invite
The chef brought out a dish to indicate that everything had been served.
Miles nodded, and the chef left on his own, led by the aunt.
With a click, the door locked, and Miles glanced up at Milo: "What are you standing there for?"
Milorad pulled up a chair and sat down. Looking at the exquisite table, he spoke first: "I've been too busy these past few days and didn't notice you called."
Miles didn't answer, and turned to walk into the kitchen.
Various guesses flashed through Milo's mind.
A moment later, Miles came out with a glass of milk in his hand and placed it in front of Milo.
Milo placed his hands on the warm glass.
"Still busy with your little shop?" Miles took a sip of his drink and looked at Milo. "Actually, if you like starting a business, you could pick a better location and invest in a restaurant or a hotel or something."
Seeing that Milo remained silent, Miles smiled faintly and said, "Alright, you're just annoyed by what I'm saying. Do whatever you want."
Milo sat there, head slightly bowed, holding a glass, lost in thought.
Miles tapped the table, and Milo looked up with a puzzled expression.
"Let's eat." Miles said calmly, as if making a casual conversation. "I've been busy lately and haven't had time for you. Do you have enough money?"
Milo nodded and picked up his chopsticks.
Miles slowly asked, "Then why do you work part-time at a funeral home?"
Milo knew he would be asked this question again, so he had prepared a response in advance.
"I saw on the news that there was an explosion there. Are you alright?"
Miles paused for a few seconds, then didn't press the matter further. Instead, he addressed Milo's concern, saying, "I left early."
"That's good," Milo muttered.
The funeral home was bombed, and Old Dale's coffin was the first to be hit. In addition, the body was riddled with bullets, and it is estimated that it was in a terrible state. Miles was still able to speak calmly.
“Wudong Port isn’t as safe as you think. So, don’t wander around.” Miles’s calm tone carried a hint of seriousness. “Got it?”
“I understand.” Milo poked at his chopsticks and looked at Miles. “You said you wanted to see me, is there something you want me to do?”
He hadn't forgotten Miles's idea of an undercover agent, and the only reason he was so eager to meet him was probably for this.
"Isn't eating an important thing? The food that just arrived is really thick. I asked them to make thin slices for me to try."
On a clean porcelain plate, sashimi as thin as cicada wings is arranged in the shape of blooming cherry blossoms.
Milo took a bite and gave a standard smile: "Delicious."
Miles seemed completely relaxed, leaning back in his chair and watching Milo eat, as if the whole incident was enough to ease his mind.
Seeing that Miles was in a good mood, Milo spoke up at the right time: "The person you showed me the photos of before, can I ask why you wanted me to get close to him?"
Miles' relaxed expression gradually faded, and instead of answering, he asked, "Why did you suddenly bring this up?"
"I'll be less busy later and will have time to help you with things."
For the past six years, Milo hadn't done a single thing for Miles. Miles asked nothing of him, just kept him on a leash, occasionally inviting him over for a night's sleep. Who knows how many parasites like him were kept all over the country.
Milo knew perfectly well that he was talking nonsense. But the moment those sincere, earnest, and eager words left his mouth, Miles smiled broadly, looking delighted.
Miles rarely smiled; perhaps it was because at his age, there were very few things that could bring him joy. Over six years, Milo gradually figured out some of Miles's temperament. Whenever Milo did something a little silly, Miles would laugh.
“He is deaf and mute, so you can communicate with him. More importantly, you look like one of his old friends. He will be more likely to let his guard down when he sees you.”
Milo already knew these things, but he disagreed with the last point. He wanted to pry out more useful information: "You said he caused you trouble? Is he your business partner?"
“The trouble is real, but the business partner doesn’t count,” Miles replied vaguely.
This dead end meant Miles wouldn't explain things clearly, so Milo cautiously changed his question: "Then what should I do?"
Miles thought for a moment and casually said, "Be friends with him and tell me what he's been up to."
"Something like an undercover agent?"
You can understand it that way.
Is he a dangerous person?
"It's dangerous for others, but not for you."
"But I still don't know his name."
"His name is Blaze."
“Blaze,” Milo repeated the name, “Don’t you have a surname?”
"For someone like him, a name is just a label, it doesn't matter."
"So when do you plan to... introduce me to him?"
“Looks like you’re ready.” Miles glanced at the schedule. “There’s a cocktail party in three days. I’ll take you with me. Harold will pick you up then.”
Milo nodded.
“You’ve asked a lot of questions today,” Miles said, looking at Milo. “It’s rare to see you so proactive.”
