"Toy Serial Killer..." Dean read, then pocketed the note. He nodded his thanks to the waiter and turned to leave.

This coffee shop was no ordinary establishment; it was an intelligence outpost for the NSA. As an Intelligence Organization backed by the United States security department, the NSA's intelligence system commanded exceptionally high authority, capable of directly accessing even non-top-secret files from the FBI and CIA.

After Dean uploaded the killer's modus operandi and behavioral traits to the NSA's search system, it took less than half an hour before he received a text message instructing him to come and retrieve the intelligence. The process was so convoluted mainly because the NSA prohibited the online transmission of intelligence unless it involved secure network lines.

With the intelligence in hand, Dean called Harry, who was still looking conflicted, and they left the coffee shop.

After they left, a blonde woman approached the waiter. "Is that the special agent Director Amon values so highly?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "He's quite good-looking."

The waiter, his face impassive, glanced at her and forced a grim smile. "Next time you try to pry information from me, I'll cut out your tongue, pan-fry it in butter, and savor it slowly." As he spoke, he licked his lips, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

A chill ran down the blonde woman's spine. She knew this stone-faced waiter wasn't joking; the pervert genuinely wanted to eat her tongue.

The woman quickly clapped a hand over her mouth and scurried out of the coffee shop's back door. Huddling in a corner of the back alley, she pulled out her phone. Within the organization, information on Dean was valuable. She was hoping to make a tidy sum.

Suddenly, the woman sensed something. She looked up warily, her pupils contracting slightly as if she had seen a terrifying monster. "Hello," she said, her voice a little strained. "I'm Murphy."

Dean looked at the still rather green young woman before him and grinned. "You seem very interested in me. Do we know each other?"

A vague unease prickled at Murphy.

She swallowed hard. "I know you, but you don't know me. Someone mentioned you're friends with Director Amon. It's such a coincidence meeting you today; I'm astonished by how handsome you are."

"So you're also with the NSA?"

"Yes, but I'm just an ordinary field operative. You could say I'm an informant still in training. Anything more specific, well, confidentiality rules prevent me from saying!" As Murphy spoke, she quickly reached into her pocket and pulled out an NSA-issued employee ID to prove she wasn't lying.

Dean scoffed inwardly at the word 'informant'. What a load of bullshit! These people were essentially just co-opted intelligence peddlers. Strictly speaking, they couldn't be considered actual NSA members. They were more like freelancers operating under the NSA's banner to make a living—a mixed bag with low reliability. However, these individuals could sometimes provide the NSA with highly covert intelligence, and since they didn't cost anything to maintain regularly, the NSA was quite fond of cultivating such 'members'.

Dean glanced at the ID Murphy offered, confirmed its authenticity, and nodded. "Alright. If you're that curious about me, we could find a more suitable place for an in-depth chat, rather than you hiding in a corner, secretly watching me. That could easily give people the wrong idea."

"Sorry," Murphy said. "It's just that special appointees are rare in the NSA. Those positions are usually for the children of influential figures to pad their resumes. So it's not just me; a lot of the female staff are curious about you."

"Too bad I'm not one of those privileged kids." Dean shrugged, checked the time on his phone, and added with a hint of regret, "It was nice meeting you, beautiful Murphy. Unfortunately, I have some things to take care of, and my partner is waiting for me on the street. I'll look you up when I'm free. We can grab dinner; I'm curious about the NSA myself."

"No problem!" Murphy agreed readily.

Dean nodded and walked away.

Only when Dean's back had completely disappeared from view did Murphy clutch her 'American-made grapefruits,' trying to still the heart that nearly leaped from her chest.

She'd survived! For certain reasons, she knew Dean very well. He was a homicide detective with an addiction to killing—more savage and ruthless than some of the organization members she was familiar with! If he'd caught on, she would have been dead for sure.

After calming herself and making sure no one was around, Murphy picked up her phone again. She quickly dialed a sequence of numbers. The phone's initially plain screen switched to a blood-red interface, and a small speaker icon began flashing in the bottom right corner, indicating the communication line was now secure.

She immediately called her friend.

The call connected quickly. A sultry female voice came through, "Murphy, what's up?"

Murphy lowered her voice. "I ran into Dean at NSA Outpost 13."

"Dean?" the woman on the other end gasped, then repeated, "Dean!" before her voice filled with excitement. "Do you have details? You know his intel isn't cheap these days."

"I'm not sure," Murphy said. "The guy in charge here is a total psycho; I didn't dare provoke him. But reading Dean's lips, it looked like he was muttering 'Toy Serial Killer.' He's probably investigating a case." Murphy told her friend everything she knew.

"Wow, what a coincidence." The voice on the phone sounded surprised at first, then full of anticipation. "Murphy, looks like we're in for a good show. Your intel is very valuable. I can give you five Game Coins for it."

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