Chapter 247: Named Task

Henry, who had thought he could lazily avoid things for two or three months in the Sheep Cave Valley lab, was called back to his rental apartment by a voicemail.

Of course, he brought Katie, that little tiger, back with him—because the lab lacked the various measures to prevent tiger bites and collisions, unlike his rental apartment; aside from Henry personally watching over her, the only other option was to let Katie roam free in the wilderness.

Since he wasn't monitoring her at the lab and had no intention of releasing her into the wild, the only option left was to let her chase after BB, that poor core robot, back at the rental apartment.

The call came from the Continental Hotel; the voice message gave no details, only instructed Henry to go to the hotel.

As a freelance service provider, the hotel's orders weren't legally binding, but neither could he refuse outright without asking. So Henry drove over to hear why the hotel had summoned him.

Entering the Los Angeles Continental Hotel through the side entrance—this was one of only two Continental outposts in North America, alongside New York—Henry headed straight for the basement service desk.

On the first-floor lobby, the clientele were primarily contract gunners spending gold coins at the hotel; freelancers like Henry, unless splurging extravagantly, handled all work and negotiations at the service desk.

The receptionist had her golden hair pinned up, wore a tight red pencil skirt, and a well-tailored blazer on top, exuding an OL-style allure. But her face bore striking tattoos, making her look like a skull.

In truth, given her figure and posture, without that terrifying face tattoo, she would have been a rare beauty.

Yet anyone who ended up in the Continental Hotel system usually had some sordid past and lacked the education or experience to work in normal society—like the scars beneath her tattoos, surely memories too painful to recall.

Henry never deliberately inquired about others' backgrounds. Likewise, no one here ever asked about his own. Everyone maintained a mutual, willful ignorance, interacting like ordinary people.

So upon meeting, Henry opened with: "Hey, sweetheart, your lip gloss color is especially nice today. Let me guess—grape purple?"

"No, it's just cold—I got chilled walking over because I was dressed too lightly," the girl replied coldly, as if discussing the weather.

Henry casually grabbed the skull-faced beauty's hand and rubbed it. "Oh my, it's freezing. That won't do. Let me warm you up. Give me your other hand too."

No matter how terrifying her face looked from scars or tattoos, those hands perfectly matched the phrase "slender jade wrists"—her skin was so fine and delicate, like a baby soaked in milk, smooth and pale, utterly unlike most white skin tones.

The girl pulled her hand back with slight force. Her eyes held a hint of disappointment—whether at Henry for not holding tighter, or at him in general, he couldn't tell. She stared at him coldly and said: "How may I assist you, Mr. Brown?"

Putting on a look of regret but carefully avoiding overstepping, Henry never pushed things too far. He merely laughed it off: "The hotel called me in, but didn't say why. Could you check what this is about?"

Flipping through her notepad, the skull-faced beauty said: "Manager Fisher wants to see you. Follow me."

Placing a sign on her desk reading "Busy—Please Consult Another Staff Member," the skull-faced beauty led Henry toward the manager's office.

The manager's office was essentially a presidential-suite-level luxury room: two-story ceilings, a piano bar, a library-grade bookshelf section, of course a grand desk, and other auxiliary rooms.

Henry had visited once when registering as a freelance service provider and already knew the location.

But being escorted there was a matter of courtesy—he wasn't a level to barge in unannounced. So Henry obediently followed the skull-faced beauty, glancing at her swaying figure.

They reached the office quickly. After the beauty knocked, the door opened—only Henry was allowed inside.

Ms. Moony Fisher still wore a seductive, fiery dress. Even in near-December Los Angeles weather, she'd only added a white fox fur stole, covering her slender neck and bare shoulders.

Henry dared not treat this woman as he did others. He kept his distance, approaching her desk to greet: "Ms. Fisher. May I ask why you summoned me?"

Leaning languidly against the desk, the woman who refused to sit, asked in a questioning tone: "Whiskey? Red wine?"

"No, thank you."

"Whiskey, please," the lady pointed to the small side table beside her desk. Henry shrugged, walked over, poured a glass, and brought it to her.

Moony Fisher said with a tone of reproach: "What an insensitive man you are."

Henry chuckled: "Once you see the hook behind the bait, who can blame the fish if it still bites?"

Settling into her plush office chair, Moony Fisher said, slightly disgruntled: "Sometimes, biting the bait is the wisest choice for a fish. At least what's in its mouth isn't fake. Don't you agree?"

Henry had no intention of continuing this conversation with someone who sat so far from his own perspective. He said nothing, simply sat in the guest chair opposite the desk, waiting for her to speak.

Seeing yet another failure, Moony Fisher resumed her icy, detached expression, took an envelope and a Continental Hotel gold coin from her drawer, and said: "This is a job. One you cannot refuse."

As a freelance service provider, any gold-coin commission related to his duties could not be refused, unless he already had another gold-coin client's work.

It was the rule, and Henry never considered breaking it. He simply asked: "If you're personally giving me this order, the job must be serious. Can you tell me the details?"

"A member of a High Table family knows someone who has appendicitis and needs surgery. They've come to us through channels."

Henry, about to take the envelope, immediately pulled his hand back. His face darkened: "Madam, are you joking with me? This is completely unrelated."

"Besides, appendicitis is a minor surgery—there aren't just a thousand doctors in America who can do it, there are ten thousand. It's the kind even blind doctors can handle. Why come to me, a man without a medical license? Is this patient a fugitive?"

"The child has unusual allergic symptoms."

"What kind of symptoms?"

"Allergic to anesthetics."

"Anes…." Henry choked, then muttered bitterly: "What about antibiotic treatment? Hasn't anyone tried that?" He reached out and took the gold coin and envelope.

"It's reportedly quite advanced—surgery is the only solution."

So they've set their sights on my acupuncture numbing technique, huh? Henry added: "My medical methods aren't the kind ordinary people are used to. They understand that, right?"

"They know perfectly well."

"Hmm. Have they said where the surgery will be performed? And when?"

"Go as soon as you receive the letter. The location is Cedars-Sinai Medical Center."

"Oh dear, this is such a familiar place," Henry sighed, then grumbled: "Didn't a single doctor at the entire medical center come up with a solution?"

Moony Fisher tilted her head, revealing a rare, adorable expression: "I don't know."

(End of Chapter)