Is it proactive...?
Milo repeated the question to himself, then looked up at Miles and calmly asked, "Should I stay tonight?"
The topic abruptly shifted, and Miles seemed taken aback by the blunt question: "You think I wanted to see you just for this?"
Milo didn't say anything, but silence was another form of expression.
The wine was empty. Miles put down his glass, his smooth fingertips slowly stroking the rim, but his eyes were fixed on Milo's face. He suddenly spoke: "Come here."
Upon hearing this, Milo stood up, the chair scraping against the tiles, making a jarring sound in the empty room.
Miles glanced at Milo as he slowly moved forward, reached out, grabbed Milo's arm, and pulled him into his arms, then slowly poured himself a glass of wine.
Milo thought he was going to drink with him, so he reached out to take the drink, but Miles slapped his hand: "Stop messing around."
So Milo obediently stopped moving.
Miles silently finished his glass of wine.
This prime real estate was remarkably empty, devoid of any superfluous furnishings, making it impossible to discern any of the owner's preferences. Sometimes, Milo even felt that only when he was there did the place possess a faint trace of human presence.
“I’ll buy you a house,” Miles suddenly said. “It’ll be nearby, and you can live comfortably. You can choose whatever style you like.”
Milo frowned and replied carefully, "Don't waste your money on me."
Miles remained silent for a while, glanced at Milo's face, and said calmly, "If you don't want it, you can just say so. There's no need to belittle yourself."
Milo replied, "I like where I live now."
"Fine, whatever you want." Miles reached out and gently squeezed Milo's palm. Perhaps it was because of the alcohol, but he was unusually good-tempered today. "Want to stay tonight?"
Milo knew this was a very dangerous question, so he didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and hugged Miles' neck, resting his face in the crook of his neck.
Miles paused slightly. He reached out to hug Milo's back, but before he could touch him, he suddenly heard, "Do you want me to stay with you?"
Miles's hand suddenly froze. He seemed to be thinking of something, but the dazed look in his eyes quickly disappeared and was suppressed by reason.
“I’ll have Harold take you home.” Miles tilted his head back, pushed Milo’s arm away, and created some distance between them. He said calmly, “The company will be very busy these few days. If you need anything, just call Harold.”
Milo realized he had upset Miles, but he knew that if he asked, Miles would never admit he was unhappy. Since his purpose was to make Miles happy, retreating was the best course of action. If Miles really wanted to be happy, there were probably plenty of better and more obedient freeloaders to appease him.
After mentally processing this logic, Milo obediently got up and left. After taking two steps, he suddenly remembered something, stopped, and turned back.
“I have one last question,” Milo said, looking at Miles. “Can you tell me who I look like?”
Miles, of course, didn't answer his question, and Milo wasn't discouraged.
Milo had a vague idea of Miles's intentions.
The scene of Blaise causing trouble at the funeral shows that he was working for the Daller family, or rather, for the deceased Daller Chongtai, which in turn angered Steven.
Miles, wanting to take over the Daller family business, would naturally want to get to know Blaise, presumably dissatisfied with Blaise's style and wanting to get rid of him.
If that's the reason, then it makes sense.
But why would Blaze shoot at a coffin in the funeral parlor? Killing his deceased former employer is a very strange act.
Also, did Blaise plant that bomb? Who was he trying to kill? Steven? Why not just use a more powerful one to flatten the stadium? That behavior is even stranger.
Strange, strange, very strange; there must be a ghost.
Milo had been speculating about this family feud the whole way, getting more and more excited and his guesses getting more and more outrageous, until the square-faced driver Harold told him to get out of the car, and he realized that he had arrived at the original place.
Once on the ground and breathing in the complex air of the street, Milo felt much more at ease.
I glanced at my phone; it was already 1 a.m.
Just around the next corner is his doghouse shop, nothing fancy, but reassuring enough.
But Milo didn't expect that his good mood would come to an abrupt end the next second.
If his small shop were a person, its current state could be described as being torn apart by five horses.
Milo rushed over and was dumbfounded when he saw the mess on the ground.
Is this how you rob someone? If you're going to take money, why smash his cot? Various adult products were scattered on the ground, along with messy footprints that looked like someone had picked up the trash; it was an eyesore.
Milo, who never sheds tears, now feels it's worth crying over.
Ding, a message pop-up.
[T_T]
Milos felt a chill run down his spine.
Looking around, the empty streets were deserted.
If Milo didn't know who sent him the message, he would have thought this was enough to be treated as a paranormal event.
