Trafford's Trading Club

Chapter 1441: Chapter 168: 10 Seconds at the Traffic Light

After leaving Mr. Smith’s restaurant, Teacher Prin walked alone along the street; compared to the pedestrians, he seemed more like a traveler.

He would take in all the forms of everything around him.

The light in the shop windows, people’s reflections on the glass, or a whole family in a restaurant, or perhaps something else… anything else that moved.

At the traffic light, Teacher Prin stood on the pedestrian side waiting; beside him sat an old man with a head of white hair—he was truly, truly old, the age spots on his face were even a grayish color.

The old man’s family were buying something at the newsstand behind him.

“Good evening.” Teacher Prin watched the changing lights on the traffic signal pole across the street; he did not look back, just offered this greeting to the old man in the wheelchair.

The old man looked a bit as if he had fallen asleep, his eyes half open, half closed… perhaps he could fall asleep at any moment, and was simply struggling not to drift off—and finally, this single “good evening” woke him a little.

He did in fact wake a little; the murkiness in his eyes receded slightly. He raised his head and saw Teacher Prin standing right beside him—the old man’s pupils slowly widened; he even opened his mouth, and his fingers subconsciously tightened around the armrest of the wheelchair.

It could be said that the expression now on the old man’s face was… fear.

“Don’t come any closer!” The old man’s voice was very low, yet extremely hurried. “Don’t come near me!”

“I have no intention of coming near you.” Teacher Prin still did not look at the old man; his gaze had never once left the traffic light across the street, and at the same time a faint smile appeared on his face—a smile that did not mean much, perhaps simply to make himself look a little better.

Upon hearing this, the old man’s fingers, which had been clutching the wheelchair, gradually loosened… the tension and fear on his face also began to ease; he too looked at the traffic light across the road—it was still red, but seemed about to enter the countdown phase.

“I know, I know.” The old man lowered his gaze and said softly, “I know… I just can’t bear to leave, I can’t bear to leave anyone.”

“No one can stay forever. You’ve already lived a life others would envy… I imagine you have no regrets left.” Teacher Prin finally moved his eyes, turning his head to look at the old man in the wheelchair beside him.

The old man’s gaze met Teacher Prin’s—the countdown numbers on the traffic light across the street now lay between their lines of sight, and suddenly began to move… starting from 9, then 8.

This time would not stop; it kept ticking down. At most ten seconds, and no one knew what could be done in that span… In a person’s life, in these ten seconds before a traffic light—what should one do?

“Perhaps one ought to say a farewell.” Teacher Pru suddenly murmured.

The old man abruptly and hastily tore his gaze away from Teacher Prin and hurriedly turned around to look at his family paying at the newsstand behind him.

He did not blink; he was unwilling to waste even a single second—perhaps he too felt that, in his life, he had squandered far too many of these ten-second stretches before traffic lights.

His gaze trembled, and at last his eyes grew moist… The traffic light across the street finally turned green—ten seconds, so terribly short.

At the instant the green light came on, Teacher Prin moved; he walked slowly toward the other side of the street—and at the same time, the old man’s heart suddenly thudded violently.

It brought him an unprecedented pain. The old man clutched at the front of his shirt in agony and toppled from the wheelchair in one sudden motion—this immediately startled his family, alarmed the owner of the newsstand, and startled the passersby.

“Father!! Father!! Help! Help!!!”

By the time people had gathered around the spot where the old man had collapsed, Teacher Prin had already reached the opposite side of the road; he glanced to left and right, then turned and walked down the street to his left.

“Help! Help!!!”

The man should have been the old man’s son; he was now helplessly holding the old man’s body… Warm‑hearted people began to help, and at that moment, a black cat slipped quietly away from the crowd.

The cat vanished in an instant.

…

…

In the restaurant kitchen, having temporarily finished his tasks, Mr. Smith sat down and poured himself a glass of iced water.

He did not actually feel hot; he wasn’t even sweating… Even though there was air-conditioning installed in the kitchen, a bit of perspiration would normally be expected.

