" Lao Chen, cover me for ten minutes. I need to take this guy to the back alley for a talk," Nemo said, his tone unnaturally calm.

"Got it. Nemo, nothing serious, right? Should I call the boss?"

"No need. He's just an American friend I recently met. He doesn’t know the rules for visiting during Lunar New Year. I'll talk to him and send him on his way."

The entire exchange, of course, was in Mandarin.

Grabbing Matthew by the collar of his coat, Nemo swiftly and forcefully dragged the billionaire through the kitchen toward the back door. Behind him, Lao Chen was already stammering an explanation in basic English to Tolya.

At that moment, Nemo couldn't be bothered by such trivialities. He had only done this to protect the future stability of Westlake Restaurant. Matthew Grimm's media influence was far more destructive than a third-class kaiju—at least fifth-class level!

If news got out that Matthew Grimm had randomly appeared in a small Chinese restaurant, the initial media buzz would inevitably snowball into swarms of fanboys, fangirls, and gossip hounds. The resulting chaos would lead to irrational reviews, canceled orders, and, in the worst-case scenario, temporary closure.

Nemo wasn’t jumping to conclusions. Two dessert shops in Lone Star City had already gone out of business after getting tangled in gossip involving Matthew Grimm. And how long had the Grimm Group even been headquartered here? Restaurants tied to dating rumors about him and his girlfriends had fallen like dominoes.

In short, Matthew Grimm was the living embodiment of “disruption to business.”

After pulling the back door shut to isolate this walking biohazard from all other human eyes in the restaurant, Nemo checked the dark alley to ensure there were no lurking paparazzi before finally letting go of the billionaire's collar.

"Wow! You’ve got quite the grip," Matthew remarked, though he hadn't resisted at all.

Of course I do—how else am I supposed to strangle you? Nemo thought grimly.

"You caused a scene in the restaurant. It's troublesome for me," Nemo said.

"I figured you might mind that, which is why I went out of my way to dress low-key," Matthew said as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and did a quick twirl, as if awaiting praise.

Nemo wanted to stuff him into a garbage truck.

"You didn’t seriously think that coming without a date counts as 'low-key,' did you?"

"Of course not. I also brought sunglasses," Matthew said, grinning as he pushed his slipping sunglasses back into place. "As they say, 'The eyes are the windows to the soul,' and I’ve carefully concealed mine."

"Spare me the nonsense. I still want to keep my job here," Nemo replied, unimpressed.

"My new girlfriend is driving my new sports car around downtown. She’s an action-film star with incredible driving skills—she’s even won Best Actress. The paparazzi are all chasing her. I swear."

"What kind of game are you playing?"

"I told her that, as the leader of Grimm Group, I, too, yearned for 'the freedom to wander anonymously through the city.' She enthusiastically promised to lead the paparazzi on a wild goose chase all night so I could enjoy some peace."

"So your 'wandering' led you straight into my kitchen?" Nemo thought that if this man went to hell, his punishment would surely involve being repeatedly run over by a sports car driven by an ex-girlfriend, completely naked.

"I remembered today is a special day for the Chinese community, and then I thought of you. I don’t spend all my time on dates; occasionally, I like to meet up with special friends."

"Be honest. Otherwise, you can find your own way out of the back alley. I’m locking the back door and going back to work," Nemo said. He wasn’t usually unfriendly toward wealthy people, but he didn’t owe Matthew anything, and the man had crossed a line.

If Matthew had simply ordered takeout or sat down for a proper meal, Nemo wouldn’t have cared. But barging into the kitchen, ignoring the waitstaff’s objections? That was too much.

There are always people in this world who, despite having no ill intentions, expect others to play along with their games. If Matthew really wanted to test his limits, Nemo would gladly show him the wrath of a common man.

"Why didn’t you call me?" the richest man in the world suddenly asked, sounding aggrieved.

Nemo thought he must be hallucinating from exhaustion.

Matthew added, "I’ve been waiting for you to call me—up until today."

"Why on earth would I call you?" Could it be that he… was mistaken for some amusing weirdo?

"You wanted to know about the life of the world’s richest man, didn’t you? You saved my life. Sharing a little about myself is the least I can do!"

"You already told me about it that day," Nemo replied, racking his brain and recalling that Matthew had indeed mentioned a few personal habits. Nemo had clearly said he got the picture.

Could it be that Matthew Grimm had taken his polite remark—“Hearing it from you is enough”—as an invitation and thought Nemo had been ghosting him?

"My dear friend, I haven’t even opened the cover of the fairy tale," Matthew replied cryptically.

It was like they were having two entirely separate conversations.

The wind from the helicopter blades that day had been fierce, and Nemo, having abandoned an important piece of gear (his flight jacket), had only wanted to hurry back to the warmth of his car. His offhand, polite response could admittedly be interpreted differently. Americans, with their straightforward thinking and inexplicable eagerness to make new friends, could really be baffling sometimes.

Still, Nemo felt he’d been diplomatic enough at the time. The misunderstanding was on Matthew, and barging into the kitchen was simply unacceptable!