Was he mocking his miserable state?
Milo wanted to curse, to curse this lunatic for smashing his shop. But he quickly realized it probably wasn't Blaze who did it. If he wanted to smash the shop, he wouldn't have left him inside for a week.
After thinking it over, Milo remembered the two spoiled brats at the barbecue stand.
Blaise didn't smash the store, but he must have witnessed it happen. He didn't stop it; he simply allowed it to happen.
Milo stood up and shouted into the empty street, "What exactly do you want?"
Blaise was wearing a hearing aid, indicating that he hadn't completely lost his hearing. Recalling the chaos at the funeral home, he was likely wearing a hearing aid then too, though it was knocked off during the fight. Being mute doesn't necessarily hinder one's ability, but complete deafness would prevent someone from becoming a killer.
No one answered.
Of course, the person couldn't answer.
[It's you... What do you want...?]
Milo's eyelids twitched as he looked at the text that popped up on his phone screen.
A string of ellipses scrolled by, indicating that an unfamiliar number was being entered.
Milo stared intently at the screen.
[You pushed them, which made me angry.]
[You seduced me... made me pursue you.]
...The other party is typing...
[You're messing with me]
These three words squeezed into Milo's vision, instantly freezing his breath.
He did intentionally lure Blaise to the barbecue stand to force him to show himself. Blaise readily agreed, but remained silent. The spoiled brat was causing trouble, and he could use these two to force Blaise to act.
Once he stepped into this dangerous game, he could only try his best to take control.
But no one told him that this person was smarter than he thought.
Milo was lost in thought when a sudden, unusually loud clapping sound startled him, making him jump.
The phone fell to the ground, and the screen instantly split into a spiderweb pattern.
Milo turned around at the sound and saw a person standing at the previously deserted shop entrance, leaning against the wall and staring at him intently.
Even though the person in front of him was clearly disabled, Milo was easily frightened by the other person's tricks of teasing deaf and mute people.
The wrong position leads to a wrong state of mind.
Milo involuntarily stepped back. The closer he got to this person, the more he felt his breath catch in his throat.
He retreated, but the other party advanced.
A face gradually emerged from the chaos.
He had a slender, delicate face with single eyelids, but large, well-defined eyes. His straight nose gave him a strong and assertive look. The neon lights falling on his face were as cold as a smear of blue-purple moonlight.
Milo was stunned for a moment.
The last time I looked at Blaise, I didn't think he had a particularly good face, but this time I realized that this glance was just nitpicking, to find fault with the argument and to continue to support my wrong viewpoint.
Perhaps because there was no life-or-death pressure on his head, Milo actually began to appreciate the man, thinking that from his physique to his face, no matter what race or nationality the standard was used to measure him, he was actually a human being far above the passing grade.
Blaise suddenly stopped in his tracks and threw something at Milo.
Milo instinctively took it, opened his palm, and saw two bloody teeth, one of which was inlaid with a small diamond.
Too horrifying, he only glanced at it before throwing it away.
It must have been taken from the mouths of those two drunken rich kids.
Milo became obedient. He assessed the situation and realized that the person in front of him was not someone he could easily manipulate with a few tricks.
Blaze slowly walked into the mess and accidentally stepped on a giant lifelike chicken. The fluorescent flashing and human-like humming created a cacophony that made Milo's face tighten.
Milo watched as Blaise calmly crouched down and picked up the broken phone. As he moved his foot away, the giant chicken squeaked and bounced back softly.
Milo couldn't listen anymore, and Blaise walked up to him, pressing down on him like a wall.
Blaze handed the phone to Milo, who hesitated to take it, so Blaze forcefully shoved it into his hand and then made a gesture.
Milo couldn't understand it.
That wasn't sign language, it was just random gesturing.
Seeing that Milo didn't understand, Blaze frowned.
It was the prelude to that familiar angry expression from that night.
Someone who can't speak or hear clearly doesn't even know sign language... He gets angry when others use sign language, yet he insists on making random gestures himself, forcing others to understand...
Milo felt he would never encounter a psychopath of this caliber in his entire life.
Komilo knew he had no desire to be subjected to a free internal and external groping in the street, so he could only grit his teeth and try to decipher it.
"You want me... to go with you?" Even Milo himself found the question absurd when he said it.
Blaise, however, seemed quite satisfied with this understanding.
"Where are we going?"
Blaise closed his eyes, then opened them again.
Milo couldn't say it, but he knew what it meant.
He wants me to go to sleep with him...?
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