Old Man's expression froze for a moment: "If you talked less, maybe I could live to seventy-nine... Huh, shouldn't you be in evening study right now? Why are you out of school so early today?"

Brian Brooks thought for a moment and replied, "I'm waiting for someone."

"Waiting for someone?" Old Man was taken aback.

Brian Brooks stood up and looked toward the alley outside the rain shelter, his gaze drifting in the curtain of rain, not answering again.

Old Man said, "You're so good at chess, why don't you go compete in a chess tournament? Didn't you say you needed money? If you win the championship, there's prize money."

The young Brian Brooks shook his head. "I just memorized a lot of chess manuals, that's all. I can play with you guys, but if I meet a real expert, I'll be exposed. This isn't my path—chess is just temporary for me."

"Memorized them all..." Old Man sighed, "I used to think that photographic memory was just something people made up."

The rain gradually stopped.

At that moment, Old Man noticed Brian Brooks suddenly freeze.

He followed the boy's gaze and happened to see a couple holding a little boy's hand walking in from outside the alley.

The middle-aged woman wore a delicate trench coat and carried a cake box in her hand, tied with a beautiful purple ribbon.

Even the gray world couldn't hide the joy on the three people's faces. Brian Brooks turned and left, leaving Old Man sitting under the rain shelter at the entrance of Fulai Supermarket, sighing softly.

The middle-aged woman saw Brian Brooks's back. She called out Brian Brooks's name, but Brian Brooks disappeared at the end of the alley without looking back.

The walls on both sides of the alley were very old. After the white paint peeled off, patches of mottled red brick were left exposed.

The person Brian Brooks was waiting for had arrived, but he no longer wanted to wait.

Chapter 2: Countdown

The middle-aged woman looked at Old Man: "Mr. Bolton, why is Brian Brooks coming to play chess with you again?"

Mr. Bolton's tone was much less polite: "He's your own son, and you're asking me? He doesn't have any living expenses, so he can only rely on playing chess to earn a little money for food."

The middle-aged woman Emily Bolton was taken aback. "But I send his father Brian Brooks's living expenses every month."

This made Mr. Bolton pause as well. "Then I don't know what's going on."

Mr. Bolton pondered. Emily Bolton wasn't poor, and it seemed the living expenses she gave Brian Brooks weren't little either, so why was the boy still living so frugally?

Brian Brooks didn't seem like a spendthrift—he was always careful with his money, never even drank a single bottle of soda.

"But shouldn't he be in evening study right now?" Emily Bolton asked.

Only then did Mr. Bolton remember: "He said he was waiting for someone."

"No, I have to go home and check," Emily Bolton said.

As she spoke, she was about to hurry off with the cake, when the man beside her suddenly said, "Emily, it's Haohao's birthday today. We've already reserved a table, and after dinner we have to take him to the movies!"

Emily Bolton turned to look at the man. "Brian Brooks might have skipped class. I can't just ignore it, can I?"

"He's already seventeen, he can take care of himself. Besides, he still has his real dad," the man said, then softened his tone: "Actually, we can go see him on the weekend. Today, let's spend time with Haohao first, okay?"

Emily Bolton frowned at this, but after a few seconds, she finally sighed. "Fine, let's celebrate Haohao's birthday today."

...

On the tree-lined path of the municipal government west family compound, Brian Brooks walked silently under the camphor trees.

Unlike the style of modern high-rise buildings, the buildings in this compound were all four-story low-rises from the 1970s, with no elevators, no gas, and the sewers would clog from time to time.

At home, you couldn't use high-powered electrical appliances, or the power would trip.

Brian Brooks walked into the dim entryway, ignoring the lock-picking and house-selling ads plastered on the wall like a rash, took out his key, and opened the door to his first-floor apartment.

A 76-square-meter apartment, two bedrooms and a living room, with poor lighting on the first floor.

He took out his phone and dialed: "Hello, Dad..."

The voice on the other end interrupted him: "If you need living expenses, ask your mom. I don't have any money. She's the one with money now."

As he spoke, the sound of mahjong tiles could be heard in the background.

"I don't want money," Brian Brooks said softly. "I haven't asked you for money in a long time."

The man said impatiently, "Is it another parent-teacher meeting at school? Ask your mom. Stuff like this..."

Before he could finish, Brian Brooks hung up first this time.

He leaned gently against the door, lowered his head, and lifted the sleeve of his school uniform.

He stared blankly at his forearm, where white numbers and symbols, like an LCD display, appeared: Countdown 5:58:13.

The white numbers looked like a glowing tattoo embedded in his flesh and skin. No matter how hard he rubbed, he couldn't erase them.

Looking closely, Brian Brooks could see intricate, special patterns within the numbers, like mechanical parts interlocking.

The numbers changed silently, as if emitting the clicking sound of gears meshing.

Countdown 5:58:12.

Countdown 5:58:11.

There were 5 hours, 58 minutes, and 11 seconds left. It all seemed to remind Brian Brooks that when the countdown ended, something incredible would happen.