"I’m a loyal reader of Grimm Group news. I can always expand my knowledge from the media. I appreciate your kindness and the gift you sent me. As you can see, I’m quite busy here in my own role and don’t need any additional surprises. Happy New Year, Mr. Grimm." Nemo decided to restore a bit of civility. Misunderstandings could be cleared up, and the dignified, rich tycoon shouldn’t have to endure a cold shoulder.

" You’ve taken away my feeling of achievement, Mr. Captain. Be honest—do I make you uncomfortable?" the world’s richest man suddenly shot back.

Two could play at this game. "You’re a good person, but I don’t see the need for a close friendship. I don’t want media attention."

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Quite the compliment. So, what you’re saying is that as long as there’s no media attention, you’re open to interacting with me?" Matthew leaned in, bending slightly to meet Nemo’s gaze.

Was this strike while the iron is hot, or a hostile takeover?

"How exactly do you plan to interact with me without attracting media attention? I don’t want to see headlines like ‘Matthew Grimm’s Secret Boyfriend’ followed by my name plastered all over Lone Star City’s tabloids. The media practically outs you once a month," Nemo said, narrowing his eyes.

"To date, I’ve been exclusively heterosexual. I swear to God," the billionaire replied, pressing a hand to his chest.

"'To date'? Do you realize that single phrase could feed the tabloids for a month?" Nemo countered, squinting.

"I believe in liberty, equality, and fraternity. Also, I genuinely like my current girlfriend and have no immediate plans to explore the other side—or let my new friend be harassed by the media. If you won’t call me, how about giving me your phone number? We can even chat by email; that’s less expensive." Matthew’s tone had shifted, exuding patience and determination instead of the earlier flippancy.

Nemo realized he was dealing with a formidable and dangerous leader. Matthew Grimm was truly a world-class oddball.

When someone is unexpectedly saved in dire circumstances, it can trigger a kind of trust or reliance. Nemo was also familiar with that feeling himself.

"I don’t believe in any of those things. But fine—you’d better promise not to cause me any trouble."

"I promise."

"Alright, then. I don’t mind making new friends," Nemo said with a heavy sigh, extending his right hand toward Matthew.

"Nemo," Matthew said, shaking his hand with a grip that was neither too strong nor too weak. "Has anyone ever told you that if you went into business, you’d definitely go bankrupt?"

"That’s why I’m just a chef. A chef who can lock the restaurant’s back door, at that," Nemo shot back.

"I already promised the waiter I’d order a lot of takeout. Now, your phone number and email, please."

"You can’t find my contact information?"

"Isn’t it basic courtesy to ask someone directly for their contact details? Besides, if I’m not mistaken, you don’t answer calls from unknown numbers. I think that’s kind of creepy myself," Matthew said.

The billionaire, surprisingly, had common sense. Nemo had to admit he was a bit impressed.

"By the way, Nemo, there’s a reason I only visit some restaurants once. The media acts like a magnifying glass, but whether it magnifies strengths or flaws depends on the management. Hygiene and labor rights issues aren’t caused by me. Since you’re a chef, I figured I’d come support you. Pack me some of your best dishes. I’ll wait in the black Ford at the alley. Cash payment, deal?"

Without waiting for Nemo’s response, Matthew Grimm turned on his heel and walked casually across the dirty alley toward the other side.

Later, the billionaire left with a large bag of takeout containers and a one-cent red envelope with a handwritten note inside.

Tolya watched his roommate’s already-slumped shoulders sink even further, likening it to a video game where Nemo’s health bar had dropped from 50% to 10%.

“If I see your name in the papers someday…” The Russian gave his roommate a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“It won’t be my fault!”

If promises could solve everything, who’d need lawyers? Nemo simply didn’t want to waste time arguing with Matthew Grimm.

※※※

The Gulf of Mexico might have escaped trouble for now, but the kitchen of Westlake Restaurant—and Nemo’s voicemail—had just been hit by the Category 5 Kaiju known as “Matthew.” This left Nemo, who had graciously offered to cover shifts and earned a three-day Lunar New Year holiday, feeling far from festive.

Nemo didn’t have superpowers, but he was starting to grasp the price heroes had to pay: peace and privacy.

After days of watching Nemo sulk, Tolya couldn’t stand it anymore. The fridge was practically empty, and no one wanted to volunteer for a solo shopping trip. After losing at rock-paper-scissors, the Russian dragged Nemo out of the apartment under the flimsiest of excuses—claiming he couldn’t even tell fresh fish from rotten ones without help.

Tolya even managed to coax Nemo into wearing the military-style coat gifted by Matthew Grimm, claiming it was for “waterproof testing.” The two headed out, each holding their own umbrella and lugging large grocery bags. From Tolya’s angle, Nemo’s face was hidden as his roommate shielded himself under the umbrella with precision.

“Don’t you Chinese have a tradition of wearing new clothes and going on outings for the Lunar New Year?”

