rolled forward onto the second floor, turned around and threw a punch, which was dodged by her opponent. She then tried a sweeping leg kick, but it also failed to hit her opponent.

The darkness amplified her senses. Natasha heard the sound of a gun being cocked. With a muffled thud, a bullet from a silenced pistol struck Natasha's calf, but the female agent didn't hesitate for a moment, kicking in the direction the bullet had come from.

Realizing her kick had landed squarely, Natasha didn't hesitate to sidestep and elbow, followed by a whip kick that struck the opponent's gun-wielding arm. Sensing the opponent was a woman of similar build, Natasha didn't dare use Widow's Sting rashly, fearing an overdose of venom that would kill her. Instead, she kicked the opponent in the abdomen, knocking her to the ground.

As Natasha kicked, something felt off—the other woman's body fat percentage was unusually low, and she had tightened her abdominal muscles before the blow—clear signs of training. Was that red-haired woman also an agent?

Natasha pulled a stealth pistol from her calf and turned on its miniature flashlight, which illuminated a completely unfamiliar face—a petite white woman who was neither red-haired nor did she resemble Natasha in any way. She also looked very young, like a student at a police academy.

"A wonderful performance!" a voice came from the first floor.

Natasha turned around and shone her flashlight, but there was no shadow of the other person. She slowly walked downstairs and saw a tape recorder appear on the previously empty floor. She knew she had been tricked.

The mastermind behind it all saw through her scheme, only sending a minor intern to test their skills against her. But she didn't believe the other party had gone to such lengths just to trick her.

Sure enough, the next second, reporters burst through the door, their flashbulbs blaring like moonlight. The young woman she had knocked down lay on the floor in agony, and she was quickly recognized—one of the president's security advisors, the young Tracy Tavor.

“She attacked me!” the other person shouted. “And Mark! She almost killed him! Because we discovered her trick of switching the president’s routine visit itinerary, she sabotaged the diplomacy between the United States and Amazon!”

Natasha lowered her eyes, thinking: "Very well, so this is what they were waiting for. They wanted to see her and Wonder Woman fight each other?"

"Gotham Daily, why did you do this? Ms. Romanoff, are you a KGB spy?!"

"Gotham River Evening Post, what is your purpose in approaching the President? How did you seduce him? Can you answer our questions?"

"I'm a reporter from the Daily Planet Metropolis. Do you admit to attacking presidential security personnel, ma'am?"

Natasha didn't have time to listen to them. She remembered some of the psychopathic ideas Schiller had told her before, so she began to scan the crowd with her eyes—until she spotted long, fiery red hair.

"Stop! Don't run!!!"