Scott Harris had already stepped out the door, turned back with a smile, and said, “R-72 rocket launcher.”

 Mason: “……” Holy crap, do you comfort people with rocket launchers at your house?!!!

Chapter 5: The Whale of the Lonely Island

 “Don’t look at me with that expression. When I’m in a good mood, I’ll use something else.” When Scott Harris left with the rocket launcher, he was as relaxed as if he’d just finished afternoon tea and was about to take the dog for a walk.

 Mason didn’t really believe him. “Like what?”

 “PA light missile?” Scott Harris answered casually.

 Mason couldn’t help but ask, “What’s the difference?”

 Scott Harris pressed a switch outside the storage room door and replied, “The missile rails are a bit more elegant, looks gentler.”

 Mason: “Are you really describing a PA warhead that can blast the entire cedar forest to pieces……………………”

 “Yeah.”

 Mason slapped himself across the face: Damn it, I actually believed you! If I ever take this lunatic’s words seriously again, I’m an idiot!

 He’d had a good plan—if Scott Harris insisted on provoking that desperado, he wouldn’t stop him. After all, he wasn’t the one looking for trouble!

 But just as he shrank back to the edge of the capsule, he heard a flat mechanical voice echo through the storage room: “Room lockdown system activated. Triggered self-destruct device enabled. Countdown: 10 seconds. 10—”

 “What the hell is this?!” Mason was startled.

 Scott Harris’s voice grew more distant with his footsteps, “I’m a bit paranoid, not comfortable leaving strangers to house-sit. Don’t worry, as long as you’re careful, the room won’t blow up.”

 Mason sprang up like a carp, grabbed the skinny little Mason, and dashed for the door, not forgetting to take the box with the soundproof earplugs. “No no no, I’ve changed my mind, I’ll go risk my life with you, I’m not house-sitting anymore!!!”

 The big and the small barely squeezed out before the heavy door automatically locked behind them.

 Mason, face green, took the stairs three at a time. When he caught up at the villa entrance, Scott Harris was just pulling a pair of glasses from the cabinet drawer by the door.

 “You’re coming too?” Scott Harris clipped on the protective lenses and headed straight up the outdoor stairs to the third-floor terrace.

 He moved at a steady, unhurried pace, as if he wasn’t the least bit worried about the terrorist getting upset and causing trouble.

 Mason strapped on the air exchanger for himself and little Mason, face gloomy as if in mourning. “Yeah, if I don’t go and you get upset and blow me up, what am I supposed to do?”

 “Sorry, I just don’t like seeing others lounging around, especially when I have to get up and do things.” Scott Harris stopped at the edge of the rooftop, casually removing the black cover from the rocket launcher as he spoke.

 This guy was a total bastard. Every time he said something threatening, he’d always preface it with “sorry,” “excuse me,” “unfortunately,” or “pardon me,” and yet he looked so refined, sometimes even with a smile, as if he genuinely thought threatening people was improper.

 Back in the building, the old guys would get so mad at him they’d cough up blood, stomping their feet in the conference room.

 Even his deputy, Carl, couldn’t stand it sometimes and would occasionally ask, “Did they ever try to make things difficult for you?”

 Scott Harris would always reply, “Who knows? Don’t you think their eyes always look a bit guilty? Maybe they’ve done something bad behind my back.”

 His tone was always half-joking, half-serious, making it impossible to tell if he was kidding or not. So after hearing this a few times, Carl wisely stopped asking.

 “Alright, alright, from now on, you’re the boss.” Mason, both shocked and scared, pledged his loyalty with a face like he’d eaten rat poison.

 From their vantage point, they could see a lean black figure standing at the edge where the cedar forest met the earth, about fifty or sixty meters from the villa’s wall. At his feet was a pile of something stacked up, origin unknown, and nothing else but emptiness.

 “Hey! My tent!” Mason blurted out, pointing instinctively at the pile.

 Then he remembered—he was pointing right at an escaped convict.

 He immediately shut up, quietly pulled his finger back, grabbed little Mason, and crouched down to hide his face.

 Scott Harris said regretfully, “You’ll probably have to say goodbye to your tent.”

 His voice wasn’t loud, but the black figure had sharp ears. Hearing the familiar voice, he looked up, his gaze locking precisely onto Scott Harris.

 “My dear commander, you finally couldn’t resist coming out.” He stepped on a slightly raised surveillance lens on the ground, knees bent, making his legs look even longer. He tilted his head back, looking utterly bored, his voice tinged with a smile—though it was impossible to tell what kind of smile it was.

 “Eric Bennett-Young, long time no see.” Scott Harris even raised his left hand at him, as if genuinely greeting him.

 “Long time no see. I’d be happier if you’d drop the surname when you call me.” Eric Bennett squinted at him, as if seriously sizing him up. After a moment, he suddenly smiled and said, “By the way, I missed you very much.”

 Mason: “……”