The door opened.
Click-clack. Accompanied by the crisp and steady sound of high heels on the floor, a blonde woman slowly emerged from the darkness.
As she stepped out from behind the petite maid, the room fell silent. Men and women alike turned their heads away, yet their gazes were irresistibly drawn to the woman, like paperclips to a magnet.
Among them, the bunny-suited waitress holding the glass of cola suddenly collapsed onto the sofa without warning, her legs giving out beneath her. The glass vessel rolled to the floor near Hoffa's feet, spilling ice cubes everywhere. Fortunately, there wasn't much cola in it to begin with.
On any other day, such a mishap would have terrified the waitress into immediately jumping up and apologizing profusely. But this time, she remained slumped on the sofa, her eyes half-closed, as though on the verge of sleep.
Hoffa paid no attention to his subordinate's lapse. When he saw the woman who had entered, he froze for a moment, pulling down his red sunglasses to take a closer look. A strange sense of familiarity washed over him, though it had nothing to do with her appearance.
He was certain he had never met this woman before. With her striking beauty and figure, there was no way he would have forgotten if he had.
"Who are you?"
He frowned, his body tensing, abandoning his usual nonchalant demeanor.
After the incident with Sylvie, Hoffa harbored deep distrust toward women who sought him out unprompted.
The blonde woman didn't answer. She held her purse and stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the surroundings. Several men had to steady themselves against the furniture just to remain upright in her presence.
"Could you offer me a drink?"
The woman smiled at Hoffa, her tone familiar yet unassuming. "I've been searching for you for quite a while, and the journey has left me parched."
Hoffa glanced around the room, his lips curling into a faint, indifferent smile. "Well, you've certainly come to the right place."
With a shake of his flamboyant black feathered cape, he stood up and sauntered over to the bar in the dressing room. From the cabinet, he pulled out a set of crystal-clear glasses. "I've recently turned this theater into a nightclub. Drinks are free for all. Since you're my first visitor tonight…"
He uncorked a bottle of Polish rectified vodka labeled at 96% ABV with a dramatic flourish and poured it into a glass, the liquid sparkling under the light. He handed the glass to the blonde woman.
"Drink to your heart's content."
"Thank you."
The woman accepted the glass but did not drink. She simply held it, her fingers resting lightly on the rim.
Standing in front of her, Hoffa gazed into her pale green eyes. Her facial muscles maintained a soft smile, but her gaze was hollow and detached, devoid of any emotion.
The sense of familiarity surged once more.
"Can we speak privately?" the woman asked, holding the glass steadily.
"Hmm?" Hoffa pointed to his ear, feigning deafness.
"I said, can we have a private drink together?"
"Hah." Hoffa turned, flopping back onto the sofa and propping his feet on the coffee table again. "What's wrong with everyone being here? The more, the merrier. Why the need for privacy?"
The blonde woman, seeing that her persuasion was ineffective, turned to address the others in the room. "Excuse me, could you all give me a moment alone with your boss?"
Those caught in her gaze staggered like puppets on strings, swaying as they began to shuffle toward the door.
"Stop."
Hoffa's voice was slow but commanding.
His mental energy surged like thunder, enveloping the dressing room. The staff, maids, and secretaries, all jolted back to awareness. Even the waitress slumped on the sofa snapped out of her stupor, realizing the glass vessel had rolled to the young boss's feet.
"S-sorry…"
She hurriedly reached to retrieve it, but Hoffa pushed the two maids serving him back onto the sofa, holding them there without giving them a chance to leave.
He smirked, leaning against the sofa while draping an arm over the maids, both of whom flushed red with embarrassment. His golden eyes, partially obscured by the red sunglasses, studied the blonde woman.
"Where did you come from? Did you hire these people? Do you think you can just dismiss them at will?"
"No," the woman replied calmly, shaking her head.
"Then state your name and say what you have to say here," Hoffa demanded, stretching out on the sofa with his legs crossed. "I'll give you three minutes, seeing as you've dressed so thoughtfully for the occasion."
"That won't be necessary. One day, you'll come looking for me yourself," she said with a playful smile before turning to leave.
Hoffa froze, sensing something amiss. "Wait."
