Even the coffee they drank seemed to carry the scent of money—this was how some in the DGSE jokingly put it.

  When ten of the world's most influential figures, each holding the fate of the global economy in their hands, gathered in the DGSE's most secret and fortified underground meeting room, the exhaustion and anxiety in their eyes wiped away the brilliance and arrogance they had once worn like armor. Now, they were no different from any other parents who had lost their child.

  Everyone in the room, including André and Mu Yeliang, probably never imagined they would have such an "honor"—to be in the same room with these figures, in an atmosphere of absolute equality.

  Every parent of the kidnapped victims had received an express delivery 24 hours prior, containing a USB drive and a letter. The letter was brief—only a few lines of text:

  "Please arrive at the Mortier Barracks in France within 24 hours. If you are te, kindly keep the attached video safe. It will be the st trace of your beloved children in this world. Thank you."

  The video showed the hostages sitting in front of a silvery white wall, each holding a newspaper from that day. The camera clearly captured the date on the paper. Everyone appeared healthy, not showing signs of distress or suffering.

  Within 24 hours, the parents flew in from all over the world to Paris. At the DGSE's small airport, dozens of luxury helicopters arrived within the same day. The entire DGSE was on high alert, with even a fly not allowed to enter or leave without strict supervision.

  Ten letters were neatly arranged on the conference room table. The contents of the letters were identical, but they had been handwritten in different nguages—English, Chinese, Russian, and Arabic—all in elegant, fluid handwriting.

  The relevant authorities had quickly traced the source of the delivery, and every letter had been examined with the highest technology, tested countless times—from the paper and ink components to the fibers attached to it. Even handwriting experts had analyzed the writer's psychological state, but still, no useful information had been uncovered. The handwriting expert finally concluded with, "All these letters were written by the same person. Intelligent, composed, even... genius."

  A heavy silence filled the room. Mu Yeliang leaned forward to examine the letter written in Chinese. Indeed, every character was vigorous and powerful, exuding a sense of mastery. He couldn't help but mutter, "Looks like we’re dealing with a cultured kidnapper."

  "How do you pn to handle this?" One of the billionaires stood up, his face cold. "I hope we're not just spending time sipping afternoon tea here?"

  "If taxpayers' money is wasted, I doubt they'll be pleased." The second billionaire, his round, pale face flushed with anxiety and simmering anger, clenched his fists tightly.

  When he saw the group of people in front of him still saying, "We are making efforts to investigate, please remain calm," his hands tightened even further. If he had a bottle of alcohol in hand, he might have thrown it at the Minister of Security or the head of the police.

  As a seasoned officer, André had never felt so embarrassed. "We deeply understand how you all feel right now. In every case, there are fws. Please, remain calm. Trust us, the police…"

  Before André could finish his sentence, the Russian man who had suddenly jumped to his feet grabbed him by the colr. A string of angry, poorly-accented English echoed through the room: "Trust you? My son has been missing for ten days! You useless bunch of fools, and you still can't solve the case after ten days! And you still have the nerve to ask for our trust?"

  The Russian's fist was caught by Mu Yeliang, who smiled calmly at him and, in fluent English, said:

  "Sir, you shouldn't be so quick to call others useless. If the police are useless, then what does that make the so-called 'top-tier bodyguards' you hired to protect your children? What good is venting your anger, except to make everyone even more upset? Don't you think it's time to sit down, stay calm, and carefully consider why the kidnappers only want us here and haven't made any other demands?"

  The Russian, after staring into Mu Yeliang's calm yet assertive face, lowered his fist. In Mu Yeliang′s eyes, there was a subtle but undeniable pressure buried beneath a veneer of sincerity. The seasoned Russian financier, who had seen countless people in his career, only ever felt this sensation when facing truly formidable opponents.

  André let go of the Russian's hand without getting angry and simply said, "I also have a daughter."

  The tension in the room eased slightly. The high-ranking officials, whose status far exceeded that of Mu Yeliang, let out a quiet breath of relief, silently thanking the Chinese officer who had remained unnoticed in the crowd, one they had never paid attention to before.

  At that moment, the distinct pinging of various phone message alerts rang out almost simultaneously. The billionaires, without a word, all pulled out their phones. It was a group message sent to all the recipients:

  "The coffee at DGSE isn't bad, is it? You might as well stay for another 48 hours, and then please have your parents prepare your most treasured possessions. Wait for us in front of the most beautiful Mona Lisa at the Louvre. Feel free to bring along anyone you deem irrelevant."

  As for the father of the most recent kidnapping victim, Charlotte Beauréal, he received a separate, additional text:

  "Mr. Beauréal, would you like to re-button your shirt?"

  Luc Beauréal, always meticulous in his attire, had buttoned the second button of his shirt into the third buttonhole, a detail he hadn't noticed on his way here. Of course, no one else had paid attention to this small fw either—who would focus on such things at a time like this? But if the first message had been a bomb, the second was an atomic bomb.

  The fact that the kidnappers had spotted something so subtle—something even those closest to him hadn't noticed—was unnerving. And it was all revealed in the most secure, fly-proof room at DGSE. The faces of all the officials turned a uniform shade of white. André and Mu Yeliang couldn't hide their surprise either, exchanging looks of disbelief, unsure of what to make of this chilling turn of events.

  As the "irrelevant individuals" mentioned in the kidnappers' message, two hours ter, nearly half of Paris's police force was heading toward the Louvre, under the guise of a vanguard unit.

  "The Louvre's about to turn into a can of sardines, huh? Packed to the brim with cops," Mu Yeliang observed, watching the long line of police cars ahead. The fshing sirens cast erratic lights on the gray road, creating a sense of panic and chaos.

  André took a long drag from his cigarette, flooring the accelerator. "I've never faced such an opponent. This bastard deserves to be dismantled and thrown into the Seine!"

  Mu Yeliang turned his head with a smile, seemingly uninterested, his gaze drifting to the rapidly retreating scenery outside the window. A quiet, almost haunting expression lingered in his eyes, like fog obscuring a full moon.