Wayne remembered clearly: the front doors of the detective agency had been locked tight, bolted from the inside.
The City of Londan had plenty of urban legends—a subway station leading straight to hell, a headless horseman wandering through the fog, alleys that devoured people, vast subterranean catacombs, and more.
These sensational urban legends appeared only at night, sharing the city with the people of Londan. Day belonged to the citizens, and night belonged to them; both sides coexisted peacefully, minding their own business. But if anyone broke the rules and trespassed on their territory, they would evaporate overnight, vanishing without a trace.
Whenever these urban legends came up, the dockworkers described them in vivid detail, as though they had witnessed them with their own eyes.
Over the past three months, Wayne had heard no shortage of such tales. Because he had never seen them firsthand, he scoffed at them; yet because believing cost nothing, he decided to give them some credence anyway.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Every time night fell, he locked the doors tight to avoid any up-close encounters with the urban legends.
Since it was free, he might as well believe a little.
*Thump, thump, thump—*
The knocking sounded again, distinctly more urgent than before, as if determined to keep pounding away until Wayne answered.
Wayne didn't open the door. Instead, he silently grabbed the crowbar beside him. The visitor didn't keep knocking either, pushing the door open and walking right in.
A hooded black robe covered the intruder from head to toe, concealing their face. Under the overhead light, the robe cast stark shadows, compounding the pressure weighing on Wayne. A light sweat broke out on the palm gripping the crowbar.
Wayne peered closely. Though he couldn't see the face beneath the hood, the rise and fall of the robe at the chest suggested the intruder was a woman.
*A client?*
"You're the owner of this detective agency, I presume. I have some business to discuss with you."
"Could we talk tomorrow? We're closed for the night."
Pleasant as her voice was, Wayne still turned her down. Dressed so mysteriously, she clearly came with baggage, and he had no desire to get tangled up with someone like that.
The intruder didn't speak. She walked slowly up to the desk, glanced at the table full of potatoes, let out a soft chuckle, and tossed down a thick stack of banknotes with a wave of her hand.
The queen's portrait printed on the notes pierced right through Wayne's retinas. Single bills with a face value of one hundred shillings each, at least fifty of them—five thousand shillings in total, enough to keep him working himself to the bone for two whole years.
The shilling was the legal tender of the Kingdom of Windsor. Beneath it was the copper penny; twelve pennies traded for one shilling, essentially making them loose change.
Depressed by the Great Depression and the looming clouds of war, the purchasing power of the shilling had been falling steadily, but to Wayne, this was still a fortune.
"Can we talk now?"
"Please, take a seat."
Wayne sat behind the desk, resting the crowbar across his lap. His instincts told him the weapon wouldn't do much against her, but he needed the psychological comfort. Holding a handy tool gave him at least a bit of backbone when speaking.
The woman seemed quite satisfied with Wayne's mercenary commercial professionalism, taking a seat across from the desk at an unhurried pace.
At close range, Wayne examined the intruder and caught sight of the lower half of her face left uncovered by the hood. Her lips were exquisitely sculpted, and her lustrous skin glowed with the luminous white of pearls; one could imagine that her chin, soft and smooth to the touch, was of top-tier quality.
Judging by appearance, Wayne guessed she wasn't very old—sixteen to eighteen, certainly no older than twenty.
At that age, with that kind of beauty, barging alone into a single man's place late at night meant she either had some serious skills, or she had some serious backing.
Judging strictly by how lavishly she spent, she was probably the latter.
The woman's silence made Wayne uneasy. Putting on his professional customer-service smile, he offered politely, "Have you eaten? Would you like some potatoes?"
"Black tea."
"One moment."
Wayne swept up the five thousand shillings on the desk and got up to brew tea in the kitchen. Heaven knew where the locals got tea when this world didn't even have maritime trade.
A moment later, Wayne sat back down. Seeing the woman place both hands along the edge of her hood, preparing to reveal her true face, he blurted out to stop her.
