American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

But that was enough for him to realize for the first time on his way back to the federal office that he hadn't slept properly for over thirty hours and might be developing a clear interest in a woman who had almost kicked away a murder weapon in the boiler room the night before.

This is very unlike his usual pace.

But sometimes, rhythm isn't something you can indulge in.

-

Manhattan was bright the following day.

It wasn't the stark white of the day before when we descended Gray Ridge, nor the cold light that lingered in the interrogation room at midnight; it was a perfectly typical sunny New York day. The glass curtain walls sliced ​​the light into sharp, reflective pieces, the late spring breeze was still a bit chilly, but the corner café had already set up half of its outdoor seating.

Lynn stayed in the federal office until nearly 3 a.m., finishing his statement, reviewing the first round of technical briefings, listening to Rowan's supplementary explanation that "the Seventh Pier might not be a location but a time code," and having a brief meeting with the counterintelligence team before finally returning to his apartment and sleeping for less than four hours. When he woke up, his mind was still a bit sluggish, and the burn on his hand reminded him that what happened last night was not a hallucination.

My phone has a message from Gwen sent at 1 a.m., just three simple words:

"Alive."

She attached a photo of her ceiling, taken from an odd angle, clearly taken casually while she was lying in bed.

Lynn looked at the message, a slight smile playing on her lips, and replied:
"Me too."

Gwen replied half an hour later:
"That's good. Don't go catching fire again today."

He stared at that sentence for two seconds before tossing his phone aside and going to wash his face and change his clothes.

He had expected to be bogged down in the case all day, at least in the morning. But unexpectedly, before noon, the federal authorities didn't call him to the technical room to oversee the second round of dismantling, and the sheriff was overwhelmed by pressure from the state and the media, which gave him a brief respite.

For people who are used to being worn down by cases and overtime, the time off is usually not used for rest, but for something that barely counts as a way of life.

For example, being half-dragged and half-tricked by colleagues into "normal social interactions".

The cause of this is quite simple. In Lynn's team, there was an older female analyst named Marjorie, who was divorced and had two passions: one was to nip any office romance in the bud; the other was to introduce single colleagues she felt weren't completely broken to "barely normal" partners.

Lynn has clearly been on her "barely normal" list for a long time.

“You don’t seem like a machine that only writes reports and chases people anymore lately,” Marjorie said, cornering him in the break room at 1 p.m.

Lynn, holding her coffee, didn't understand: "What do you mean?"

"It means you've finally recovered to the point where you can sit down and have a meal with a woman."

"I'm not sure if this is a compliment."

“You don’t need to confirm.” Marjorie handed him a note with an address written on it. “Four o’clock this afternoon, near Columbia University, a pretty good little bar. The other person is a university professor, specializing in literary history, blond, smart, unmarried, doesn’t like stupid men, and doesn’t smoke e-cigarettes. You’ll thank me.”

Lynn glanced at the note: "I didn't agree."

"You didn't refuse either."

"That's illogical."

“This is about adults saving each other,” Marjorie said. “And I’ve already told the other person you’re going.”

Lynn was speechless: "This sounds more like kidnapping."

“You were able to extinguish a fire with your bare hands last night for evidence, and you won’t die sitting down for a drink today?” Marjorie squinted at him. “Unless you’re already involved with someone?”

That's a very accurate statement.

Lynn's expression didn't change much: "No."

This isn't lying, at least not strictly speaking. Gwen and he never even had a formal date, let alone anything else.

Marjorie, seeing his expression, became even more enthusiastic: "Then you should go even more. The kind of person you are, once you get a little interested in someone, you start to mistakenly believe that there's only one possibility left in the whole world. That's usually not the case. Go meet them, if you get along, continue; if you don't, consider it social practice."

Lynn initially wanted to refuse, but then she remembered that she wasn't scheduled to be immediately taken away by the case before 4 p.m., and then she thought—in some ways, perhaps what she said wasn't entirely wrong.

He didn't know how Gwen would interpret last night's extremely light kiss, nor how much of his current, subtly controlled emotion was a lingering effect of the case, and how much was genuine personal inclination. At times like this, meeting a stranger felt like a test: if he felt no interest whatsoever, many things would become clearer; if they could get along, perhaps it meant he was merely temporarily misled by the intimacy born of intense pressure.

