A journalist? How did they find him?! He had been incredibly careful when dealing with the "Time Gallery" incident, leaving almost no personal traces, aside from the bank account provided to receive the compensation and that insignificant address. Moreover, he had just used the excuse of being sick to take temporary leave from the convenience store today, precisely to avoid Miller's harassment and to facilitate his own plans. How could a journalist find out so quickly?
Was it a leak from the "Time Gallery"? Or the Consumer Rights Center? Or perhaps... someone from Lily's side? Kevin? Countless thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant. Elena had just left, and now this journalist's call. Was it merely a coincidence?
"I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong person. I don't know anything about a 'Time Gallery,'" Mason denied immediately, trying his best to keep his tone even.
"Mr. Cooper, no need to be so quick to deny," the journalist's voice carried a hint of laughter, yet it exuded an undeniable certainty. "We have our sources. And, from what we understand, your life has undergone some... interesting changes recently? For instance, it seems you're no longer working at the original 'Lucky 711' convenience store? We just want to hear your story. It would be an inspiration to other consumers..."
A threat! This was a blatant threat! The other party not only knew about the "Time Gallery" incident but also seemed aware of his recent movements! A cold sweat instantly drenched Mason's back. He felt like an insect trapped in a spider's web, having just believed it had broken free, only to find a larger web tightening around it. Someone was definitely behind this journalist!
"I have nothing to say. Please don't bother me again." Suppressing his anger and fear, Mason hung up the phone directly after speaking.
He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. The faint thrill from obtaining a new ability vanished without a trace, replaced by a deeper sense of crisis. Someone was targeting him! Was it because of the compensation money? Or his contact with Lily? Or perhaps... his frequent use of the ability was starting to draw attention? Was this journalist, Tom Wells, the inconsequential, about-to-appear antagonist?
An unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows, was far more terrifying than a face-to-face robber.
He stared at the [Absolute Taste] ability icon in his mind, which had only one use left, its countdown ticking away second by second. Could this seemingly useless ability play an unexpected role in dealing with this sudden crisis?
And Lily, that seductive yet dangerous woman—did her invitation now seem more like a potential refuge or another, more elaborate trap? Elena, whom he had just met—what possibilities did her accepting demeanor and mysterious business card hint at?
The phone rang again—the same number. Mason stared at the jumping digits on the screen as if seeing a wide, malicious grin. Should he answer? What should he say if he did? Should he proactively contact Lily, or... muster the courage to call Elena's number?
A newly acquired, seemingly useless ability; an unknown, watchful journalist; the tempting yet dangerous Lily; the enigmatic Elena... All the threads were tangled together, pointing toward an even more mist-shrouded and perilous future.
Mason Cooper's survival game in Los Angeles had entered a new, more dangerous level. And his only extraordinary weapon was this bizarre ability that he couldn't even control the taste of—one that was so "sour" it made his teeth ache.
The phone continued its insistent ringing, the tone like nails on a chalkboard, grating and irritating. Mason stared at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen, his fingertip hovering over the decline button, his heart pounding so violently it felt like it might shatter his ribs. He knew this wasn't the end; it was the beginning. Since they had accurately found his private number, they wouldn't give up easily.
"Hah..." He took a deep breath, pressed the answer button forcefully with his finger, deliberately making his voice sound hoarse, laced with the irritation of being repeatedly disturbed and the grogginess of someone just awakened. "What the hell do you want? I told you I don't know any Time Gallery. You've got the wrong person!"
"Mr. Cooper, no need for such anger," Tom Wells's voice remained slick, coming through the receiver but wrapped in a layer of icy chill. "We just want to do a simple interview, help you 'become famous.' Think about it—an ordinary convenience store clerk, single-handedly asserting his rights and getting massive compensation, then bravely quitting to start a new life... What an inspiring, newsworthy story. Readers would absolutely love it."
He paused, deliberately drawing out his tone, each word like an ice-coated needle pricking Mason's heart. "Of course, if you insist on not cooperating, then we'll just have to write from a different angle. Like, having a good chat about the 'true origins' of that compensation money, and digging deeper into your recent close contact with certain... 'special individuals.' Guess which version readers would prefer?"
"Special individuals"—these four words felt like an ice pick, jamming into Mason's temple, momentarily blanking his mind. They even knew about that? This was definitely not a simple newspaper digging for a story, nor was it revenge from Time Gallery. There must be an unseen hand behind this, quietly weaving a black net, pulling him toward the abyss without a sound.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Mason's voice trembled uncontrollably, but he was still stubbornly denying it, his fingertips clenched white, nails digging into his palms. "I've never had contact with any special individuals. Stop making baseless accusations."
"Is that so?" Tom chuckled lightly, the laughter filled with mockery and certainty, as if he already held all the evidence. "Lily Walker? Kevin Thorne? Mason, did you really think you covered your tracks perfectly? Your contact with them at the café was seen long ago."
