Ten Minutes at the Airport

The familiar rumble vibrated beneath me as the airplane's landing gear touched down. After five long years, this was my first time once more setting foot upon the land of Country C. I gripped the briefcase in my arms tightly, the sweat on my palm threatening to soak the leather. Inside was no ordinary luggage, but the core technological data of the perpetual motion machine—a project to which I had devoted five years of my heart and soul. Only a dozen hours earlier, officials from the Energy Department of Country M were still in the meeting room, sliding a contract offering a multi-million annual salary across the table to me. "Mr. Sinclair, if you stay, we can provide you with the laboratory, equipment, and a dedicated team," The official's tone was laden with an irresistible persuasion. I recall that at the time, I simply shook my head and pushed the contract away. "Forgive me, my home is in Country C, and my research must serve my motherland." Without the slightest hesitation, I gathered my materials and booked the earliest flight back to my homeland. Outside the airplane window, the sky gradually brightened from pitch darkness to dawn, and my heart grew increasingly stirred. At last, the airport terminal appeared before my eyes. As I followed the flow of people out of the cabin, familiar Chinese signs came into view, and a sudden warmth surged through my heart. I slowed my pace, wishing to fully embrace this long-missed sense of belonging. Before I could linger a moment longer, a tremendous shove suddenly came from behind. My body staggered uncontrollably forward several steps, barely avoiding a fall. The briefcase in my arms jolted; I quickly reached out to protect it, turning around warily. A tall man dressed in a black suit stood behind me, impatience carved into his face. "Are you blind when you walk? Move aside at once!" The man's voice was coarse, his eyes filled with contempt. I frowned, restraining the displeasure rising within me: "Sir, do you think you have the right to push others?" "What's wrong with me pushing you?" The man in black stepped forward, closing the distance between us. "Didn't you see the path needs clearing ahead?" "Our Evelyn is about to come out soon; if you delay her, can you afford the consequences?" "Evelyn?" A sudden pang seized my heart; this name was far too familiar. I fixed my gaze on the man in black and cautiously asked, "Are you referring to Evelyn Quentin?" The man in black seemed to hear something inconceivable, scrutinized me from head to toe, then sneered: "You are unworthy to utter our Evelyn's name! Clear off at once; don't block the way!" Evelyn Quentin—this name has accompanied me through countless arduous days and nights. She was my fiancée; before I went abroad for advanced study, we had planned our future life together. I believed that when I returned with my achievements, I could give her a stable home. Yet the attitude of the man in black just now, and his words calling her "our Evelyn," awakened a flicker of unease within me. I took out my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I found the familiar number and dialed it. The phone rang several times before it was answered. "Hello? Who is this?" From the other end of the line came Evelyn Quentin's voice—still sweet, yet laced with a barely perceptible coldness. "Evelyn, it's me, Henry Sinclair." My voice was hoarse. "I have returned to the homeland, currently at the airport. Just now, I encountered someone claiming to be your staff; he pushed me..."