This idea is very rational.

It sounds rational, at least.

So at 3:47 p.m., Lynn, wearing a dark coat that was slightly less like she was going to an interrogation room than usual, stood in front of the pub that Marjorie had given her, half-seriously and half-ironically wondering if she hadn't lived a normal life for so long that even going to a blind date felt like going to find a new informant.

The shop is located on a relatively quiet street near Columbia University. It has an unassuming storefront, green plants by the windows, and plenty of natural light during the day. Students, young teachers, and local residents all love to come here. In the afternoon, before it gets busiest, there are two or three people sitting at the bar reading papers, and a few customers chatting quietly by the window.

Lynn spotted her as soon as she entered.

The blonde woman sat in a two-seater booth at the back, with a dark green wall and an abstract painting behind her. She was probably in her early thirties, with clean, light blonde hair, half-up and the rest hanging over her shoulder. She wore a cream-colored blouse and a dark blue skirt, with small pearl earrings. A glass of white wine and an open book sat in front of her. She wasn't strikingly beautiful, but she was pleasing to the eye, especially with the composure characteristic of a teacher in her posture and gaze.

As Lynn walked over, she looked up, saw him, and smiled.

"Lynn?"

“It’s me.” He nodded. “Eileen?”

“Victoria.” Her smile deepened. “It seems Marjorie has even mispronounced my name.”

"She only said you were a college professor, blonde, and didn't like stupid men."

Victoria laughed. "That's like something she would say. Have a seat."

As Lynn sat down, Victoria's gaze naturally fell on his hand, which still had a thin dressing on it.

"They got into a fight?"

"almost."

"That's a very New York answer."

"Would you like to hear the academic version or the honest version?"

"Honest version first."

"I accidentally started a fire while working."

Victoria raised an eyebrow, clearly realizing he wasn't going to elaborate, and wisely refrained from pressing further, simply raising her glass: "Then I wish you were still alive."

Lynn looked at her and suddenly remembered Gwen's "Still alive" message from the early morning. A slight tremor ran through him for a moment. But the feeling was fleeting. He picked up the menu and gestured to the waiter for a whiskey.

For the first ten minutes, things went more smoothly than he had expected.

Victoria wasn't the type of woman who would deliberately flaunt her intelligence, but she was undeniably intelligent. She taught 19th-century literature and urban cultural history at Columbia University, and could talk fascinatingly about New York's architecture, old subway lines, the evolution of immigrant neighborhoods, and even the letters of some obscure poets. More importantly, she knew when to stop, preventing the conversation from turning into a personal lecture. And Lynn was surprised to find that she didn't dislike this pace.

He rarely sat for this long with purely academic people. Federal work, cases, trials, and reports formed most of his adult social background, and over time, he developed an almost professional instinct to distinguish between "good talkers" and "people who can present information in an organized manner." Victoria possessed both, but the sense of order in her speech was not the interrogative kind found in an interrogation room, but rather that of someone truly skilled at guiding a conversation.

“So, people who do this kind of work,” she tapped the rim of her glass with her finger, “do you really unconsciously observe a person’s shoes, cuffs, and the look in their eyes when they lie on the first meeting?”

Lynn took a sip of his drink: "What you're saying now sounds like you're trying to trick me into admitting some kind of occupational hazard."

Do you have one?

“A little,” he said, “but it’s not as dramatic as you think. More often than not, it’s just a habit to put people into a general framework first.”

Victoria asked thoughtfully, "So, what category am I in now?"

Lynn glanced at her.

She spoke in a very natural manner, even with a touch of lighthearted jokingness, but her gaze was firmly fixed on his face, as if she cared a lot about the answer.

“A teacher,” he said, “disciplined, well-prepared, doesn’t like wasting time, but also knows how to put others at ease. Probably won’t tolerate superficial conversations.”

Victoria smiled, a hint of something accurately reflected in her eyes: "It doesn't sound bad."

"It wasn't bad to begin with."

"And what about you?" she countered. "What kind of frame do you want to put yourself in?"

