But Logan Sullivan was tired of the clingy, effeminate types who threw themselves at him, and was actually very taken with William Sherman. The more reserved and restrained the other was, the more it made him itch with curiosity.

Just then, a phone call came in. Darrin Grant sidled over, full of gossip, to listen in. On the other end, a nervous stranger asked, “Hello... is this Mr. Sullivan? Last time you said you wanted to buy the ancient books my grandfather kept—was that for real?”

Logan Sullivan's eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, that's right. When can you sell them to me? If you have time, the sooner the better.”

The person on the other end said, “Well, the price is a bit high, do you think...”

“I think that's fine. Just set a time as soon as you can,” Logan Sullivan said, sounding every bit the wealthy big spender.

The other party seemed quite excited, arranged to meet him that afternoon, and rambled on about how “you truly love ancient books” and “really understand the value of cultural heritage,” before reluctantly hanging up.

Darrin Grant said coolly, “Well, if you can't win him over, just throw money at it. You really are the model playboy of our times, boss. That poor kid selling the books probably has no idea you're just a dumb youth who only chases blockbusters and reads martial arts novels.”

Logan Sullivan packed up his checkbook and car keys, grabbed Darrin Grant by the scruff, and, to the sound of a miserable “meow,” tossed him out of his office.

The people in the office across the hall heard the door slam. Carter Shaw looked up from his stock market charts, just in time to catch a glimpse of someone hurrying by. Next to him, Holly Harlow sighed, “Off to fool around again.”

In the evening, Logan Sullivan successfully intercepted William Sherman at the entrance of the teaching building at Blackstone University.

When William Sherman saw his car, his eyelid twitched on the spot. He silently lowered his head, pretended not to see, and walked quickly toward the parking lot. Logan Sullivan hummed a little tune, following behind at a leisurely pace. The students they passed started turning their heads curiously. William Sherman had no choice but to sigh, stop, bend down, and knock on the car window. “Officer Sullivan, what do you want with me?”

Logan Sullivan rolled down the window and flashed a bright, sunny smile. Then he reached over to the passenger seat, picked up a huge wooden box, and shoved it out the window into William Sherman's arms. “For you.”

William Sherman: “...”

William Sherman lifted the lid, took one look, and tried to push it back. “This won't do, this is too valuable, how could I...”

“Hey, listen to me first,” Logan Sullivan blocked him with his hand, putting his gift of gab to use. “A friend of mine is planning to emigrate. He has a bunch of ancient books at home, some on silk and bamboo slips, which are hard to take with him. He can't bear to give them away, afraid they'll be mistreated. I immediately thought of you. I figure, if anyone but you takes them, it's a waste. Professor Sherman, just do me a favor and keep them for my friend, will you?”

What a smooth talker, lying through his teeth with a straight face.

“I...”

William Sherman had barely said a word before Logan Sullivan cut him off. “No 'I' or 'me'—we're so close, and you won't even do me this little favor? That's not right. I have a dinner to get to soon, gotta run. See you! Take good care of the stuff for me, and I'll treat you to dinner this weekend if you're free.”

With that, he stepped on the gas, not giving William Sherman a chance to reply, and drove off.

Left with a heavy box forcibly shoved into his hands, William Sherman watched the car speed away, feeling a mix of emotions.

On one hand, his heart softened, almost wanting to let himself go just this once; on the other, thinking of how Logan Sullivan was so good at charming people in romantic circles—who knows how many times he'd done this for others—he gritted his teeth, wishing he could lock him up... Yet whether it was happiness or anger, in the end, it all settled into an even deeper loneliness.

William Sherman knew that last time he ran into Logan Sullivan unexpectedly, it was a setup. People and ghosts walk different paths. For... for his own good, he should stay away.

Having given the gift and scored a date in the process, Logan Sullivan felt quite pleased with himself and couldn't help but whistle.

The overly flashy types were boring, especially those with only looks and curves but no brains. Even watching a striptease, it was always the “half-hidden behind a pipa” kind that was most alluring.

Logan Sullivan believed that a man of taste couldn't be satisfied with ordinary, vulgar beauties. Just like when people get rich, they have to dabble in antiques and calligraphy to show off their refined side, instead of being content with gold chains and big villas.

