Hughie walked out of Vought Tower with a check in his hand, his expression somewhat excited; it seemed he had succeeded, though the poor kid didn’t know that Translucent had been watching him the entire time.
Scanning the area with his Psychic Power, Chen Mo confirmed that Translucent had not followed him for the moment.
He stood up and walked toward Hughie.
What he had done today was far too stimulating for a young man who had lived a law-abiding life for over twenty years.
So much so that when Hughie walked up to Chen Mo, he didn’t even notice someone was in front of him and bumped straight into him.
His shoulder slammed solidly into Chen Mo’s left arm with considerable force, causing the paper cup in Chen Mo’s hand to wobble and the coffee to nearly spill.
Hughie’s own body tilted, and the check slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to the ground.
“Hey, bro, you bumped into me,” Chen Mo said, spreading his arms exaggeratedly as if to embrace something.
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Hughie stammered, stunned for a moment before quickly apologizing.
“No, no, no, don’t say sorry,” Chen Mo waved his hand, bent down to pick up the check, took a look at the number on it, and whistled.
“Wow, Vought International treats you pretty well.” Hughie’s face changed color instantly.
“Who are you?” He didn’t bother with the check, looking up to scrutinize the person in front of him.
“Are you The Deep?” Hughie found him increasingly familiar; after all, having been a member of The Seven for so many years, The Deep’s face was still quite well-known.
“Wow, brother, is this your girlfriend’s compensation?” Chen Mo didn’t answer, instead twirling the check between his fingers.
“Forty-five thousand dollars, that’s really cheap!” He read out the number on the check, dragging out every syllable.
Hughie felt that The Deep was definitely sent by Vought International to mock him.
His face flushed red, and his temples throbbed.
“Listen, The Deep, I don’t want this compensation at all…” “Do you know about turtles?” Chen Mo interrupted Hughie’s anger.
He certainly knew Hughie didn’t want this compensation—otherwise, he wouldn’t have torn it up in the end—but he needed Hughie to remember what he was about to say, and pain was the best mnemonic device.
Hughie was stunned.
“What?” “Turtles.
That kind of soft-bodied creature that hides in its shell.” Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest, his fingers tapping gently against the plastic.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a lot like one?” Hughie was about to explode with rage.
Every word Chen Mo said felt like a needle pricking his nerves.
He felt his dignity had been insulted.
“What the fuck do you know?” Hughie’s voice squeezed out from his throat.
“Have you ever attended anyone’s funeral?
Have you ever seen someone get smashed into pieces in front of you?
Has your girlfriend ever been run over and killed?” “But do you know,” Chen Mo completely ignored him and continued.
“No matter how hard a turtle’s shell is, it’s just a shell.
Inside the shell is meat.
Soft, tender, something that can be pierced with a single knife.
Things that look hard are often the most fragile on the inside.
You think you’re safe hiding in a shell, but your shell isn’t your skin; it’s something outside your skin.
Your muscles are still soft, your bones are still brittle, and your internal organs still shatter at a touch.” He looked into Hughie’s eyes.
“You mistook your shell for yourself, so you forgot how fragile you are inside.
You also mistook other people’s shells for them, so you forgot that everyone is soft on the inside.” Just after the exchange began, Hughie realized he was completely outmatched.
The Deep was using a very vicious and effective tactic: “I don’t care what you’re saying, I’m only going to say what I want to say.” Attack only, no defense, breaking the opponent’s defenses.
In this regard, two hundred years was no match for five thousand years.
“What exactly are you trying to say?” Hughie suppressed his anger.
He always felt like The Deep was implying something, which left him somewhat confused.
Chen Mo picked up the paper cup, took a sip of cold coffee, and leaned back in his chair.
Confusion was the first step toward understanding.
“My point is,” Chen Mo placed the paper cup on the ground, “some people look strong because they hide themselves under a shell.
But as long as you find the entrance to that place, they are vulnerable.” He stood up and forcibly shoved the check into Hughie’s hand.
As he walked past Hughie, his shoulder bumped against Hughie’s shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going next time,” he said.
Hughie stood in place, having been bombarded by that rapid-fire attack.
He was a bit at a loss and could only watch helplessly as The Deep walked away.
…
Chen Mo walked for six blocks before stopping.
He had time off approved by Madelyn Stillwell, so no one would ask where he had gone.
Then he walked west, toward the Hudson River.
Half an hour later, the peninsula where the safe house was located appeared within his sensory perception.
He surfaced and climbed ashore near the rocks behind the house.
The sea breeze was strong, blowing the water droplets on him like rain, and his gills closed automatically.
He wrung the water out of his bodysuit and took a hoodie and pants out of a waterproof bag to put on.
The stone house stood quietly at the tip of the peninsula, its gray granite walls silent in the sea breeze, as if it had been standing there for hundreds of years.
Chen Mo pushed open the door.
The seagull was there too.
It was perched on the mantelpiece, its gray feathers puffed up, its mung bean-like eyes half-open and half-closed, as if it were dozing off or waiting for him.
Hearing the door, it opened its eyes, tilted its head, and let out a short, “Caw.” Chen Mo stood at the doorway, looking at the seagull: Gray feathers.
White chest.
Mung bean-like eyes.
It perched on the mantelpiece, its claws gripping the edge of the wood, its nails embedded in the wood grain that had been bleached white by the sea breeze.
It hadn’t flown away, hadn’t gone to find its flock, hadn’t left with the tide at sunrise.
Instead, it had been guarding this stone house for him while he was away.
“You’re really keeping watch for me, little guy.” Chen Mo closed the door, walked over, stood in front of the mantelpiece, and looked up at it.
The seagull tilted its head, then straightened it back up, blinking its mung bean-like eyes.
Chen Mo reached out his finger and poked the seagull’s belly.
The seagull let out a “Caw.” Looking at this cute little guy, Chen Mo decided to give it a name.
He thought for a moment, and a bunch of names flashed through his mind: Floyd.
Kevin.
Steven.
Gary.
All common names.
He didn’t want to give it a boring name, nor did he want one that was too complicated.
“Caw.” The seagull called out again, as if urging him.
“Caw yourself,” Chen Mo said.
“I’m thinking.” He remembered a video he had seen on TikTok before crossing over.
A seagull snatched fries from a tourist’s hand, and after snatching them, it just stood there looking at the tourist, waiting for the tourist to take out another one.
Someone in the comments section said: “This seagull isn’t hungry; it just thinks this is fun.” That comment had more likes than the video itself.
The seagull in the video looked a lot like the one on his mantelpiece: Gray feathers.
White chest.
And the angle of its head tilt carried a kind of “do you have any more?” expectation.
“Fries,” Chen Mo said, “your name is Fries.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Noct_Veyr Enjoying the story?