Boom!
Those two names exploded in Mason's mind like thunderclaps. Lily and Kevin! They even knew about those two! How vast was the other party's influence? And what was their goal? Was it for the compensation money, or the gray world behind Lily, or even... for his special ability?
Countless thoughts churned wildly in Mason's mind, making him shiver all over. The cold sweat on his back had soaked through his shirt, clinging to his skin, unbearably uncomfortable.
"I..." He opened his mouth, wanting to say something more to deny it, but was cut off directly by Tom's cold voice.
"Mason, stop pretending," Tom's tone suddenly became curt, losing its earlier slickness, leaving only an indisputable command. "Here's a choice for you. Tomorrow afternoon at three, Silver Lake Café. We'll talk face-to-face. You tell us everything you should, disclose what we want to know, and we'll consider this matter closed. We won't bother you again. But if you dare not show up, or try any tricks..."
He intentionally stopped, letting boundless fear ferment in Mason's heart. A few seconds later, he slowly uttered the lethally threatening words: "You'll bear the consequences yourself."
With that, the call was abruptly ended. Only the monotonous, sharp dial tone remained in the receiver, thumping against Mason's heart.
Mason slumped powerlessly onto the cold concrete floor. His phone slipped from his grip, landing on the ground with a soft thud that felt like a heavy hammer striking his heart. The musty smell and damp chill of the basement rushed over him, mingling with the lingering, inescapable sourness at the tip of his nose, making him nauseous, his stomach churning.
He knew he had no choice.
Going to Silver Lake Café was most likely a trap. What awaited him could be threats, coercion, or even something more terrifying. But if he didn't go... since the other party could find his number, know about his past, even his contact with Lily, they definitely had ways to ruin him, or even make him disappear from the city entirely.
No retreat, no escape.
Mason raised his head, his gaze unfocused as he looked at the dim basement ceiling. Spiderwebs in the corner swayed in the faint light, mirroring the countless troubles entangling him at this moment. He slowly raised his hand, looking at the still-glowing [Absolute Taste] icon in his mind. The countdown had dropped to 23:47:12, the crimson numbers decreasing second by second like a countdown to his doom.
And the sole remaining use, like a flimsy lifeline, felt utterly hopeless in his grasp.
"Sour... it's all sour..." Mason muttered to himself, his voice filled with despair and resentment. "What's the damn use of this stupid ability?!"
He slammed his fist against the cold ground, a sharp pain shooting through his palm, doing nothing to ease the frustration and hopelessness in his heart. Just then, his fingertips brushed against a hard card in his pocket. It wasn't his wallet or phone—it was the business card Elena had left.
Mason froze, then tremblingly reached into his pocket and pulled out the card.
A matte dark gray card, exquisitely crafted. On it was printed only one line of elegant English font—Elena Voss—and a simple phone number. No company, no title, no extra information. It was as clean as an unsolvable mystery.
Yet, this simple card now felt like a sliver of light piercing the pitch-black darkness in Mason's heart.
He remembered how Elena looked in the café, her deep and bright almond-shaped eyes, her meaningful words about "if you need a job that's less... dizzying," her knowing smile that hinted at worldly insight, and her final remark, "Perhaps we'll meet again."
Who exactly was she?
Why would she, after having her stockings torn by a stranger, not get angry but instead give that person her business card? What exactly did she mean by "a less dizzying job"? Had she already noticed something? Noticed his panic, his forced act, or even... noticed something unusual about him?
Countless questions swirled in Mason's mind, but at this moment, this business card had become his only lifeline.
Lily was probably not an option. She was already in the gray zone, possibly in trouble herself, and this crisis might even be related to her. As for this mysterious Elena, although full of unknowns, she gave him an inexplicable sense of security—a kind of calm and acceptance born of having weathered storms, making him instinctively want to grab onto this lifeline when he had nowhere else to turn.
Gritting his teeth, a glint of desperate resolve flashed in Mason's eyes.
Might as well try it when all else has failed!
Trembling, he picked up his phone from the floor, unlocked the screen, hesitated for a few seconds with his finger over the dial pad, and finally pressed the number printed on the card.
As the call went through, Mason's heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat. He clutched the phone tightly to his ear, listening to the "beep... beep..." sound. Each tone felt like a hammer blow to his nerves.
He didn't know if she would answer, what would happen if she did, or whether this mysterious Elena was a benefactor who could pull him out of this mess or another trap pushing him deeper into the abyss.
But he had no other choice.
A few seconds later, the call connected. A low, magnetic female voice came through the receiver, carrying a hint of sleepy laziness and huskiness—different from the composed person in the café, yet still captivating enough to make one lose themselves.
"Hello?"