You see, this is what “and then” means.

At the very least, next time I brag to my friends, I’ll have a few more stories to tell.

When the time comes, my friends will definitely ask me: Did you get her number?

If I give an affirmative answer, then they’ll ask: Did you make a move?

At that point, I can just smile without saying a word, letting those guys guess as much as they want.

That’s as far as my train of thought goes; what happened next was just too out of the ordinary.

She first looked up at me, then actually stood up and stared at me.

I’ve long experienced the fickleness of women, and now I was just once again, deeply feeling that same unpredictability. A woman who, just a second ago, was bowing her head and shyly saying thank you, now stands up and glares at you like a wolf—anyone would feel a bit unsafe.

The more she looked at me, the more excited she seemed, and then she said something completely baffling: “I didn’t expect the famous Jack to end up like this. If the intel wasn’t reliable, I’d think I’d found the wrong person.”

I didn’t interrupt, because I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

“Sit down, standing there is an eyesore.” She sat down first, and I, as if compelled, sat beside her. She turned to look at me, and with a tone like a wife confiding in her husband, leaned in and whispered in my ear: “Stop showing off your acting skills in front of me. We both know each other inside out, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. Tell me, did you find that thing you came to Tibet for?”

Chapter 003: Business Card

In this era of epic comebacks, plot twists, and shocking endings, the woman in black stockings had already shown her potential for a dramatic twist—one sentence nearly threw out my back, battered by the years of my youth.

I’ve always wanted to write something normal to prove I’m a normal person, but the people and things I encounter are rarely normal.

Can anyone tell me, what on earth is she trying to do?

Unfortunately, no one gave me the answer—I could only figure it out myself.

I didn’t know the identity or background of the woman in black stockings, nor where she came from or where she was going.

All I knew was, she had mistaken me for someone else.

Under her gaze, I asked curiously, “When did you get to know me so well?”

“Shawn, male, born in 1982, native of…” The woman in black stockings didn’t shy away from my questioning look; instead, she stared at me even more intently and recited a string of information.

I was shocked—this chick was honest, she really did know me inside out, even down to which elementary school I graduated from.

“Mr. Jackson, of the things I just mentioned, how many are true? If I’m not mistaken, this must be a dossier you had someone prepare in advance, right?” The woman in black stockings spoke with a hint of pride at having seen through me. At the same time, I could sense her wariness toward me, as if she was on guard every second.

I was shocked again. If she had mistaken me for someone else, there’s no way she’d know even the origins of my name so clearly. But if she hadn’t, that made even less sense—I was sure I didn’t know her.

At that moment, I was a bit confused, and remembered something: just now, I thought she looked familiar.

Could it be that I really do know her, but just can’t recall who she is for the moment?

This kind of ambiguity was really unpleasant and made me feel insecure.

The woman in black stockings rattled off, “This dossier of yours is pretty interesting—just like the usual style of your The Jackson Group. Reporter, editor, online writer, salesperson, adult shop owner—you really did all these side jobs? According to this file, you’ve also been a pimp, done pyramid schemes, worked as a gunman, watched over clubs, waited tables, and even been a gold farmer for a game studio?”

Her tone sounded like a question, but I didn’t know how to answer. I just felt that her knowledge of me was disturbingly thorough. During this, I had a question, so I asked, “What is The Jackson Group?”

She didn’t reply, just stared at me intently.

That look was strange, as if she was re-examining something she’d known for years.

Five minutes later, she asked me, “You don’t remember the past, do you?”

I could sense she was being very serious, so I answered just as seriously, “No, I remember everything I should remember.”

She asked, “Then do you still remember what happened on the high seas?”

I was confused. “What high seas?”

She said, “The high seas where you guys killed over a hundred pirates and drug lords.”

I was completely baffled. “What are you talking about? I have no idea.”

A look of inexplicable regret flashed in her eyes, and her tone was tinged with a sigh. “I get it. Even the strongest person would go crazy after something like that. The fact that you’re normal now means only one thing: you hypnotized yourself. For the past four years, you’ve forced yourself to block out those memories. You don’t remember what happened on the high seas, and you don’t remember your true identity. You’ve long forgotten how legendary you were in the international mercenary world. Heh, as expected of the master hypnotist Mr. Jackson—even your self-hypnosis skills are this good.”

Self-hypnosis—I’d heard of it, but never seen it.

Listening to her, it felt like I was hearing a story that had nothing to do with me. As for hypnosis, my only knowledge came from the American TV show “The Mentalist,” where the main character seemed pretty good at that sort of thing.