He suddenly realized that his tone had been too intimate, and immediately lowered his head and fell silent.

Logan Sullivan's feet were squeezed by William Sherman until he almost lost all feeling. In order to maintain his image, he didn't dare to howl and curse, so he could only hold it in, forcing a refined expression onto his twisted face. Only when he miraculously felt a bit of warmth rising under his feet did William Sherman tuck them into the blanket.

William Sherman then brought him some medicine, poured hot water, and watched as he took the pills.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the atmosphere instantly became awkward.

Logan Sullivan's pajamas were truly as flamboyant as his personal style—just a few buttons in total, the collar open all the way down to his sternum. As he pressed his left abdomen, the collar slipped to the side, faintly revealing the attractive abs beneath.

William Sherman had to force himself once again to look away, turning his attention to the room. At a glance, he saw bread crumbs and wrappers in the trash can, so he asked, "What did you eat today?"

Logan Sullivan leaned against the headboard and pointed at the trash can.

"That's all for the whole day?" William Sherman's face grew even darker. "What about last night?"

"Last night I went out with some friends, drank too much, can't remember."

William Sherman almost couldn't hold back his anger. He was silent for a full half minute before lowering his voice as much as possible, trying not to sound too furious: "Is this how you live every day?"

Logan Sullivan: "Ah, what's wrong?"

William Sherman shot him a gloomy glance, then walked into the kitchen without a word. He opened the fridge, stared at the empty freezer for a while, then pulled out a carton of expired milk... and half a bag of opened cat food.

He finally felt like he was about to be driven mad by Logan Sullivan. The veins on the back of his hand bulged with frustration as he leaned on the fridge door, and the heavy door creaked softly under his grip.

Chapter 24: The Mountain and River Awl, Part Four …

In the end, after a thorough search, William Sherman finally found a packet of unexpired instant egg drop soup in a small cupboard above the fridge. This was the only edible thing in Logan Sullivan's den besides hot water and medicine.

At some point, Logan Sullivan had fished out another cigarette, half-squinting as he leaned against the headboard watching William Sherman busy himself, a mischievous smile playing at his lips, lost in who-knows-what kind of daydream.

William Sherman strode over, face dark, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray, then set the freshly made egg drop soup heavily on the nightstand. "Drink it."

Logan Sullivan blinked, silently picked up the bowl, and drank while idly musing—Mr. Sherman could be gentle even when mugged in the street, yet here he was, actually scolding him.

It only took him a moment to figure out the deeper reason behind this, and he concluded that, at the root of it, it was because he was handsome and William Sherman had fallen for him.

William Sherman couldn't imagine how the man sitting in front of him could be so busy that he wouldn't even spare time to drink a bowl of soup, secretly busy being narcissistic again.

He just found Logan Sullivan's room more and more unbearable, unable to imagine how anyone could live in such a place. Even a criminal sentenced to life would get a decent last meal before execution—how could someone let themselves end up so cold and hungry?

He glanced down at Logan Sullivan, suspecting that even if this man died, no one would bother to collect his body.

Logan Sullivan only heard the other fall silent for a moment, then suddenly, out of nowhere, said, "Officer Zhao, you're not young anymore, and your career is going well. It's about time you found a girlfriend and settled down—it's better to have someone to take care of you."

Logan Sullivan immediately choked on the MSG-laden egg drop soup, nearly coughing his lungs inside out.

William Sherman's hand twitched nervously, then he lowered it, hiding it at his side, clenching his fist tightly.

Logan Sullivan hadn't expected his opponent to play so unpredictably, leaving him momentarily at a loss for a comeback. After a while, he found a way to respond, tossed the bowl onto the nightstand, and decided to retreat in order to advance, employing a little self-pity.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed that I'm pursuing you?" Logan Sullivan deliberately paused, slowed his speech, and said softly. He slowly raised his head to look at William Sherman, his gaze sliding over the other's face before finally settling on his tensed body.

From William Sherman's perspective, it looked as if he had lowered his eyes in disappointment. The man, who already looked a bit haggard, now seemed ten times more melancholic.