Lynn thought for a moment: "Someone who hasn't been getting enough sleep lately."

Victoria chuckled, then looked at him and said, “More than that. You have this… how to put it, like you’ve just come out of a very high-pressure situation, but haven’t completely come out of it yet. Your eyes will scan the exit and mirror reflections first, you don’t lean back completely when you sit down, and even though your right hand is injured, you still use your right hand to pick up a cup first.”

This time, it was Lynn's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You also observe people."

“I teach literature, not ancient tomb dust,” Victoria said. “Text, tone, action, blanks and omissions are part of the job.”

"So what is your text analysis of me now?"

Victoria gently swirled the wine in her glass, as if she had been thinking about it seriously for two seconds.

"You are good at taking responsibility when you have to, but not so good at relaxing when you don't have to be on guard."

Lynn looked at her but didn't reply immediately.

This statement is actually quite accurate. It's more accurate than the usual probing and testing between people at a blind date.

Strangely enough, he wasn't bothered. On the contrary, the feeling of being seen even a little bit made this somewhat absurd date feel more real.

They talked about everything from New York to Baudelaire, from the loneliness of Manhattan to the redevelopment of the Hudson River, and from students in the classroom who were always trying to be too smart to young analysts in the federal government who thought they were better at keeping secrets than anyone else. After a second round of drinks and the food, the conversation didn't go downhill; instead, it became increasingly relaxed and natural.

Lynn even realized at one point that he enjoyed talking to her.

This liking is completely different from Gwen's. Gwen is like a blade, mist, intuition, and a fleeting heat; while Victoria is more like a well-paved road, on which you walk and feel that your steps have finally aligned with someone else's.

This was originally a good thing.

At least from Lynn's perspective at that moment, yes.

They talked until almost six o'clock, the light outside the window began to turn golden, and the store gradually filled up. Victoria pushed her empty wine glass away a little, rested her chin on her hand, and looked at him: "I have a question."

"ask."

Do you usually talk for this long when you first meet someone?

"I usually don't attend these kinds of gatherings on the first meeting."

"Then why did you come today?"

Lynn smiled and said, "Maybe it's because my colleague was too assertive, or maybe it's because I didn't refuse quickly enough."

"This answer leaves room for interpretation."

"My work habits."

Victoria looked at him, and that scrutinizing yet not aggressive gaze reappeared.

“Let me rephrase my question,” she said. “Would you like to come out again next time? Not because of Marjorie, and not because I don’t want to seem rude.”

She asked very directly.

Lynn didn't intend to pretend. He realized that his answer at that moment wasn't forced.

“I’m willing,” he said.

A slight glint appeared in Victoria's eyes. She reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, wrote a number on the back of a tissue, and pushed it towards him.

“Then you should ask me out,” she said. “I don’t have classes on Thursday or Saturday.”

Lynn folded the tissue and put it in her coat pocket: "Okay."

“Don’t be too late,” Victoria added. “I don’t like people who drag their feet on making decisions.”

"I will try my best not to disappoint you in this regard."

As they walked out of the store together, the streets were already bustling with evening light. School gates, bookstores, cafes, and flower stalls on street corners all looked light and cheerful. Victoria stood at the bottom of the steps, raised her hand to tuck a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear, and then smiled at him.

"It was a pleasant day, Lynn."

"Me too."

"See you on Thursday?"

See you on Thursday.

Victoria hailed the taxi, glancing back at him before getting in. Her gaze held a natural warmth, like the lingering warmth after a successful start. The taxi door closed, and she gently waved to him through the window before the car quickly merged into traffic.

Lynn stood there, watching the taillights disappear at the street corner, and a long-lost, almost relaxed sense of anticipation arose in her heart.

This anticipation even made him seriously consider, for the first time, on his way back to the city center: maybe he really should try to have a relationship.

It wasn't the tacit understanding developed during the case, nor the brief rapport forged under pressure, but rather something normal, predictable, that would gradually lead from chatting, drinking, and future meetings to a more intimate relationship. Victoria was intelligent, composed, and beautiful; she got along well with him and was clearly interested in him. This kind of combination is rare even in the adult world. (End of Chapter)