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Curiosity can kill the cat—something Henry had learned well long before his transmigration. The experiences of collapsing after eating too much melon and turning into an "accident" after helping someone were unforgettable lessons burned into his memory.
Since arriving in this world, he had been locked up in an underground research institute for the first twenty years. He'd only been in Alaska for a little over two months. So Henry doubted he'd had time to offend anyone.
The only person who remained cautious around him was the town's sheriff. Even so, the man never crossed any lines or acted aggressively.
So, the odds that Old Tom's guest was targeting him were slimmer than one in ten thousand.
Under these circumstances, there was no need to indulge in paranoia—no reason to insist on investigating the guest's background or suspect them of sinister intentions. That kind of behavior reminded Henry of the stereotypical black supporting character in an '80s or '90s horror flick: the one who insists on going solo or opposing the protagonist's decisions—only to get brutally taken out by the killer. It was practically a trope written into the director's script.
If he let curiosity win, followed someone, and ended up exposed... that would be like seeing a whirlpool ahead and deciding to jump into it anyway.
So after wrapping up his conversation with Tom, Henry drove back to Old John's bar in the northern part of town.
The next couple of days passed quietly. Nothing about the two strangers he'd encountered had made it back to town.
The townsfolk still gathered at Old John's for drinks in the evening. The rest of the time, Henry remained immersed in classic movie channels.
As king crab season drew to a close, he went out on three more trips with Old George.
The last trip only lasted a few days. They had to hurry back to port with their catch before the season officially ended. Missing the deadline meant facing hefty fines, possibly even paying out of pocket. In severe cases, a captain could lose their license.
For this final trip, the crew wasn't paid a fixed wage. Instead, they received a percentage of the profit after costs were deducted.
Luckily, king crab fetched high prices, so everyone still made a decent profit—slightly lower than usual but acceptable, especially since they'd worked fewer hours. No one complained.
Late November wasn't the absolute end of crab season. It simply marked the ban on catching king crab.
Next, they could pursue deep-sea armed crab in other regions. But most vessels didn't continue fishing through winter. Parts of the Bering Sea began freezing in December, and smaller crab boats couldn't safely navigate those waters.
Captains interested in armed deep-sea crab usually waited until January to resume. That allowed for roughly two months of work, just like the king crab season.
Old George's boat, though, specialized in king crab. As long as the season went well and they avoided accidents, the income was enough to support his entire family for a year—food, drink, and leisure included.
So after their final voyage, Old George—still energized by the shorter hours—dragged everyone to a club for a celebration.
It was a banquet of sorts, marking the successful end of the crab season. They celebrated not just their bounty but also their safe return. Other ships hadn't been as fortunate.
Drunk and sentimental, Old George threw an arm around Henry's neck and grumbled: "You were smart not to stay in this business. Crab fishing's just getting harder and harder."
He took another swig and continued, reeking of alcohol: "Those old bureaucrats set tight time limits, and now they're talking about individual fishing quotas too. Overfishing, ecological collapse—they say it's all for that."
"King crabs are overflowing the seas. If the Bering didn't protect them, they'd have been wiped out a hundred years ago. What's the point in overfishing fears?"
George waved his arm dramatically, like a prophet railing against fate.
Henry suspected the rant was mostly because the rest of the crew had flocked to the stripper stage. He, meanwhile, was stuck drinking with a lonely, buzzed old man—and thus, became the receptacle for all these complaints.
Thinking back to something Tom had said earlier, Henry offered, "Maybe it's because more and more people are getting into this line of work. Everyone wants to buy a boat and catch crab. If there aren't restrictions, one day you might see the entire Bering Sea covered in boats."
George shivered at the thought. "Hell no! That could happen!"
He then added, "But do people really think crab fishing's easy? Just get a boat and go make money in the Bering Sea?"
Henry nodded. "History teaches us nothing—except that no one ever learns from history. Unless people crack their heads open, do you think they'll believe you when you say crab fishing's dangerous?"
George grumbled, "Exactly. You tell them, they ignore you. But when something goes wrong and we don't save them, the victims' families say we're heartless. You've seen it. If something happens at sea—who dares to jump in and rescue anyone?"
"You call for air rescue with the radio. But except for military helicopters, who can get near enough to help?"
Then, with a conspiratorial tone, George leaned in and whispered, "Our air rescue team's basically useless in this climate."
"No one survives long enough in those waters for rescue. This year alone, a few more ships sank. A dozen people never came back. And that's just around here. Doesn't count the rest of the coastline."
Henry chuckled and said, "That's why I stuck with you, boss. Smart move, huh?"
Flattery worked wonders on George, who burst into loud laughter, then began muttering drunken gibberish. The rambling was so disjointed that not even Henry's advanced brain could decode it.
Eventually, George's wife arrived—clearly a veteran of this routine. She grabbed her husband with seasoned precision and practically dragged him out.
It was obvious she was a woman built for life in Alaska. Her fierceness rivaled the Northeastern Daniu back home.
George still tried to resist. But after one powerful slap, he shut up and obediently followed her out, half-dragged and half-carried.
No one—neither the bouncers nor the crew—dared intervene. Everyone knew the difference between a brawl, a vendetta, and a wife coming to collect her man.
Trying to "help" now would be a waste of time—and possibly dangerous.
Even the dancers instinctively backed away from the scene, keenly aware that proximity meant risk.
With the captain gone and no one left to buy the next round, some folks finished their drinks and left.
Others, the ones trying to flirt with the performers or hoping for more action after hours, stuck around.
As for Henry, he also decided to leave.
He couldn't get drunk anyway. Alcohol had no effect on him. And when you couldn't feel a buzz, drinking was just a dull, repetitive task.
Not to mention the girls here…
Let's just say that having excellent eyesight wasn't always a blessing.
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