Leo burst into the restroom, and as the cold tap water splashed on his face, he almost believed everything in the bar was just an absurd nightmare. But the cold, sharp-edged McLaren key in his pocket and the scalding "Distinguished Owner" email notification with its official logo on his phone screamed a single fact: the bullshit Julian Croft had been slinging was somehow, bizarrely, landing on his head.
"What the hell..." he muttered to his reflection. The man in the mirror was pale, his eyes frantic, his hair slightly stuck to his forehead from a cold sweat—the perfect image of a low-level employee dazed by life's sucker punch. This image, and owning a Manhattan penthouse plus a limited-edition supercar worth an astronomical sum? If Julian found out, he'd probably laugh so hard he'd spray out that bottle of Louis XIII.
He tried typing the apartment address from the email into his phone's map. The satellite instantly pinpointed a location next to the icon of a top-tier building overlooking Central Park, its glass curtain wall glittering in the night. He swallowed hard. Then, as if possessed, his finger tapped the email's attachment—the so-called electronic deed.
"File download failed. Please check your network connection or file integrity." A line of emotionless text popped up.
"Huh? Failed?" Leo was stunned. "What is this? Did God send me a luxury gift basket but only gave me the box without the instruction manual?"
He tried downloading it again, with the same result. The heavy, finger-numbingly cold reality of the key in his pocket formed an absurd contrast with the damn "network connection failed" message. The physical object seemed real, but the document... was it a fake? But who would bother faking something so easily exposed, just to mess with a nobody like him? Was it really some kind of phishing scam? The advanced kind that could simultaneously create real-world objects?
"Host, your phone is crap!"
"Holy shit, I really have a system? And it's mocking me!" Frustrated, he clutched the key, unconsciously tapping it against the cool enamel of the sink. Tap... tap... tap... The sound was a little creepy in the empty restroom.
The door was pushed open without warning.
"Hey, bathroom philosopher! Did you fall in?" It was Brian, his face just as flushed, carrying the sticky, boisterous atmosphere of the bar. He was clutching half a bottle of beer. "It's all going to hell out there, man!"
Leo quickly shoved the key back into his pocket, wiping the water from his face like a guilty thief. "Going... going to hell how?"
"The booze! The booze is about to run out!" Brian lowered his voice, a hint of schadenfreude in it. "Over at the New York Harbor, some dockworkers' union or whatever, they've staged a flash strike in the middle of the night! The whole supply line is choked! Joe's running around like a cat on a hot tin roof. If this party's a bust, he'll lose so much face. I just heard him and the bartender making frantic calls. They can't get a delivery from anywhere, especially ice! Whiskey without ice? You might as well drink tap water!"
Brian pulled a dazed Leo back towards the bar.
The entire bar was filled with a massive, explosive clamor. The focus was clearly on Julian Croft, who had just walked in, his expensive suit slightly open, a confident smile of total control on his face—or rather, a deliberately performed confidence. Clara followed a few steps behind him, her brow furrowed, her gaze cutting across the crowd to land precisely on the just-returned Leo. When their eyes met, her brow seemed to relax a fraction, but her worry deepened.
Julian surveyed the room, very pleased to be the absolute center of attention. He even raised his voice, as if broadcasting to the entire bar, "Ladies and gentlemen, a trivial little problem! A minor glitch in the supply line has interrupted our precious gathering. This is simply unforgivable!" He raised a freshly filled glass of whiskey (the ice clinking pleasantly, a sound that now seemed exceptionally luxurious), his tone as casual as if he were discussing tomorrow's breakfast. "Don't worry. For me, something like this is a joke in New York Harbor's history that I can solve with a flick of my little finger! The Croft family has been operating there for decades. Connections? Ha, so deep I can call the responsible city commissioner and drag him out of bed in the middle of the night!"
As if to prove the "value" of his words, Julian, with extreme naturalness and speed, pulled out his latest model phone, inlaid with what might have been diamonds. The motion of his thumb sliding across the screen was slick enough for a commercial. His voice carried an unquestionable authority. "Just like this..." He began to scroll rapidly through his contacts.
The motion was as smooth as flowing water.
The phone just kept ringing. No one picked up.
A few of the alumni who had been waiting with adoring eyes for their "savior" to act began to exchange confused glances. The atmosphere subtly shifted from "the messiah has come" to the verge of "major public embarrassment."
System: "Bragging directed at Host has been detected. Returning dock connection network to Host. Return rate: 100%!"
Just then, as if for a precision follow-up attack, a hip-hop track with an unusually strong beat blasted through the restroom! The sound was so loud it even drowned out the noise from outside.
Everyone looked around, stunned, searching for the source of the sound.