"I know the rules! I don't want to know what you look like. Once tonight is over, we're total strangers. Whatever you do, don't take that hood off!" Wayne raised a hand to cover his eyes.
It didn't do a damn bit of good. She did whatever she pleased, not caring in the least about his opinion.
The young woman had blonde hair and green eyes. Her features were impeccably balanced, the underlying bone structure and surface contours perfectly proportioned. With maximum chic, her aloof, striking beauty held incredible versatility, equally capable of pulling off pure sweetness or projecting an imposing, icy elegance.
Right now, for instance, her golden hair was pinned up in a bun behind her head, her cool, dark eyes harboring a deep, starlit glint. She lifted the teacup to her nose, took a whiff without tasting it, and set it right back down.
*What, can't a wild boar stomach fine grain?*
Though she said nothing, Wayne still sensed the thick barrier known as class divide. The premium tea he had spent a small fortune on was worthless in her eyes.
*Good thing, though—that means a big client!*
Old habits from his past life died hard: Wayne never complained to wealthy clients—at least not to their faces. Maintaining his smile, he asked, "Respected lady, could you tell me about the business you wish to discuss?"
"I need a job. You need an assistant."
"..."
Wayne was flabbergasted. He gestured around his office. "As you can see, this is a modest operation. I can't afford—"
"I'll pay to work here. One thousand shillings a month to you, to apply for the position of assistant at your detective agency."
"..."
"If that doesn't work, forget it."
"Welcome aboard, Miss Assistant. You're hired."
Wayne agreed without hesitation. Counting the five thousand from earlier, that made a full six thousand shillings.
Perhaps this made him look utterly devoid of principles, but six thousand shillings and principles weren't even in the same league. Hesitating for a single second would be showing mercy to potatoes.
Wayne warmly extended his hand. She didn't take it. Pulling it back to shake his own hand, he said without an ounce of embarrassment, "Your résumé and identification papers... Oh, I can just make those up myself. I'm Wayne, owner and chief detective of this agency. And you are?"
"Veronica."
Veronica gave a name that might or might not be real, followed by a story that might or might not be real: she hailed from a foreign country, had loved detective novels since childhood, and aspired to become a great detective.
She wouldn't stay long at the Wayne Detective Agency, nor would she bring Wayne any trouble. As long as he asked few questions, he would earn a never-ending supply of the queen's portraits throughout her employment.
A perfunctory lie, severely lacking in sincerity—but it was enough.
Wayne nodded. By this point, it was obvious Veronica had an ulterior motive. What it was, he couldn't tell; all he knew was that it wasn't aimed at him.
He had nothing to his name, no value to exploit.
"During my employment, I will be living at the agency. Do you have spare rooms here? I need two. I'll pay rent separately. Any problem with that?"
"None at all. You can move in anytime, bags in hand."
Wayne couldn't help marveling. As the old saying went: *Meet a good match, start a family; meet a patron, build a career; meet a rich woman, do both.* He hadn't believed it before, but now he realized he simply hadn't met a rich woman yet.
Money cleared all paths without fail. Wayne had already forgotten all about Veronica's ulterior motives. All he knew was that money was beauty, and beauty was justice. A rich, pretty girl possessed double the justice. Veronica certainly wasn't some spy or assassin sent by an enemy nation; she had traveled thousands of miles across foreign lands purely to fulfill her childhood detective dream.
How wonderful. Unlike Wayne, who had harbored many dreams as a boy, only to be left with just one upon growing up:
To be able to afford a house.
"The ground floor is the office area. The second floor is my bedroom, archive, workshop, storeroom, and bathroom. If you don't mind, there are partitioned rooms on the third floor. Nobody usually goes up there, so with a quick tidy-up tomorrow, they'll be ready for move-in."
"I'm moving in tonight."
Veronica looked toward the stairs, drew a stack of shillings from her purse, and handed them to Wayne note by note. "Your bedroom is mine as well. I'm renting the entire second floor. I'll give you one hour to move your things downstairs."