Just then, the waiter brought in the plates from the diners who had finished eating, passing by in front of Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith took one look, and just as he was about to drink, he actually forgot about the water and set the glass down at once—he wasn’t even thirsty, in fact.

“Why haven’t these dishes been touched?” Mr. Smith immediately called the waiter back, frowning. “Which table were these from?”

As a chef, he naturally cared very much whether his dishes had satisfied the diners—if the food he had prepared was left almost untouched, that was, for a chef, the ultimate negation.

Mr. Smith even examined them carefully; he quickly realized that these particular dishes were ones he himself had made, not the work of the second or third chef.

“Sir, they’re from the table with the guests you said ordered in a very strange way.” The waiter thought for a moment and said, “They later called over a friend, and in total ordered three portions of food. The one who came later basically finished his, but that couple hardly ate anything at all, more like they just had a single bite of each dish.”

Mr. Smith’s frown deepened… He stood up at once, stepped forward, took a fork, and quickly sampled the food that had barely been touched.

He tried every dish… For a chef, a single bite was enough to judge whether a product was good or not—Mr. Smith soon put down the fork… there was nothing wrong.

He was certain this was the best flavor he could produce—but the diners had barely touched it… If it had been only one dish left uneaten, he could have excused it as the customer being picky.

“You try some too.” Mr. Smith suddenly said to the waiter.

The waiter paused in surprise, but said nothing; she fetched a fork and began tasting them one by one. “They taste very good, Mr. Smith, I don’t think there’s any problem.”

She genuinely felt that Mr. Smith’s cooking was excellent—this was a chef qualified to become a three-star Michelin head chef; how could his skills not be good.

“Where are those two diners now?” Mr. Smith was still very concerned about this.

“They’ve already paid and left, sir.” The waiter said quickly.

“Did they…” Mr. Smith thought for a moment. “Did they say anything… intentionally or unintentionally, about these dishes?”

The waiter said, “They just said they weren’t very hungry, so they didn’t eat… I did ask at the time, since they’d barely touched anything.”

“Not hungry? If they weren’t hungry, what did they come into a restaurant for?” Mr. Smith pondered for a while. “Think again, did they say anything else?”

“That lady did say one thing… let me think.”

The waiter tried hard to remember; once again she realized how difficult it was to recall the faces of that pair of lovers—clearly, both of them should have left a very deep impression.

“What did they say? Hurry and think.” Mr. Smith actually seemed a little anxious now, his gaze sharpening.

The waiter quickly said, “Right, that lady said something like, time has already passed.”

“Time… time?” Mr. Smith froze for a moment, then furrowed his brows again. “Passed? Time has passed? What’s that supposed to mean?”

The waitress only shrugged… She actually didn’t care much about this at all, even felt her boss, Mr. Smith, might be a bit too sensitive— even a three-star Michelin chef couldn’t possibly make food that everyone is satisfied with.

Aren’t there people who refuse to eat pork?

“Sir, if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to work.” At the mention of time, the waitress suddenly remembered her shift was almost over. She didn’t want to have her work hours delayed because she was chatting nonsense here— even if the other party was her boss.

Of course, if Mr. Smith was willing to pay her overtime, that’d be another story.

“Go on.” Mr. Smith waved his hand, indicating his consent.

But before the waitress left, he kept those plates of food that had barely been touched, setting them in front of himself.

He once again started tasting the food he had made. “Time… time has passed? Is he talking about the timing on the heat?”

Just as Mr. Smith was racking his brains over it, the house phone rang. It was Lady Elura, his mother—Lady Elura said on the phone that Joe was missing, they couldn’t find him anywhere, and there was something else as well.

Mr. Smith shot to his feet as soon as he finished listening. “What? Did you call an ambulance?!”

…

…

“I want to go home!”

This was already Joe’s fourth demand—ever since he was saved from being hit by the bus by the big sister, he’d been brought into a room.

