When it was time to leave, Julian West reluctantly shouldered his upgraded “from bird gun to cannon” gear—a long-lens DSLR—and took photos of every nook and cranny of No. 4 Guangming Road, not even sparing the big cobwebs. He then picked out a few shots he was satisfied with and submitted them to the magazine, hoping to publish them as the “Old Haunts” series.

…The result was that the magazine’s editor-in-chief, with delicate nerves, was utterly terrified.

The editor-in-chief ended up in the hospital and reported this “malicious incident of deliberately creating supernatural photos to scare people” to the police. Since family scandals shouldn’t be made public, Director Sullivan had to quietly step in and settle the matter himself. When he returned, under the innocent gaze of the fake monk, he gave the culprit a good beating.

Eating, sleeping, and beating up Julian West finally became the uneventful daily routine for everyone at No. 9 Daxue Road.

The new office was ridiculously luxurious, with a sunlit attic upstairs and a two-level basement below. The second basement level was a library, while the first basement level was lined with memorial tablets around a mahjong table, serving as a resting place for the ghostly staff during the day. Those with insomnia could even get up and play a round of mahjong.

…So during the day, you could often hear the sound of shuffling tiles coming from the mysteriously locked first basement level.

The attic on the top floor was bright and sunny, coated with thick soundproof paint. Anyone tired could go up for a nap, and opening the window gave a view of the entire courtyard—though, unfortunately, there was no beautiful scenery to see.

Because all the members had different opinions, the garden had no unified plan. After being divided up, it turned into a bizarre mishmash of styles, with all sorts of things thrown together.

Logan Sullivan took over the entire backyard by himself. Having never been remotely artistic in his life, his taste was always peculiar. He vetoed the roses that Holly Harlow liked, vetoed the climbing plants suggested by Carter Shaw, vetoed the bodhi tree requested by Julian West… In the end, he planted the whole backyard with vegetables.

There were baby bok choy, cherry tomatoes, pumpkin vines, pea shoots, toon sprouts… A variety of vegetables grew side by side, all surrounding a flamboyant eggplant like stars around the moon.

Logan Sullivan declared that when winter came, he would fill the backyard with Chinese cabbages.

From then on, no one—human or ghost—ever went to play in the backyard, which had become a vegetable garden.

When William Sherman finished class, the sun was already starting to dip westward, but it was still warm. He strolled over from the university, and even counting the time waiting for the traffic light, it only took five or six minutes.

Every member of the Special Investigation Bureau had a copy of Mr. Sherman’s class schedule, and every day they looked forward to his arrival—ever since their leader Logan Sullivan stopped running around and settled down in the office, everyone had started living the life of a true homebody. As a result, the good old days of “when the upper beam is not straight, the lower beams are crooked”—with the leader and subordinates skipping work together—were gone for good.

Because of this, everyone felt a bit stifled, even after moving to a new place.

However, as soon as Mr. Sherman arrived, he could immediately lure the boss away, and with the boss gone, everyone could leave work early again.

As soon as he walked in, William Sherman was greeted with countless “Hello, Mr. Sherman” and “Thank you for your hard work, Mr. Sherman.” The way everyone looked at him was so eager, it was as if the people of an occupied zone were welcoming the liberating army. At first, William Sherman was a bit uncomfortable, but over time he gradually got used to it.

Charles Gray was spacing out, Holly Harlow was shopping online, Carter Shaw was looking at K-line stock charts, and Julian West was tinkering with a new kind of eavesdropping device—about the size of a girl’s fingernail, scaly like a flake, and once stuck onto something, it would automatically turn invisible and start eavesdropping.

The black cat Darrin Grant was curled up on the stair railing, waving its tail at William Sherman: “He’s in the attic.”

“Mm, thanks.” William Sherman nodded, but as he passed by, he raised an eyebrow at Darrin Grant, “Be careful, don’t fall.”

…Given that the stair railing was only half as wide as its belly, Darrin Grant’s prone position looked rather bizarre.

Darrin Grant froze for a second, then exploded with a yowl: “I’m practicing yoga! What’s wrong with doing yoga? Is there a problem?”

William Sherman reached out to pat its head, kept smiling, and went upstairs.

Darrin Grant resentfully lay back down on the railing. Julian West teased, “Yo, Young Master Darrin Grant, which yoga pose are you practicing?”

Darrin Grant: “…Cat pose.”