William Sherman felt as if the softest part of his heart had been pinched hard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan Sullivan caught his reaction and felt secretly pleased, though his face still looked heartbroken. He forced a half-smile, waved weakly at William Sherman, and said, "Forget it then. Thanks for today. I'm fine now, you can go."

Logan Sullivan was already prepared that if William Sherman came over, he would pounce and hug him, and had even picked out the best lines for the occasion. Unexpectedly, William Sherman didn't say a word for a long time. It was so long that Logan Sullivan couldn't help but want to sneak a peek at his reaction, when finally the other spoke in a hoarse voice: "Then I... then you rest well."

With that, he actually turned and ran off without looking back.

Logan Sullivan: "..."

What the heck! Did I say something wrong today?

Logan Sullivan sat there stunned for quite a while, then slumped heavily against the pillow at the head of the bed, at a loss for words to describe his feelings. In the end, he dazedly rummaged under the nightstand for a perpetual calendar, flipped through it for a long time until he found the current day, saw the words "No weddings or engagements," and finally resigned himself to blaming today's events on "bad luck."

That feeling was like swallowing a dry bun, stuck solidly in his chest, making him almost roll his eyes.

Logan Sullivan finally lost all interest in playing games or surfing the web. He simply turned off the lights and went to sleep.

Near midnight, the street outside quieted down. Most of the lights in the nearby residential area had gone out, the sound of cars below gradually faded, and only the occasional mysterious reflection slipped through the window, blocked by tightly drawn curtains.

At the moment when the hour and minute hands overlapped, the watch Logan Sullivan had forgotten to take off suddenly gave a soft chime, and the seemingly sound asleep Logan Sullivan instantly opened his eyes.

Then, the sound of a night watchman's clapper rang out abruptly in the thick darkness, as if appearing and disappearing out of thin air.

The clapper's beat drew closer and closer, and a flat male voice, dragging out each syllable, rang clearly in Logan Sullivan's ears.

The man intoned like a mourner: "Yin envoy clears the way, living souls make way—"

Then came three "da-da-da" clapper beats.

The curtains Logan Sullivan hadn't drawn all day automatically parted to both sides, revealing a window frosted with ice flowers. A faint, ghostly white light shone through the gap, quietly lingering outside the window.

Logan Sullivan sat up, pulled his collar together, and called out, "Please come in."

The lock on the window clicked, then slowly slid open. A gust of cold wind, sharp and biting, rushed in, raising goosebumps on Logan Sullivan's exposed skin.

A shadow holding a white paper lantern floated outside his sixteenth-floor window.

That "person" was also made of paper, life-sized, with a face painted gray and white like a wall, and when it looked up, its eyes were stiffly drawn on, and a gaping bloody mouth stretched to its cheeks—enough to compete in a beauty contest with Old Wu from No. 4 Guangming Road.

Logan Sullivan took a small ceramic bowl from the bottom drawer of his nightstand, then took out spirit money and incense, stuck the incense into the groove on the bowl, lit both, and then nodded politely at the visitor: "Just a small token of respect—Lord of the Dead Envoys, is there something important that brings you here tonight?"

The paper figure's bloody mouth twitched stiffly, expressing gratitude for the bribe.

Most of the powerful people in the human world looked down on the underworld's envoys, but no one was as tactful as this Soulbound Grandmaster. No matter how important the business he might forget, he would never forget "this little courtesy."

The paper figure cupped its hands and bowed respectfully. "Last time, when the hungry ghosts escaped, King Yama was enraged and ordered a thorough investigation of the three realms. Every living soul, deceased, and soul awaiting judgment is to be checked and registered, merging with the Book of Life and Death into a single item. I am sent by the Ten Kings of Yama to deliver a copy to the Lord of the Order."

After speaking, the paper figure held out a black leather notebook with both hands and handed it to Logan Sullivan.

The thing looked just like an ordinary business notebook, the cover feeling like soft cowhide, but it was unusually light in the hand, as if it weighed no more than a few sheets of paper.

Logan Sullivan weighed it, rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed the pages. "Mulberry paper, the Book of Life and Death and the Record of Merits written with sea-dragon ink, and a soul-chasing talisman pasted on top, right?"

The paper Death’s Envoy replied calmly, "The Lord of the Order has sharp eyes. I suppose I don't need to explain what this is for."