William Sherman—Logan Sullivan checked himself out in the rearview mirror, repeating the name in his mind.

He felt that person was like a precious blue-and-white porcelain vase—even if he couldn't keep it forever, just having it at home for a few days would be nice.

Chapter 22 Terra-Spike II …

Maybe it was because the temperature in Blackstone dropped especially fast that year—the leaves fell before they even had a chance to turn yellow. Logan Sullivan felt a bit lazy, couldn't get interested in anything, and with not much work to do, aside from attending a few important social events and occasionally finding new ways to pester William Sherman, he spent the rest of his time holed up at home.

Logan Sullivan had left his parents early on and bought himself a small studio apartment of about forty square meters in the city center, living the typical bachelor life—looking sharp and put-together outside, but living like a slob at home.

Darrin Grant always felt that this generation's “Bound Soul Warden” was a real headache. He'd even brilliantly packaged the “Bound Soul Order” as a government agency, giving it the name “Special Investigation Bureau.” He was very capable, had a wide network, and when it came to cases, he was sharp-eyed and decisive, but he always left Darrin Grant feeling insecure.

The black cat was always suspicious that one day Logan Sullivan would just quit and devote himself to a life of wine, women, and song.

Yet, even though Darrin Grant had lived for over a thousand years, he was still just a cat, and Logan Sullivan's private life was far less exciting than he imagined.

Logan Sullivan himself was probably a textbook case of “after-work silence syndrome.” No one really knew how this urban affliction came about. Anyway, he'd stayed single all this time, and aside from the special nature of his job, part of it was his own fault—he was glib and charming outside, but at home, he turned into a mute gourd. It wasn't intentional coldness; he just had no desire to communicate. If you didn't ask him anything, he could go all night without saying a word, barely even changing his expression, let alone doing anything remotely fun or romantic.

If it weren't for the extra set of dishes at mealtimes, you could almost forget he existed.

The few lovers he'd had all broke up with him for the same reasons: “lack of communication,” “no passion,” “we're not compatible, have nothing in common.” The most dramatic was a young woman who glared at him and said, “You never really loved me, never took me to heart at all.”

Logan Sullivan was indeed a handsome and wealthy young man, but this was Blackstone—a place lacking in wind, water, and time, but never in talented young men. And while he had plenty of savings, he still had no intention of buying a proper home. He spent money like water, and the place he lived in was basically a serviced apartment with property rights, laid out like a hotel, nothing like a real home. He gave off an air of someone who just wasn't cut out for domestic life.

He'd arranged to meet William Sherman on Sunday night, so with nothing else planned for Saturday, the hungover Logan Sullivan shamelessly stayed in bed until noon. He survived the day on some leftover dry bread and tea, first poring over every bit of information he could find about the Netherworld’s Four Patrons, then spent dinner time gaming.

Finally, when it was already dark, a sharp pain in his stomach pulled his attention away from the game.

At first, Logan Sullivan didn't want to move. He drank a cup of hot water, hoping to tough it out, but the pain only got worse. Forty minutes later, he was sweating from the pain and finally decided to go out and find something to eat.

It was already the start of winter. Too lazy to care, seeing how dark it was outside, he just threw on a pair of pants over his pajamas, wrapped himself in a long coat, didn't even bother with socks, and went out looking a total mess.

Logan Sullivan made his way out of the complex, crossed the street, and turned into a small alley, where he ordered a bowl of fried rice and a bowl of porridge at a little restaurant by the corner.

Since the rice had to be cooked fresh, Logan Sullivan realized he wasn't dressed warmly enough and decided not to wait there like an idiot. He patted his coat pocket, planning to use the time to buy a pack of cigarettes at the nearby convenience store.

As Logan Sullivan was crossing a dimly lit alley—three streetlights, two of them out—he heard voices.

A man said roughly, “Hurry up and hand over the money, stop stalling!”

Another voice said, “Hey man, don't blame us. Times are tough for everyone. You’re dressed so well, you must be loaded. Be smart about it—it's almost New Year's, everyone just wants to stay safe, right?”

Oh? A mugging?