This seemed to be a woman’s room—or maybe a mother’s room.

Why did it feel that way? Because Joe saw a family photo in the room.

The mother was a pretty woman, and she had an adorable daughter… The girl looked about Joe’s age, at least that’s how old the cute little girl in the photo seemed.

So…

That’s right, he had actually been taken by this unbelievable big sister and they had broken into an ordinary household’s home without permission, and without obtaining the owner’s consent, she just started using their things at will—mainly using them on Joe.

“Go home? Sure, I’ll chop you up, box you, and deliver you right to your front door!” Nero had one foot up on the chair, smiling squint-eyed at Joe as she spoke. Her hands weren’t idle either—she was holding the lady of the house’s makeup products in both hands. “Stop crying! I finally finished your eye makeup! Smudge it and I’ll gouge your eyes out!”

Clearly, as a fighter trained by the Former Michael Club purely for combat, she had absolutely no experience taking care of children— but it had to be said, this kind of threat was even more effective than the bedtime story of “Pinocchio.”

“I hate dresses, I don’t want to wear a dress, I’m a boy!” Joe sniffled lightly as he voiced his grievance-filled protest.

“All right, Little dog! See if you’re satisfied now!” Nero didn’t care in the slightest. She tossed the makeup products over her shoulder, scooped Joe up from the stool, and set him in front of the vanity mirror.

She even stuck out her tongue to press against her upper lip, admiring her “masterpiece” with a deeply satisfied look.

The Joe in the mirror was currently wearing a pink little dress, even a wig on his head, looking very much like a delicate doll.

“Big sis… like this, can we really beat Mr. Death/The Grim Reaper? I don’t want to be a girl!”

“Shut up, keep it up and I’ll cut it off! It’s not like you’ve got any use for it right now anyway, and you don’t even know what it feels like! Losing it wouldn’t be a big deal!”

“I want to go home! I want to go home!”

At this moment, the owner of the house had probably just come back and heard the sounds from the room upstairs… The lady of the house immediately shouted loudly toward the upper floor.

Nero didn’t bother with any of that. She directly transformed into a silver-gray leopard, bit down on Joe’s clothes, and carried him as she bolted out through the window.

Ah—!!!!

When the lady of the house hurried upstairs, opened the door, turned on the light, and took a look, she let out a blood-curdling scream—her room looked as if it had been hit by the vilest kind of burglar, every drawer and cabinet rummaged through. Worst of all, the things in front of her vanity were basically all in pieces—cracked or broken…

The place was a total wreck.

…

The ambulance quickly drove into the small town’s hospital—the local population wasn’t large, but thanks to the university, the medical system wasn’t too far behind—though it was certainly not what you’d call advanced.

Mr. Smith rushed to the hospital. Lady Elura was already anxiously waiting outside the emergency room.

“How did this happen?” Mr. Smith asked urgently.

Lady Elura cried as she said, “I don’t know either, everything was fine at dinner, but then Deborah suddenly said her stomach really hurt, hurt terribly, so I had no choice but to call an ambulance.”

“Where is she?”

“Inside, the doctor just went in, very bad off.”

Mr. Smith took two quick deep breaths, glanced at the lit-up sign above the emergency room, and his mind went into complete chaos. “What about Joe? Still no sign of him?”

Lady Elura could only shake her head and say she’d already called the police.

Mr. Smith wiped his face hard and sat down… One misfortune after another hit all at once, and it made him think of that tragic incident from half a year ago.

It’s okay, it’s okay.

He quietly told himself in his heart, It’s okay… Didn’t we get through it half a year ago too?

Bang—!

Suddenly, a jumble of noises exploded in Mr. Smith’s ears… the sound of brakes, screams, and a huge crash.

…

Outside the small-town hospital, a sparrow suddenly landed on a small tree in the Courtyard, peering around at something—at that moment, a figure slowly walked up: Teacher Prin.

The sparrow instantly flew off from the tree.

Teacher Prin lifted his head and gave the hospital a once-over.