"Half an hour is plenty."
"Also, my luggage is outside."
"On it right now."
A rich landlord's daughter—take advantage while you can! The money Veronica offered was enough for Wayne to remodel the detective agency from top to bottom. He had neither the grounds nor any reason to refuse.
Yet when he reached the agency's front door, the scene before him struck him dumb.
Both doors stood wide open, trembling against the dark backdrop of the night.
A hulking man two meters tall barred the doorway, guarding three large black trunks. Broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, he had rugged, chiselled features and thick hair covering his muscular arms.
In a Londan where winter had yet to depart, this brawny man wore only a pair of white shorts and a sleeveless undershirt. Standing some distance away, Wayne could already feel the rolling waves of heat radiating from his powerful physique.
*A hands-on pragmatist who knows how to reason.*
Seeing Wayne, the burly man smiled faintly and extended a thick, meaty hand toward him. "William. Let's be friends."
"Hello, I'm Wayne."
The man looked fierce, yet was surprisingly polite. Not wanting to be rude, Wayne offered his hand. But as their hands clasped and he felt the intense heat in William's palm, a sudden, blood-curdling chill shot through him.
The chill surged straight up from the soles of his feet to his tailbone, but instead of continuing up to the crown of his skull, it lingered right around his rear end, refusing to budge.
No wonder something had felt off all along—only now did Wayne notice that William had his blonde hair tied into twin pigtails, and his sleeveless undershirt was a blue-and-white striped sailor top.
*Damn it, he won't let go, and he's still smiling!*
William's smile was exceptionally creepy. Yanking Wayne forward, he moved to envelop his new friend in a passionate hug. Wayne struggled with all his might, completely outmatched by the man's terrifying brute force. In his field of vision, the blue and white stripes drew closer and closer, covered with countless curly golden threads.
Chest hair—the ultimate symbol of William's masculine hormones.
"*Meow—*"
A feline meow interrupted William and saved the imperiled Wayne. It came from a black cat with golden eyes, loafing with paws tucked in atop one of the black trunks. Its sleek, glossy fur blended seamlessly into the night; whenever it closed its eyes, it was virtually invisible.
Hearing the meow, William discarded Wayne without a second thought, lifting the black cat high with both hands. "Monica, uppies!"
Wayne: (一`´一;)
*That was close. I almost got smothered to death by those pecs.*
William held the black cat aloft, hopping and skipping—a two-meter-tall behemoth bouncing around. The spectacle was so magnificent that it instantly shattered any fond illusions Wayne had ever entertained about blonde twintails.
A noble young lady, a musclebound hulk, and a black cat. Frankly speaking, he couldn't make heads or tails of this combination.
Uh, wait, maybe not. A noble young lady fleeing an arranged marriage with her pet black cat, accompanied by a beefcake butler-cum-bodyguard—suddenly, it made all the sense in the world.
"William, what are you doing? Put Monica down right now!"
Veronica stepped out of the office and, seeing the commotion, immediately began wrestling with William for the cat. Under Wayne's dumbfounded gaze, the musclebound brute was overpowered in the contest of strength, and Veronica snatched the black cat away with effortless ease.
Veronica cradled the black cat in her arms and glared fiercely at William. "Your room is on the second floor. Hurry up and carry the luggage upstairs with Wayne. From now on, you'll be staying in his room."
*Now wait just a minute!*
Wayne shuddered, swearing to himself that he would strip every sheet, blanket, and scrap of clothing from that bedroom, leaving behind not a single piece of fabric bearing his scent.
To Wayne's surprise, William looked equally reluctant. "That's hardly appropriate. I don't want to—"
"Shut up. It's decided."
"What about Monica?"
"Monica stays on the third floor with me."
Veronica stated matter-of-factly, "A cat and a lady share a room. Stinky men do not."
"Tsk, up to no good."
Chapter 2