“Prepare a set of ID documents, a phone, and a computer for me. Buy several non-registered SIM cards as well. Go.”

Emily Carter hesitated for a moment, let out a long sigh, and turned to leave.

·

By this time, the KTV had already opened for business. The corridor to the private rooms was decorated with ever-changing colorful lights, and the main hall pulsed with rhythmic music as groups of trendy young people passed by. Emily Carter relayed Ryan Sullivan’s instructions to her assistant, telling them to handle it immediately and carefully, then absentmindedly went downstairs to make her rounds.

She stepped out of the crystal elevator and turned a corner when suddenly a private room door ahead swung open. A tall man, trailed by a chorus of wailing “Love Even If I Die,” strode out and headed straight for the bar, slamming his glass down in front of the bartender with a flourish:

“What are you selling here?!”

Emily Carter couldn’t help but stop in her tracks, only to see the bartender examine the glass for a moment and say, “It’s Long Island Iced Tea, dear.”

“Try it yourself—does this iced tea have a damn drop of alcohol in it?”

“No alcohol taste, dear. What we sell here is iced tea, dear.”

“What? Isn’t that consumer fraud?”

The bartender immediately straightened his face and retorted confidently, “I don’t like what you’re saying, handsome. It’s called Long Island Iced Tea, made with fresh black tea and lemon. It’s clearly a high-quality iced black tea—how can you call that fraud?”

“……” The man’s worldview was clearly shaken. After a moment, he asked in disbelief, “So if I order a Bloody Mary, are you going to slit your wrist and pour a ladle of black dog’s blood in for me to try?”

Emily Carter: “……”

The man looked to be in his thirties, and his face was truly striking—even the shifting neon lights of the KTV couldn’t drown out his sharp, handsome features. His hair stood up rebelliously, making his six-foot-plus frame seem even taller, and the T-shirt under his leather jacket outlined a lean, muscular build. Even the muscles in his neck were clearly defined as he turned to speak.

Bartender: “Oh, you’re joking, handsome. Bloody Mary, right? Don’t worry, I’ll go slice a tomato for you first!”

Smack!

The bartender froze, seeing the handsome guy pull a Swiss Army knife from the back of his waistband and slap it onto the bar, saying coldly, “You want to do it yourself, or should I help you?”

Emily Carter’s brow twitched instantly. She’d been in this business long enough to spot a bit of a ruffian in the man’s rebellious, handsome eyes at a glance.

“Y-y-you—” the bartender whimpered, scrambling backward in a panic. “What kind of way is that to talk to people!…”

“My apologies, sir.” Emily Carter strode forward with a bright smile. “I’m the owner here. For safety reasons, our establishment doesn’t serve mixed drinks with more than 40% alcohol, so we make our Long Island Iced Tea as actual iced tea. Since you’d like a cocktail, how about we make you a new one? Little Parker!”

The bartender, whose name tag read—Agatha Don Francisco Tony—in both Chinese and English, immediately called out softly, “Sister Emily.”

“Make a Beach Sunset for this gentleman,” Emily Carter said to the man with a charming smile. “On the house.”

The man looked her up and down before slowly folding up his knife and putting it away, snorting, “At least you’re strict about the rules.”

Emily Carter laughed repeatedly, “No problem at all, it was our staff who didn’t explain clearly. You see, Long Island Iced Tea is listed on the ‘non-alcoholic drinks’ menu. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

But her explanation only further upended the man’s worldview: “—Misunderstanding?” He pointed at the glass in disbelief. “You’re selling this Kang Shifu iced tea for 280, and you have the nerve to say I misunderstood? Do you think I’m blind or just stupid?”

Emily Carter: “……”

The man turned and headed back to his private room, clearly intending to call his friends out to settle the matter. Emily Carter was about to follow when suddenly a chef came stumbling from the kitchen, grabbing her like a lifeline: “Carter—Sister Carter, something’s wrong! The kitchen, the kitchen freezer…”

Emily Carter looked down to see the chef’s face, half green and half blue under the lights, shaking all over as if he were having a seizure:

“There’s a thief who crawled into the freezer, f-f-f-froze—looks like he froze to death!”

·

Emily Carter stood in front of the open upright freezer, unable to utter a single sound.

The nightclub’s lively noise seemed far away; the huge kitchen was dead silent. The back door to the alley, leading to the trash bins, was half open, and a gust of wind swept through, like the breath of the dead brushing past the living’s ears.

The helpers, waiters, and bartender all huddled in the back, so quiet you could hear their knees knocking together. After a while, the bartender whispered, almost in tears, “D-d-d-did… did he die?”

A young man in his twenties lay on his back on the ground, his face bluish-purple, eyes wide open, blood at his mouth and nose, his bare upper body covered in frost, arms slightly spread as if frozen in his final moments.

“……” Emily Carter’s chest heaved as she slowly crouched down, trembling as she reached out to check for breath.

Suddenly, someone pressed her hand down.

“Ah!” Emily Carter jumped in fright, turning to see it was Ryan Sullivan: “SullivanBrother Sullivan!”