In the corner, Leo fumbled deep inside the inner pocket of his cheap casual jacket and pulled out an antique—a first-generation smartphone with a screen big enough for a marquee and a back cover held on with scotch tape! The deafening, intensely retro electronic ringtone (Leo had never changed it, because he had no idea how) now ricocheted violently off the smooth tiled walls, with the effect of a megaphone. The phone vibrated stubbornly in Leo's hand, the screen lit up, a strange Manhattan area code flashing brightly.
Brian's eyes widened. He pointed at Leo's ear-splitting "antique," his mouth hanging open unconsciously, forgetting to swallow the beer foam. Julian also looked up sharply, as if seeing Leo for the first time, staring intently at the out-of-place "unearthed relic," his expression a brilliant mix of surprise, annoyance, and a hint of irritation at being fooled.
"That piece of junk..." Julian's voice sounded like it was squeezed through his teeth.
The entire bar's gaze fell on him. Leo felt like a frog being dissected under a spotlight. He was so embarrassed his face burned, and he almost turned the phone off and threw it away, but a faster figure stepped between him and the probing stares.
It was Clara. She had somehow crossed the room and was standing half a step in front of Leo, perfectly blocking Julian's murderous glare and Brian's overly curious eyes. She didn't look back at Leo, her calm gaze sweeping over the crowd, her voice quiet but carrying a clear, soothing quality. "Let him take the call. It might be urgent." She didn't even bother to refute Julian's "piece of junk" comment, but her protective stance instantly eased the tense atmosphere in the small space.
Julian's mouth twitched violently.
Leo took a deep breath and, under the gazes that could have roasted him alive, gritted his teeth, pressed the answer key, and moved the still-screaming antique to his ear.
"He... hello?" His voice was dry with nervousness.
"Mr. Vanderburg?! Thank God I got through!" On the other end was an extremely anxious middle-aged male voice, with the faint sound of sirens and a noisy crowd in the background. "This is the liaison from the Mayor's office! We desperately need your help! The Dockworkers' Union strike just blocked the Kennedy Tunnel exit! You promised you had 'deep connections' in the union, and we're completely stuck here! We... we had no other choice but to call this number... The communication channel said this might be your personal private emergency line?" By the end, the voice was practically overflowing with confusion and probing.
Leo: "..." He could clearly hear his own heartbeat. Thump! Thump! Thump! It was beating against his eardrums like a drum. He stiffly turned his head, looking over Clara's shoulder at Julian, whose face had gone from ashen to deathly white. Julian's phone was still clutched uselessly in his hand, the screen seemingly still on the contact list he'd been frantically scrolling, but now it looked more like a hot potato. "Holy crap, the system is awesome!"
The entire bar was dead silent. Only the anxious voice on the phone kept coming:
"Mr. Vanderburg? Are you listening? We need a solution that takes effect immediately! The situation is extremely urgent..."
"I..." Leo opened his mouth but couldn't get a single word out. He was "Mr. Vanderburg" now? What kind of cosmic joke was this!
At that very moment, his antique phone, which everyone regarded as a "piece of junk," suddenly flashed a faint green numerical dot in the bottom-left corner of the screen—0. It was one of its extremely limited smart features: an indicator that some program was running in the background. Leo's heart leaped—this felt exactly like when he was tracking a stubborn little process from a virus in the company servers!
A sliver of "IT guy" Leo's calmness suddenly emerged from the extreme absurdity. Almost on instinct, he tilted the phone screen to the side, avoiding most lines of sight (but positioned so Clara, who was right there, could see), and his finger quickly swiped up from the green dot. There, a newly generated, briefly lingering line of text lay:
**「Port link request - Keywords 'transport'... 'union'... 'strike' detected... Protocol match... (garbled characters)... Authority: Temporary...」**
The specific information below it refreshed and disappeared in an instant, as fast as an illusion. But Leo's heart suddenly clenched! Fucking "keywords"! "Protocol match"! This stuff was definitely not something his ancient phone should be involved with! A chilling sensation of being manipulated by a cold, technological hand washed over him again.
"System, what does this mean!" Leo thought.
System: "Host, this is my debug information, please ignore it!!! You just need to dial the phone number at the end of the message."
"..."
"Leo?" Clara keenly noticed the rapid change in his expression and called his name softly.
At this critical juncture, the bar door was rudely pushed open again! The bar owner, Joe, squeezed in, clutching a tablet computer, its screen flashing a conspicuous "Emergency Strike Announcement." He was covered in sweat, his anxious gaze darting back and forth between Julian and... the guy holding the "broken phone," shielded by the popular girl, who the mayor's office was calling "Vanderburg." "Gentlemen! Can one of you give me a straight answer?! Julian, your connections! And this... uh... sir, the mayor's office..." He was about to break down.
"I can try!" Leo blurted out, his voice hoarse with desperation. It wasn't because of Julian's fiery glare (which was indeed terrifying), nor the crazy looks from the surrounding crowd, but because of that bizarre port request, that fleeting permission prompt—this no longer felt like a simple "echo" descending upon him, but more like he was being forcibly dragged into a pre-set program!
