He quickly switched the topic, grinning mischievously, “Could it be some lovesick girl? At a time like this, and you’re still thinking about her.”

A curse came from the other end of the phone. David Morgan couldn’t stop laughing, and when he looked up, he spotted a small street stall. As he got a good look at the vendor, his steps involuntarily halted.

“Shit.”

“Since when are guys this handsome out here running street stalls?”

An elderly man with a limp was also approaching the stall. David Morgan stepped aside to let him pass, waiting behind him while sizing up the handsome guy in front.

This guy was unusually quiet, not saying a word even when customers arrived.

He was dressed all in black, with a dark gray baseball cap pulled low, half his face easily hidden. It was clearly just an old biker jacket, but on him it was eye-catching, like a model—good-looking, well-proportioned, slim waist and long legs.

His hair was pretty long, too.

When he lowered his head, David Morgan noticed a small ponytail at the back and a row of silver earrings in his right ear. The late summer sun made them glint brightly.

As he stared, he suddenly realized the old man hadn’t said a word, mouth open but only gesturing with his hands, looking frustrated.

The cold-faced handsome guy in front stared for a moment, then reached into his pocket and, to David Morgan’s surprise, started signing fluently.

“What the hell?”

The call was still connected, the voice on the other end lazy.

[What, did the roasted sweet potatoes grow legs and run off with a handsome guy?]

“Damn,” realizing the vendor couldn’t hear, David Morgan didn’t bother to hide it and sighed directly, “He’s even a deaf-mute hottie, what a waste.”

The old man in front paid and left. David Morgan reached out, pointed at the grill, gestured a “1,” then paused and made a “wait a moment” sign, asking the person on the phone.

“Hey Henry Clark, do you want one?”

He didn’t notice that the handsome guy in front suddenly looked up.

“If you don’t, don’t come begging for a bite later.”

David Morgan pouted, just about to gesture “1” again, when suddenly, not far away, a burly man came huffing over, repeatedly thanking the handsome vendor.

“Thank you, young man, good thing you watched my stall for me. There are too many tourists in this alley lately, even going to the bathroom means waiting in line.”

The “mute” handsome guy said in a low voice, “You’re welcome.”

Shit.

He can talk??

And his voice is really nice!

“The boss is back.” He tossed out the words, turned to leave, “Buy from him.”

……

He’d never been this embarrassed in his life.

Still in a daze, Henry Clark’s tone suddenly turned a bit serious in his earphones, tinged with annoyance.

[That fat guy is causing trouble again, don’t come back to the shop yet.]

[Save me a bite of roasted sweet potato.]

As soon as the call ended, Henry Clark rubbed his temples, put on a cheeky grin, leaned over the counter, and waved at the local bully, “Good morning.”

“Here to support us again? David isn’t here right now, maybe come back another day?”

“Support my ass!” The fat guy yanked his collar, opened his mouth, and unleashed a string of curses about his ancestors. In the end, it was the same old story—bad tattoo, needs compensation, and he wouldn’t let it go without money!

How many times had this happened this month?

The shop barely had any business to begin with, and now, looking at it, what they earned wasn’t even enough to cover the extortion.

Henry Clark grinned, “Where’s the problem? Let me see?”

“Right here, see for yourself!”

He actually pulled up his shirt.

It was almost painful to look at, so he just squinted.

“How should I put this…”

Henry Clark leaned on the counter, smiling, “A drawing on paper and a drawing on a slab of pork can’t look exactly the same, right? It’s close enough, cut us some slack.”

The fat guy cursed, “Are you fucking crazy?!”

To which Henry Clark just went along, “Aren’t I? You really get me! You can tell just by looking, we’re kindred spirits!”

He grabbed the fat guy’s hand and shook it vigorously.

The fat guy, furious, yanked his hand away, grabbed a bottle of ink from the counter, and aimed it straight at Henry Clark’s head, “Fuck you!”

What a temper.

He couldn’t be bothered to dodge, didn’t even lift his eyelids, already prepared to collapse to the floor and play dead after the first hit.

Anyone who knows how to fight knows exactly where to hit so it won’t kill.

But the glass bottle didn’t come down as expected.

Could it be that he was so hungover his sense of pain was messed up?

“Who the hell are you—”

Huh?

Henry Clark lifted his eyelids and saw that the fat, greasy hand was frozen in midair, firmly gripped by a fair, sinewy hand.

The fat guy had just opened his mouth when he was suddenly yanked away, stumbling back several steps like a crumbling wall, and before he could steady himself, a new kick landed squarely on him.

“Shit!”

At first glance, the kick didn’t even look that hard, but the fat guy went down instantly, his back hitting the ground with a bang, the rolls of fat on his face scrunched up.

His stomach ached, his head buzzed, and before he could get up, the other person strode over, bent down, grabbed his collar, and single-handedly dragged him out of the shop.

It looked even easier than dragging a dog.

Henry Clark couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

That efficiency—just like a psycho killer in a movie.

If he hadn’t recognized who it was at first glance, he might’ve been scared himself.