The blonde woman halted.
"Did I say you could leave?" he asked with a sly grin, crossing his arms. "Do you think this place is a public restroom?"
The blonde woman turned to face him, her expression tinged with resignation but her gaze unchanging. From the moment she entered, her eyes had been unwavering, devoid of any flicker of emotion.
"No," she replied, shaking her head.
"Drink your vodka," Hoffa ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
The blonde woman nodded and, under the watchful eyes of everyone in the room, tilted her head back and downed the 96% alcohol in one go. She didn't even blink, as if she were a machine devoid of feelings.
"Well, well," Hoffa clapped his hands, pushing the maids aside as he stood. Stretching lazily, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and swaggered over to her, circling her like a predator eyeing its prey. "Do you have any talents?"
"I can do anything," she replied flatly. "Whatever you ask."
"Really?" Hoffa's eyes narrowed as a sly grin spread across his face. The golden irises behind his red sunglasses gleamed with mischief.
The blonde woman nodded earnestly.
"Can you play bass?" Hoffa asked.
"I can."
"Oh, interesting." He glanced at his expensive watch. "The show's about to start. Come perform with me, and then we'll consider a private chat later, hahaha."
Those in the dressing room hung their heads, suppressing their reactions. It was clear that their young, nouveau riche boss had entered his nightly bout of eccentric behavior. The maids serving him looked away, their faces burning with secondhand embarrassment.
To their surprise, the blonde woman smiled back at him without a trace of annoyance. She nodded, calm as ever.
"Perfect, perfect."
Hoffa clapped his hands. "Let's see if you can impress me."
As he spoke, the doors of the theater below swung open, and the scene came alive.
It started raining money from the sky.
"Ah!!" "Father!!" "Good man!!" "Divine being!!" "Jesus reborn!" "Long live the Queen!" "Praise the gods!!"
Countless homeless men and women shouted in excitement, their voices hoarse from the fervor. They raised their hands high, jumping towards the money falling from the sky.
The frenzied scene made Hofa laugh loudly. He jumped from the third floor directly onto the newly built stage. Below him, countless men and women, hands raised, were leaping around, clutching the money, eagerly staring at the extravagant black flamingo at the center of the stage.
"Come on out, my darlings!!"
The flamingo laughed into the microphone.
Six or seven rock musicians dressed in extravagant outfits appeared from all sides of the stage. They had mohawk hairstyles, their bare chests adorned with various tattoos. Some carried drum kits, some had guitars on their backs, and others held electronic keyboards.
Hofa approached the bald bassist, who was standing at the front, and whispered in his ear, "I don't like your bald head, you're fired."
He then grabbed the bassist's instrument and threw it up to the third floor.
The bass flew through the air, spinning like it was about to crash into someone's head.
However, the blonde woman on the third floor remained with her ever-present smile. She caught the speeding bass with one hand, then gracefully walked down the stairs. As she passed through the crowd, no one dared to touch her. Everywhere she went, the excited crowd made way.
The bassist, who had worked with the band for some time, was stunned. The rest of the band was also taken aback. But when the blonde woman stepped onto the stage, they all seemed to lose their senses, their gazes vacant, as if on a hallucinogenic drug.
"Prove yourself," Hofa said, holding the microphone.
"Okay," the blonde woman nodded.
On the stage, the woman, who was completely out of place with the atmosphere, calmly pressed the strings of the bass and gently shook her head.
The next second.
Her fingers moved, and a smooth solo began.
At first, the people below, frantically grabbing the money, didn't care about the music. They were too caught up in the frenzy to notice. But as the solo continued, the music caught their attention. They slowly raised their heads, entranced by the melody, forgetting about the money they were fighting for.
Hofa widened his eyes. He had only wanted to release some frustration, but to his surprise, the woman was playing at a world-class bassist level.
Her slender fingers danced across the strings, each note flowing like water, light as a breeze, delicate as rain, pulling everyone into a mesmerizing rock world.
The crowd's eyes became fixed. They raised their arms, swaying to the music.
The solo lasted a minute, and then the rest of the band came to life like puppets. The drummer struck the drums, the electronic keyboard flowed, and a soft yet powerful ensemble filled the air.