“Tolya, lucky for you, this isn’t World of Warcraft. The old me would’ve stunned you with a cheap shot and followed up with a kidney strike the moment I heard ‘you Chinese.’”

When Taiwanese Christians celebrate Christmas, does anyone go, “You British people”?

“Alright, alright. Don’t your Taiwanese folk wear new clothes for the Lunar New Year and go out for fun? Even if you haven’t done it before, you could start this year!” Tolya quickly rephrased.

“I don’t—” care about meaningless customs! Nemo was mid-sentence when Tolya nudged him toward the inner side of the sidewalk.

A gray van sped past, splashing muddy water onto Tolya’s jeans before screeching to a halt ahead of them.

“Luckily, it didn’t get on your fancy coat; how much would the dry-cleaning cost for this brand-name piece?” Tolya muttered, inspecting the hem of the military coat for any unnoticed stains.

Meanwhile, Nemo noticed four tattooed Russian men stepping out of the van. He recognized two of them as regular customers at Westlake Restaurant; they could be considered somewhat familiar faces.

They ignored the mud on Tolya’s pants and instead greeted each other with boisterous, rapid-fire Russian. When one of them glanced at Nemo, he nodded politely but didn’t bother with greetings in English or broken Russian.

After all, did you see any of these Russians initiating a conversation with Nemo? Russians hated speaking English as much as the French. Tolya didn’t like Nemo having any contact with gangsters, usually steering clear of the topic altogether. Even in an accidental encounter like today, he chose not to drag Nemo into the conversation, preferring to leave his roommate out entirely.

Nemo, for his part, was more than happy to be excluded. When someone offered Tolya a cigarette, he walked a short distance away to accept the light. The group of Russians smoked in a huddle under the light rain, with Tolya in the middle. The gray skies and swirling smoke seemed to pull him into another world, and the act of holding a cigarette to his lips only sharpened his already chiseled features.

He looked like a stranger.

That unfamiliar side of his roommate seemed poised to engage in endless conversation with his companions. Nemo could relate to the feeling; if he ever ran into someone from Taiwan back in Lone Star City—even a mere acquaintance—he’d chatter away endlessly, all while convincing Tolya to lug the groceries home solo as he caught up.

Tolya wasn’t the tallest or most muscular of the group, yet these fierce Russian gangsters clearly liked him. All except for one—a long-haired man in his thirties standing on the edge of the group, with the largest muscles and the fewest words. He puffed on his cigarette in silence, offering brief replies from time to time, while his gaze often shifted to the van making its way toward them.

A lookout, perhaps? But his tattoos indicated a high rank within the gang.

Nemo hadn’t forgotten how the van sped up just as he reached the puddle’s edge. If not for Tolya’s quick intervention, he’d be the one soaked in mud. Racism wouldn’t surprise him; they might even think it was a friendly little joke. Real hostility would’ve involved a beating, not a splash of dirty water. The whole thing only solidified Nemo’s determination to keep their social circles as separate as possible.

He glanced at Tolya’s umbrella and grocery bags resting against the wall and added his own bag underneath the umbrella for protection. Much lighter now, he stretched his shoulders.

“You, Chinese chef, come here.” A low, raspy voice with a thick Russian accent called from the van. It was unexpectedly pleasant, exuding natural confidence and exotic charm.Combined with the authoritative tone, it even carried a hint of seductiveness.

So there was a woman in the van after all. Then again, when a group of tattoo-covered Russian thugs approaches, who would notice the car's interior?

Had it not been for his familiarity with Tolya's Russian accent, Nemo might not have immediately recognized that the woman in the van was calling out to him. Since she had humbled herself to communicate in English, Nemo, being a person of manners, approached without hesitation.

The Russian woman caught the flicker of surprise in Nemo's eyes and curled her crimson lips in satisfaction. She clearly had immense confidence in her appearance. Nemo wasn’t well-versed in fashion but could tell her outfit was elegant and expensive. She looked like she belonged with bodyguards in black suits, not crammed into a van with street thugs.

Could she be a mob boss’s mistress? Nemo wondered.

“I hate the rain—it ruins my hair and makeup. Do you know how long it took me to get ready? And my heels—genuine leather! Don’t you think they’re practically works of art?”

“They are, indeed. Staying in the car seems much more comfortable,” Nemo replied agreeably.

“That’s why I’m sitting here to ask you a question. Are you the roommate who got sick on my birthday?” The woman’s tone carried a faint chill.

“I wouldn’t know your birthday, miss, but I was indeed seriously ill late last year.”

Nemo, quick-witted as ever, immediately pieced together the truth about Tolya’s bar adventure. His roommate hadn’t encountered a crossdresser; he’d left early to check on his amnesiac roommate and ensure he caught the right bus home.

Perhaps Nemo’s frail, unassuming image as an Asian man was convincing enough for the Russian woman. She simply hummed, letting the matter drop after confirming Tolya hadn’t used his roommate as a mere excuse.

Nemo turned to glare at Tolya, who was still joking and laughing with his gangster friends in the drizzle.

He lied to both sides? What a jerk.