The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 389

"Lexi, you have to tell me. A twenty-one-year-old Sloane... a junior in college... if she's upset, where would she go?!"

Lexi fell silent for a moment, sifting through her memories, before she blurted out frantically, "She'd go eat! Sloane's absolute favorite thing in the world is hot pot. If she's stressed or angry, she will one hundred percent go gorge herself on hot pot!"

"Alright, I'm on it."

"Keep your phone on."

The call disconnected.

Garrison slammed his foot on the gas, the tires violently slicing through the flooded streets, leaving a furious wake behind him.

*

"Nova Assistant, find every open hot pot restaurant in the area."

He had just bought this car a few months ago. To scrape together the funds for the encapsulation phase, he had sold the Maybach he had driven for years, swapping it for this entirely unremarkable, mass-produced domestic EV. The slate-blue paint job was so stealthy no one in the hospital garage ever gave it a second glance.

At least the AI voice system was top-tier—fast and highly responsive.

The screen pulsed, and a smooth, synthetic female voice responded:

"Searching for hot pot restaurants open at this hour. Radius: ten miles. I have found twenty-three locations. Sorted by proximity. Route calculating. Would you like me to start navigation?"

"Start navigation. Take me to the closest one."

The EV was practically silent at low speeds; the only sounds were the rain violently pummeling the roof and the faint hum of the AC vents.

Garrison gripped the wheel, tearing into the storm, the taillights bleeding two blurry crimson streaks into the flooded pavement.

The first location was a 24-hour chain spot about two miles west of the hospital.

He threw the car in park right at the front door and bolted inside, trailing rainwater all over the freshly mopped tiles. A server, busy clearing a table, nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the drenched man with bloodshot eyes and hair plastered to his forehead.

He scanned every single face. Not there.

The fifth was on the fourth floor of a massive commercial complex. The escalators were shut down, so he hauled himself up the emergency stairs in pitch blackness, only to find the restaurant's security gate locked tight. The AI listed it as '24 Hours,' but a handwritten sign taped to the metal grates read: 'Closed early tonight. See you tomorrow.'

Garrison stood in front of the locked gate, the wind howling through a broken window in the stairwell, whipping rain against his back. He gasped for air, his chest burning as if someone had lit a fire in his lungs and then tried to drown it in freezing water.

He dragged himself back to the car, ripped the soaked button-down off his skin, grabbed a dry jacket from the backseat, and fired up the engine again.

"Next route."

The system chimed: "The next location is in the Eastside Night Market. There are sixteen hot pot restaurants in this zone, approximately five miles from your current location. Estimated time of arrival: twenty minutes."

"Alright, go to the night market."

He stomped on the gas.