The fat man collapsed on the ground, seeing stars, his neck flushed red from being choked. It took him a few seconds to recover, and as soon as he did, he started cursing, “What the fuck are you! Fuck you—”

Before he could finish his threats, he saw the other person raise his foot again. The fat man immediately chickened out, instinctively raising his hands to shield himself, finally falling silent.

That kick never landed, after all, and the foot dropped back to the ground.

The local thug, having failed at extortion, propped himself up on the doorframe and climbed to his feet, glancing back over his shoulder. He still wanted to shout a few curses at Henry Clark past this tough guy’s face—after all, that brat was grinning and waving at him in a taunting way.

But the next second, the person in front of him tilted his head, blocking his view.

They were very close. For the first time, he looked up and met this person’s gaze.

Beneath the brim of the cap, a silver ball stud was pinned above the left brow, one above and one below, glinting with a sharp metallic light.

The fat man shivered under that gaze.

Those were light brown, narrow eyes, with a hint of gray at the center of the irises—very much like the eyes of some wild animal.

“I’ll be here every day.” He spoke expressionlessly, his voice soft. “See you tomorrow?”

Out of context, those words almost sounded like a gentle invitation.

David Morgan came running back, panting, just in time to see the fat man limping out of the alley, glancing back nervously, too shaken to even notice him.

At first, he found it odd, but when he entered the shop, it got even stranger.

“Hey? Isn’t this the mute handsome guy who was helping sell roasted sweet potatoes just now?”

Henry Clark was giving a thumbs-up, and when he heard this, he laughed again: “So it was you all along. Seriously, why is it always you?”

“Huh?” Something about that sounded off to David Morgan, and he mouthed, “You two… know each other?”

“This is the one I told you about, the guy who came straight to my house to catch my partner.”

The person in question was standing right at the door. Henry Clark smiled, looking at him: “Edith Parker, right?”

That name was really easy to remember.

David Morgan’s eyes widened a bit when he heard it, and he mouthed, “That fruit?”

“Screw you.” Henry Clark grabbed a box of tissues and chucked it at him.

Edith Parker ignored all this, simply responding to what had just been said to him, his tone flat, as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.

“I came to find you, and helped out along the way.”

Henry Clark had no intention of being so moved by a single act of heroism that he’d offer himself in gratitude.

He stretched lazily. “Thanks for stepping in, but I can’t help with what you want. I already made that clear last time.”

Thinking of last time still gave him a headache.

It had been a long time since he’d met someone this troublesome.

Every time he showed up, it was out of the blue. Last week, he’d even given him a real scare.

That day, he hadn’t even woken up yet, forced himself to open the door, and saw this guy dressed all in black standing at his doorstep, also wearing a hat just like today.

The hallway was pitch black, so he couldn’t make out his features—only the bottle of liquor in his hand caught a bit of light.

Henry Clark’s first reaction: “Here to collect a debt?”

“No.” The other tossed the bottle back where it came from—the cardboard box for trash outside the door—and dusted off his hands.

Henry Clark breathed a sigh of relief, patting his chest.

“Then what’s with that look? You’re scaring me.”

He hadn’t seen the upper half of his face clearly, but Edith Parker’s answer left a deep impression.

“Born with it.”

He didn’t look directly at Henry Clark, instead staring at the tattoo on his Adam’s apple, then letting his gaze drop to the tattoo on his wrist, before abruptly introducing himself: “My name is Edith Parker.”

That day, Henry Clark was still groggy, and Edith Parker stood in front of him, rattling off like a robot, but he barely took in a word—he only remembered his name.

And the request to form a band together.

Form a band?

That was even worse than debt collection.

Henry Clark laughed like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke: “Just hearing the word ‘band’ makes me sick. Stop, or I’ll puke on your shoes.”

Digging him up from the ends of the earth just to drag him out—this guy was nuts.

Of course, a few years ago, Henry Clark had no shortage of rabid fans.

People would stake out his apartment complex in the middle of the night, bang on his hotel room door, or even strip backstage and throw themselves at him—there was no end to the craziness. After he got kicked out of the band, plenty of labels and producers still tried everything to sign him, using threats and bribes—he had nowhere to hide. On top of that, there were lunatic ex-fans who turned on him because of rumors, stalking him and smashing his face with old band CDs.

That was the first time he realized that, if you threw hard enough, a record could actually draw blood.

He’d wiped the blood from his forehead and couldn’t help but marvel, “Damn, that’s some quality.”

It was better not to mention the word “band”—as soon as he did, all those rotten memories came flooding back with the booze.

After all this time, he felt like someone who’d died but hadn’t quite passed on, stuck at the bridge to the afterlife, endlessly drinking the soup of forgetfulness, just wanting to erase all those bad memories. The more soup, the better—but he drank so much he nearly choked himself back to life.

Henry Clark almost really did throw up.

Thinking of the band, he should have remembered the hum of the electric guitar, but all he could hear in his head was the wailing of ambulance sirens.

So he said bluntly, “Don’t come to my place again. If you do, I’ll call the police.”