Following the principle that “monks do not lie,” Julian West commented sincerely, “Hahahahahahaha!”

…As a result, he ended up with two bloody scratches on his face, and the eavesdropping device in his hand went flying—no one knew where it landed, and it was invisible anyway.

The elusive Old Barnes appeared out of nowhere, silently handed over a cotton swab and a band-aid, just like a long-suffering owner cleaning up after their own cat scratched someone… And the cat was completely ungrateful, not even giving a humph, just silently jumping off the railing, stretching, and walking away.

Sometimes, feelings are like fragile glass—no matter what kind of feeling it is, once it’s broken, it can never be glued back together, even if you no longer care… or have already forgiven.

So it’s best for a person to be consistent—either be selfish to the end, hurting countless people without regret, or cherish others’ feelings from the start, even if it seems foolish.

William Sherman gently pushed open the attic door. There was a sofa bed in the attic, perfectly positioned to catch sunlight all day. Logan Sullivan had a blanket draped over his waist, a book in his hand, and his fingers still marking his place.

William Sherman tiptoed over, bent down, and lightly kissed his lips. Logan Sullivan didn’t even open his eyes, lazily saying, “Mmm… You’re done with class?”

William Sherman answered, reached out to support his upper body, and pulled Logan Sullivan up to sit down himself. “Wake up, it’s getting late. If you sleep any more, you’ll have insomnia tonight.”

Logan Sullivan took the opportunity to lie down on his lap, yawned, and mumbled, “I wasn’t really planning to sleep.”

Half-opening his eyes, he waved the “Vegetable Cultivation Techniques” book in his hand and complained, “I’m telling you, this book must be cursed. I never make it past the preface—just the introduction knocks me out. I’m only on page eight, still stuck in the foreword.”

William Sherman picked it up and flipped through it—a pure agricultural university textbook, not a centimeter of space wasted, even the illustrations were black and white, so serious there wasn’t a hint of entertainment. William Sherman set it aside without much interest and said casually, “Why bother reading this? The seeds you planted yourself—if those things are lucky, maybe they’ll gain a spirit thanks to your fate. They won’t die.”

Logan Sullivan: “No, science and technology are the primary productive forces.”

William Sherman: “…Then go back and study science and technology slowly.”

Logan Sullivan rolled his eyes mischievously. “The primary productive force and I are incompatible. Just looking at it makes me sleepy.”

William Sherman lowered his head and saw that the sleepiness in his dark eyes had faded, replaced by an indescribable smile as he looked at him.

Logan Sullivan reached out and hugged his waist. “If I can’t read it, I lose my appetite and can’t eat or sleep, and then I get depressed over time!”

William Sherman: “…”

Logan Sullivan rambled on, “You know, the suicide rate in Northern Europe is really high, which shows that cold places make people depressed. Kunlun Mountain is covered in snow all year round, there’s not even any heating, so I must have a gene for depression in my bones.”

William Sherman was silent for a moment. “…Forgive me for my poor eyesight.”

Logan Sullivan: “You must not love me anymore! You fickle man!”

William Sherman pressed his temples in exasperation. “Stop acting spoiled. What do you want now?”

Logan Sullivan grinned, showing a row of neat white teeth.

“Fine, I’ll read it to you at home tonight.” William Sherman said gently but helplessly, then looked away a little awkwardly. “But if you’re going to listen, just listen. If you get sleepy, go to sleep. No funny business.”

The tips of his ears were a little red, as if he’d just been teased by a bully and could only half-heartedly accept it like a shy bride.

Logan Sullivan angrily grabbed his collar and pulled William Sherman’s head down. “Could you please not act so innocent, darling? Have I ever actually taken advantage of you, even once… Okay, I admit I’ve always had criminal intentions, but I’ve never committed the crime!”

William Sherman quickly soothed him. “Alright, alright, get up, let’s go home.”

“I can’t get up.” Logan Sullivan turned his face away expressionlessly. “My back muscles are strained.”

William Sherman said gently and shyly, “…Then should I carry you?”

Logan Sullivan gave him a silent look, then silently stood up by himself. He felt that his back didn’t hurt at all now—though his stomach was starting to ache faintly.

As soon as the two of them left, everyone else scattered like birds and beasts. Holly Harlow was the fastest, with Julian West close behind. Carter Shaw poured himself a cup of tea and stayed until the stock market closed before slowly packing up. When he looked up, he found that Charles Gray still hadn’t left.