With the system's support, even something as ordinary as gaining a new skill sparked a sense of real hope.
The future was wide open.
Letting out a slow breath, Pierre exited the system—just as Stana's voice broke the silence:
"God bless you for escaping," she said warmly."Truly.If you hadn't made it out of France, I would've never gotten this perfume."
Though her words were gracious, something subtle shifted in her face.Her smile tightened. Her expression grew faintly strained.
Escaped from France?Could that even be true?
Because if someone had really managed to make it out of France right now...
There was only one kind of person who could.
A spy.
The thought hit her like a gunshot, and her heart started hammering.
"Would you like some coffee?" she blurted, rising to her feet."I have a little left."
Without waiting for a reply, she headed into the kitchen.
Once there, panic seized her.
What do I do?He's a spy — he has to be!I need to call the police!
But the telephone… the telephone was in the living room.
She hesitated by the window, thinking briefly of jumping and running.Just then, her eyes landed on her neighbor across the street—preparing dinner, window open.
Inspiration struck.
She grabbed a pen and pad, scribbled a short message, stuffed it in a small glass bottle, and tossed it across.
The bottle clinked sharply as it landed. The neighbor looked up, startled, just as Stana leaned halfway out the window, waving urgently.
...
Soon, the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.
"Thank you," Pierre said with an appreciative nod.
Stana passed him the cup. He took a sip—and flinched.
Bitter.
He opened his mouth, about to say something, but Stana jumped in quickly:
"I'm sorry—there's no sugar left."
Her smile looked apologetic, but her nerves were coiled tight.
Pierre gave a light chuckle.
"Black coffee has its own charm," he said smoothly."Besides, I haven't had any in ages.Even in France, it was nearly impossible to get during the war."
Unaware of the storm building inside her, he drank slowly, keeping conversation light.
From their chat, he learned that her husband had once worked for the North Borneo Company. When the war broke out, he joined the local forces to resist the Japanese… and then vanished.
No news. No letters. Nothing.
"I'm sure he's still alive," Pierre said gently."Sometimes, no news is better than bad news."
Stana only shook her head, quietly.
"One can hope.Anyway… what will you do now?"
Glad for the topic change, Pierre set down his cup, paused thoughtfully, then asked:
"Madame, could you tell me… where might I rent a room?"
"Rent a room?"She glanced from his face to her watch.Where are they?The police should've arrived by now.
Right on cue, a knock echoed from the front door.
Her heart leapt.
Finally!
Doing her best to stay composed, she called out:
"Who is it?"
"Madam, it's Hack the plumber.Your neighbor downstairs said there's a leak from your bathroom.I'm here to check it out."
Plumber?
Stana moved to open the door. Pierre stayed seated, completely unsuspecting.
The door swung open. Two men in work clothes stepped inside. For a moment, one of them seemed surprised to see Pierre.
Pierre, for his part, gave it no thought.
Trouble always finds widows, doesn't it?He smirked inwardly.
That was his last thought before they tackled him to the ground.
"Help!Robbery!" he shouted on instinct."Robbery!"
...
A spy?
Captain Adam studied the man now slumped, cuffed and unconscious, frowning slightly.
Turning to the officer beside him, he asked:
"Have you ever heard of the Germans sending a Frenchman as a spy into Britain?"
Adam, a seasoned counterintelligence officer, didn't take police claims at face value.The local force always claimed they'd caught a spy.Somehow, it never turned out to be true.
"Sir," the constable replied, "we can't say for sure.But the neighbor upstairs said she thought he was suspicious—said he claimed to have escaped from France."
"France…" Adam muttered."No documents?"
"None."
"And what was he doing in the lady's home?"
Adam glanced over at the young man.Handsome, well-dressed, foreign.
Didn't take much imagination.
...
The hood over his head smelled like old blood and unwashed cloth. The stench was so thick, Pierre had nearly thrown up when they first covered his face.
Now, he was just numb to it.
From the moment he'd been arrested, shoved in a truck, and dragged to this dim room with a chair bolted to the floor — one thought kept looping through his head:
Where the hell am I?
His hands were bound behind him. His back ached. And the cold creeping in made him shiver.
Am I the most cursed time traveler ever?That seemed like the only explanation.
French?No ID?Arrested by the British?
That only ever ended one way:
Hanging.
Hell, maybe he'd get his second time-travel ticket via the gallows.
Footsteps approached.
Someone yanked the hood off, and Pierre blinked, eyes squinting into the overhead light.
Two British officers sat across the table. Both wore military uniforms. One had a neatly trimmed mustache.
Military.
Pierre's stomach turned.
He'd read enough war novels and watched enough movies to know exactly what this meant.
He was being interrogated.
And wartime spies?
They didn't get lawyers. They didn't get trials.
They got ropes.
Dear God, he thought, I'm really about to time travel again.
Now what?
The officer with the mustache spoke first:
"Alright, monsieur. Anything you'd like to say?"
Pierre took a slow breath.
"I'm sorry — I don't understand what you're saying."
His palms were clammy. His back was soaked in cold sweat. But his voice stayed steady.
Mentally, he activated his Psychology skill.
Level 1 — nothing fancy. Just basic readings: tension, micro-expressions, shifts in tone.
It was enough to tell:They weren't sure.They had doubts.
The officer leaned forward.
"Come on.What orders did the Germans give you?"
Pierre looked him straight in the eye.
"Sir, I'm French.France and Britain are allies.Why would I help the Germans?"
The best defense?Flip the question.Make them think.
Even at Level 1, Psychology was doing its job — Captain Adam clearly wasn't sold.
Pierre pressed on:
"Besides, look at me.Do I look like someone who blends in here?Would the Germans really send someone like me as a spy in London?"
Adam smirked dryly.
"Not the best choice, no.But who knows these days?"
Still, his tone had changed. Less aggressive. More curious.
He leaned back.
"Alright then.Why don't you start from the beginning?Tell me how you supposedly escaped from France."