The music filled his ears, and Hofa covered his head. It felt like his mind was being struck by a hammer. The crowd in front of him became blurry, and the floating British pounds turned into blood-red spots.
The atmosphere was so surreal that he turned his head quickly to look at the blonde woman. She was smiling at him, her eyes deep and emotionless, like a whirlpool.
Under her gaze, Hofa's mental shell was peeled away layer by layer, shattered, down to the very depths of his consciousness. Instinctively, he brought the microphone to his mouth and softly hummed:
"We are separated in body, yet we reunite as one."
"We climb to the peak, and we fall into the abyss."
"We are so young, we are so old."
"Do you know how cold my burning heart is?"
"We don't need persuasion, we don't need help."
"We don't need money, and we don't need alcohol."
"We don't need doctors, and we don't need women."
He shook his head, humming softly.
"Burn."
"Burn."
"Burn."
The blonde bassist stopped her fingers, and the rhythm suddenly halted.
A second later, the pace quickened.
Hofa gripped the microphone, bent down, and began to sing with all his might.
"A burning heart, so cold!"
He straightened up, squeezing the microphone, looking at the sky. His soul-sung words attracted the young people of London's Soho district, drawing them toward the theater. The crowd already gathered inside the theater raised their arms in astonishment, and a sudden burst of emotion caused them to shudder, waving their arms and screaming. This was music they had never heard before.
"A burning heart, so cold!"
The spotlight hit the black flamingo, whose expression grew more menacing, like a shaman's scream after a hunt. In the distance, the blonde woman remained expressionless, but her fingers moved so quickly it seemed like she was about to snap the strings, as if playing on steel wires. A storm of music poured out, so wild it almost tore the space apart.
Countless people gathered together, shaking their heads and swaying, filling the theater to the brim, resembling a large cult gathering.
"Ah!!!!"
With a long, shrill scream, Hofa threw the microphone away, walked straight to the drummer, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him out. He then sat at the drum kit and began to play recklessly.
The thunderous cheers echoed, his arms moving as fast as shadows, his feet keeping the beat. His brutal, simplistic techniques seemed to come naturally, and with the bassist's aggressive playing, he rocked his head and body like a madman.
It was unclear how long it lasted until his palms bled, until the place fell silent, until he was drenched in sweat, his gray hair disheveled, his red sunglasses shattered on the drum surface, and his luxury watch shattered into pieces, black feathers scattered all around.
The one-hour performance ended.
Everyone in the audience was entranced and dazed. Their eyes rolled back, mouths agape, lost in their souls. Even after the music stopped, they continued to sway their arms in the air, like seaweed floating in the ocean.
Except for him and the blonde woman, the other musicians in the temporary band collapsed to the ground, exhausted and foaming at the mouth.
Hofa lowered his head, his arms hanging limply like a plucked rooster sitting in front of the almost destroyed drum kit. Sweat dripped from his chin and nose onto the floor, each drop audible.
The restless soul slowly cooled.
The silence on stage became unbearable, an isolation among thousands, a loneliness that made him feel lost, as if closing his eyes would bring back memories of the empty room, the man fallen behind the dining table, the splattering blood – in the night, he was so awake.
"What do you want to do?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Why ask when you already know?" The blonde woman, holding the bass, smiled.
"You don't need to say anything about me going back." Hofa muttered to himself, "I'm very happy now. I won't go back fifty years."
"You've gone a month without sleep, never leaving the crowd. If you're so happy with this life, then what are you afraid of?"
Hofa lowered his head, silent.
The blonde woman placed the bass on the ground, picked up her bag, and took out a box of barbiturates. She poured the white solid from the box into her hand and then extended it to Hofa. "If reality is a nightmare to you, then you really should rest."
"A nightmarish reality?"
Hofa slowly raised his head, looking at the seductive woman's face, then at the mindless revelers around them, finally understanding the true nature of it all.
He took the pills and swallowed them.
Soon, under the effect of the drug, his vision became blurry.
"Sleep, sleep."
The woman stood behind him, pressing her palm against his temple, calmly and coldly rubbing it. "Sleep, drift away."
(End of Chapter)
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