The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 386

The cab pulled up to the entrance of the Eastside Night Market. The rain was coming down hard now, pounding violently against the umbrellas and kicking up a spray of water on the pavement.

Thankfully, the market was still open.

Rows of glowing lanterns bled warm light through the heavy downpour. Many stalls were still going strong, string lights swaying in the wind, casting a golden reflection across the puddles.

The air was thick with the scent of beef tallow and chili oil, layered with the mouth-numbing punch of peppercorns. The smell caught in her throat, making her sneeze, and then she laughed—a genuine, deep-belly laugh. It had been so long since she had laughed like that.

There was nothing a massive hot pot couldn't fix.

And if there was, then she would just eat two!

She practically marched into the liveliest hot pot joint on the strip.

It was a small spot with a red awning out front covering a few plastic tables. When she walked in, the owner was leaning over the register scrolling on his phone. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, revealing a round face flushed pink from the steam.

"Well now, looking for some hot pot this late?" He looked at the cello strapped to her back and the small suitcase in her hand, as if she were a walking anomaly.

"Is that a problem?" Sloane carefully set her cello against the wall and slid into a booth by the window.

"No problem at all, not at all."

He handed her a laminated menu, the edges yellowed and warped from years of grease splatters. Sloane grabbed it, scanning the list top to bottom, checking off items on every single page.

Tripe, duck intestines, beef aorta, shrimp paste, marbled beef, lamb slices, lotus root, potatoes, tofu skin, enoki mushrooms, Napa cabbage, and a side of hand-pulled noodles. For the broth, she wanted the extra-spicy beef tallow—none of that mild or medium nonsense, she wanted the absolute highest heat level they had.

The owner watched her check off boxes without pausing for a breath, his jaw dropping further with every tick.

"Miss, you're eating alone?"

Quinn was dead. He knew she brought it upon herself.

But he could sense an invisible, terrifyingly powerful syndicate closing in...

These people would cross any line to get their hands on the Vitas Strain. What was their next move?

Would they try to get to...

Just then, a frantic series of footsteps echoed down the hallway, fast and chaotic, piercing the dead silence of the early morning.

The door burst open.

The round-faced young intern stood in the doorway, panting wildly. Her cap was knocked askew, her face was completely drained of color, and her lips were trembling. She gripped the doorframe with one hand, while the other clenched a small white object—the unused patient wristband.