In the dimly lit basement of an inconspicuous noodle shop in Shanghai, Lambert, a disillusioned spy past his prime, sat opposite Theresa, his enigmatic handler who wore her mystery like a second skin. An ominous silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the sloshing of noodles as patrons upstairs slurped obliviously.
Theresa adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and peered at Lambert. “We’re one agent short. And frankly, we can’t afford to lose you. Not after—” Her voice trailed off, lost in the labyrinth of their shared history, which neither cared to revisit.
Lambert, unfazed by the implied compliment or threat, chose to focus on an oddity. On the table between them sat a plate of incomplete snacks—a strange assortment of half-eaten dumplings, and gnawed chicken wings. “不完整的snack,” he muttered, smirking with a sense of twisted irony. “Incomplete, like us.”
“Ever the philosopher,” Theresa replied wryly, tapping a manicured nail on her chin. “Today’s mission, Lambert, is quintessentially absurd and clandestine—a typical Tuesday, then.”
Lambert chuckled dryly. “What is it this time? Foiling another plot with dumplings or deciphering secrets encrypted in soy sauce stains?”
Ignoring his jest, Theresa flipped open a dossier. Inside was a photograph—grainy, black and white—of a man’s silhouette. “That’s your target. We’ve named him ‘Phantom.’ Dangerous, elusive, and fond of checking his hair in reflective surfaces.”
Lambert snorted. “Reflective surfaces? Now that’s a villain fitting my caliber.”
Theresa leaned forward, earnestness sharpening her features. “This is no joke, Lambert. The fate of numerous lives depends on your success.”
He met her gaze, a stark contrast between his world-weary amber eyes and her fervent, conspiratorial ones. The basement felt suddenly narrower, the air tinged with the scent of impending chaos. “Fine,” he sighed, resigned to the comedic absurdity of his life. “Lead me to this… reflection enthusiast.”
Days passed in a whirl of ludicrous espionage—sending cryptic messages hidden in fortune cookies, evading capture through accidentally starting nonsensical rumors about the empress’s secret love for karaoke. Despite it all, Lambert was closing in, gaining ground on Phantom through sheer happenstance rather than skill.
Their final confrontation was set in a bustling piazza beneath a sky painted orange by the setting sun. Phantom, elegantly inconspicuous in his trench coat, admired himself in a shop window as Lambert approached coolly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Lambert quipped, hands still hidden. “The chase, the drama, all for what? A reflection and some incomplete snacks back in Shanghai.”
Phantom turned slowly, a smirk curling his lips. “Ah, Lambert. The notorious ‘Incomplete Snack Spy.’ Fitting.”
Both men laughed heartily, the kind of laugh that comes not from humor, but from sheer absurdity.
“So,” Lambert finally said, “What’s your endgame, Phantom?”
Phantom glanced wistfully at his reflection once more. “Isn’t it obvious, Lambert? To ensure people see life’s reflections—they’re often the truest parts of our existence.”
Lambert paused, a smirk breaking through his usual stoicism. “What a poetic villain. Theresa would love this.”
Then, with the irony befitting their mutual personas, Phantom slipped on a discarded banana peel, the slapstick nature key to Lambert’s long-forgotten luck. Down he went, and when he rose, it was behind the iron bars of consequence.
As he was led away, Lambert found it serendipitous—an ending both complete and incomplete, much like life’s many snacks.
Watching the retreating figure, Lambert chuckled to himself. “Karma has a fine sense of humor. Much like Theresa, come to think of it.”
And so, the circle of absurdity concluded, in the reflective surfaces of Shanghai—and in the reset of a world that cherished complete snacks.