Chapter 761: Chapter 638: Cooperation (2)

Just as Eric was about to steer the conversation elsewhere, there was a sound at the door.

The door creaked open, and a silhouette stepped in from the twilight.

Eric turned his head.

The newcomer was a man in his thirties, wearing a dark gray trench coat, carrying a medium-sized suitcase.

His appearance was very ordinary.

Not tall nor short, not fat nor thin, with unremarkable features, the kind that gets lost in a crowd.

But the moment Eric saw him, his body instinctively tensed up.

He couldn’t explain why.

The man’s attire, his gait, even his breathing pattern, all appeared to belong to a regular traveler.

Yet Eric’s intuition was screaming alarm bells: Something’s off, this person is off!

It was a deeper sense of misalignment.

Like seeing someone walking with a shoe on the wrong foot, looking fine at a glance, but something felt awkward.

Instinctively, Eric stepped back half a pace, his shoulder bumping into a bookshelf, causing a slight sound.

The man turned towards the sound, his gaze landing on Eric, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in a standard polite smile.

"Good evening," he said, his voice calm.

Then his gaze moved past Eric, settling briefly on Jeming, who was seated in a rocking chair.

The gaze lingered for such a short moment, most wouldn’t notice it, but Eric caught it.

It wasn’t a customer’s gaze towards a shopkeeper; it was more like... a subordinate looking at a superior.

Eric’s heartbeat quickened by a beat.

Suddenly, he realized his predicament.

He was just an ordinary worker, not supposed to be in this shop at this time.

This person was clearly here to see Jeming, not "old bookstore owner" Jeming, but "black market doctor" Jeming.

He should have left.

But the man’s gaze shifted back, resting on Eric.

He scrutinized Eric, as if assessing the value of an uncertain item.

"And this is..." the man looked towards Jeming, his tone carrying a hint of inquiry.

Jeming didn’t reply.

He set down the newspaper in his hands and rose from the rocking chair.

His movements were slow, but Eric noticed that the moment he stood up, the air in the room seemed to grow "heavier."

"Eric." Jeming spoke, his voice as calm as ever, "It’s already very late."

Eric was momentarily stunned, then immediately understood the meaning of the words.

It’s already very late, you should be going home now.

"Ah, right, it’s getting dark." Eric chuckled awkwardly, stepping away from the bookshelf and heading towards the door, "I almost forgot, I promised to help my aunt move something on the next street. You two continue, you two continue."

As he passed by the man with the suitcase, he avoided looking at the man’s face.

But he sensed that the man’s eyes were glued to him, following him until he stepped out the door.

The wooden door closed behind him.

Eric stood on the damp cobblestone streets, taking a deep breath, and exhaling slowly.

He glanced down at his hand, noticing a slight tremor in his fingertips.

But... it didn’t seem like fear.

Clenching his fist tightly, he instinctively glanced back at the firmly shut wooden door.

Through the door crack, the flicker of an oil lamp light could be seen faintly dancing.

Eric shook his head, turned, and walked towards his apartment building.

He didn’t want to know why that man was looking for Jeming, didn’t want to know what was inside that suitcase, didn’t want to know what the two were up to.

Even though he was curious, even though he could roughly guess what the man wanted from Jeming, the black doctor, he knew that things "not meant to be thought about" are best left unpondered.

This was the most crucial lesson he had learned in living twenty-six years in Wudu.

Inside the old bookstore, the flame of the oil lamp flickered lightly in the breeze.

Jeming stood by the bookshelf, watching Eric’s figure disappear through the door crack, then turned to face the man with the suitcase.

The man’s expression changed the moment Eric left.

His expression shifted from a courteous smile to one of nearly ingratiating flattery.

His shoulders sank slightly, his back curved into a barely noticeable arc, making him appear a few centimeters shorter.

"Mr. Jeming." He lowered his voice, a cautious eagerness in his tone, "Good evening, good evening."

Jeming responded with a nod, turned, and headed towards the wooden door behind the bookshelf.

"Come on."

He pushed open the wooden door, descending a narrow staircase.

Behind him were the cautious footsteps of the man, and the faint sound of the bookstore’s wooden door being closed again, seemingly not forgetting to bolt it.

The light in the underground clinic was much brighter than upstairs.

Several gas lamps hung on the walls, filling the room with a bright but not glaring light.

Examination bed, medicine cabinet, surgical instruments, everything was as orderly as it had been half a month ago.

Jeming walked to the medicine cabinet, retrieving a metal box from the very inside of the cabinet.

The box was not large, about the size of two palms, with no markings on the surface, finely crafted with rounded edges.

He placed the box on the examination bed and opened it.

Inside, ten sealed glass tubes were neatly arranged.

The liquid in the tubes was a deep blue, faintly glowing under the light.

The mouth of each tube was double-sealed with wax and metal bands, with labels indicating serial numbers and dates.

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