"What?!" Joe's eyes bulged like saucers.
"Huh? You?" Brian's voice went up an octave.
Julian took a sharp step forward, his carefully maintained composure finally shattering, his handsome face twisting. "Leo Vanderburg! Look at that thing in your hand! Don't put on a show here! This is about the whole party! It's not something a... a nerd like you can play with..."
"Leo!" Julian's voice, laced with unprecedented rage and the humiliation of having his authority challenged, sounded from behind him. "You attention-seeking clown! That's enough! Stop your..." He tried to grab Leo's shoulder, the movement almost rough!
"He is trying to help, Julian, while you've been standing there complaining!"
Clara's voice was quiet but exceptionally clear. She didn't look at Julian, her gaze still fixed on Leo's right hand, which was moving rapidly across the screen, sticky with traces of hand sanitizer. The firmness beneath her calm was like an invisible barrier, making Julian's hand, reaching for Leo's shoulder, freeze in mid-air.
Blocked by Clara, Julian's face showed an expression of disbelief for the first time, mixed with extreme embarrassment and the shock of being publicly rebuffed. The air around them seemed to solidify.
Leo dialed one of the numbers from the message prompt. "This is Leo. I hope tonight's strike can end here. I will give everyone a satisfactory answer." On the other end of the line, after a brief pause: "...If it's you making the promise, sir, we believe you! We'll resume normal operations immediately."
"It's done!" Leo hung up abruptly, almost shouting the words as he gasped for breath.
The moment that hoarse "It's done" fell, the miracle didn't happen immediately. A brief, vacuum-like silence enveloped the bar. Julian's hand, frozen in mid-air, trembled slightly with humiliation and anger, his lips pressed into a cold, thin line. Joe stomped his foot anxiously. Brian's mouth hung open, his face a mask of "dude, you're crazy."
Two seconds felt like a century.
Then—CRASH!!
As if in response, a tsunami-like roar, several times louder than before, erupted! Not arguments, but—pure, boiling cheers!
The screen of Joe's tablet on the counter suddenly changed! The glaring "Emergency Strike Announcement" page flickered and was instantly refreshed with a new scrolling message: "Immediate Update: Temporary solution for the dock strike has been reached! Transport resuming! Thanks to the negotiators..."
A moment later, the bartender's ecstatic shout echoed clearly from outside the room, throughout the entire bar: "The ice is here! The champagne is here!! Everyone—the open bar is back on!!"
"WOO-HOO!!" The cheers from outside nearly blew the roof off! The loud music exploded back to life amidst the cheers, the beat more explosive than ever!
This sudden, drama-filled turn of events left everyone dumbfounded. The beer can in Brian's hand fell to the floor with a clang, pale yellow liquid spilling everywhere, soaking his pants, but he was oblivious, his eyes just bulging as if they were about to pop out. Joe, relieved, slapped his shiny forehead and started laughing and crying at the new message on his tablet. The other alumni, huddled together, were stunned at first, then were infected by the deafeningly joyous atmosphere from outside and started cheering along.
Julian was frozen in place, his face beyond "ugly." It was a ghastly white, a mixture of extreme defeat, disbelief, and the sting of being ruthlessly played. He looked at Leo's antique phone, which had been casually tossed on the counter, its screen dark again. Finally, his gaze landed on the skinny "clown" who was suddenly mobbed by the crowd and nearly knocked over—
Leo Vanderburg hadn't even recovered from his overclocked state of concentration when he was grabbed by several out-of-control (mostly from alcohol and surprise) guys! The moment his feet left the ground, his face still wore a mixed expression of bewilderment and shock, like a programmer who had just fixed a tough bug (definitely no joy), his glasses askew on his nose, looking exactly like a kidnapped chick.
"Nice one, Vanderburg! I don't give a damn how you did it!"
"Champagne! Get champagne for our 'temporary foreman'!"
"Who says the nerds from our year are useless! Hahaha!"
Cheers, whistles, and slaps that smelled of beer foam rained down on Leo from all directions. He struggled amidst the chaos to straighten his glasses, watching in terror as he was lifted higher and higher. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clara standing with her arms crossed, the worry and anxiety on her face finally gone. She watched his clumsy and comical hero's toss—the reflection from the mirror clearly landing on his face—and she couldn't help but curve her lips into a smile. Though the smile lasted only a fleeting moment, it held not a trace of doubt or contempt.
The crowd carried a dizzy Leo, plunging back into the frenzied vortex that was like a tropical storm.
Only Julian Croft remained standing where he was, like the only still reef in the eye of the storm. The roaring waves of noise washed over him but couldn't carry away an ounce of the chill.
Max Horowitz's figure appeared in the shadows not far away. He took a sip of his drink, his shrewd little eyes glittering with pure, calculated interest as he stared at Leo being tossed by the crowd, silently mouthing the words: 'New... asset...'