America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Late at night, Arthur left the editorial office and walked a short distance towards his apartment.

In the silence, the faint sound of footsteps could be heard.

It was very quiet, in the alley on the right. He walked, and the sound walked with him. He stopped, and the sound stopped with him.

It's not an illusion.

Arthur's heart skipped a beat. He gripped his briefcase tighter and continued walking, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. Just past there, around the corner, and he'd be home.

Footsteps followed in the alley.

Ahead, at the edge of darkness, a figure emerged. Tall, dressed in dark clothes, his hat pulled low. He stood in the middle of the road, motionless.

Arthur stopped. He looked back. Not far behind him, another figure emerged from another alleyway, blocking his escape route. It was a short, stocky man, carrying something in his hand.

To the left is a high wall, and to the right is a tightly closed shop door.

He was surrounded.

"Mr. Kennedy," the tall man in front spoke, "please come with us. Someone wants to see you."

"Who wants to see me?" Arthur asked. His voice was still relatively steady, but his palms were starting to sweat. The briefcase was heavy; besides the manuscript, it contained several thick books. He couldn't run fast.

"You'll find out when you get there," said the short, stocky man behind him. He stepped forward, the outline of the object in his hand visible in the dim light; it looked like a short stick.

"What if I don't want to go?" Arthur leaned against the wooden door of the hardware store.

"Then I'm sorry," said the short, stocky man. He waved his short stick.

"We need to invite you."

The taller man also moved closer. The two men, one in front of the other, were closing the distance between them.

Arthur's mind raced.

Shout? There's no one on this street right now. Run? Darkness lies ahead, the way you came is behind you, and dead ends lie on either side.

Fight? He glanced at the short stick, then at his own hands; he had never been in a fight in his life.

The short, stocky man didn't waste any more words, and swung his short stick down at the man's shoulder. The movement was swift, whistling through the air.

Arthur instinctively tried to dodge, but his body seemed to freeze. Just then, a mechanical voice suddenly rang in his mind:

[Monthly check-in system reminder: November 1st is approaching, and you haven't completed your check-in for this month. Do you want to check in now?]

This came just in time. Arthur didn't sign in this morning, and the system popped up a reminder tonight.

The stick was still falling, but Arthur's mind was racing.

"Sign!" he roared in his mind.

[Check-in successful. Drawing this month's reward for the host...]

The short stick was right in front of me.

A surge of heat rushed into my limbs and bones, and countless unfamiliar "knowledge" was instantly etched into my body, becoming instinct, including my posture, center of gravity, way of exerting force, breathing rhythm, and angle of vision.

Arthur's body suddenly started moving on its own.

As if by instinct, he slid his left foot backward, turned his body to the side, and slammed the short stick hard against the wooden board, making a dull thud.

Almost at the same moment, his right hand slashed out from below, the edge of his palm precisely striking the inside of the short, stocky man's wrist as he held the stick.

"Ouch!" the man cried out in pain, his fingers loosened, and the short stick clattered to the ground.

[Rewards drawn. Congratulations, host, you have obtained: Free Fighting Technique (Proficient Level). Related muscle memory, tactical awareness, and combat reflexes have been integrated.]

The tall man was stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting this turn of events. But he reacted quickly, letting out a low growl as he lunged forward, his fist aimed straight for Arthur's face.

This time, Arthur knew what to do.

He tilted his head to the left, his fist grazing past his ear. At the same time, he raised his right leg, his shin sweeping out like a whip, striking the outside of his opponent's left knee hard.

A soft cracking sound was followed by a muffled groan. The tall man swayed, lost his balance, and crashed heavily into the wall, sliding down to his seat.

The third attacker, the one who had been waiting in the back, finally rushed forward. He now held a switchblade; the blade snapped open, flashing cold light, and thrust it straight at Arthur's side.

Arthur didn't back down. He turned sideways to face the direction of the blade, his left hand swiftly grabbing the opponent's wrist holding the knife and twisting it outwards, while his right hand simultaneously formed a fist and struck the inside of the opponent's elbow joint.

The attacker's entire arm went numb and powerless instantly, the knife flew out of his hand and embedded itself in a wooden board a few steps away, the hilt still trembling.

Arthur released his grip and used his shoulder to shove the attacker away. The attacker staggered back, fell to the ground, clutching his arm, his face pale.

From the moment the first person made a move until all three were lying on the ground, it took less than half a minute.

Arthur stood there, breathing rapidly.

He looked at his own hands, then at the three groaning figures on the ground, his mind a complete mess.

Did he do those actions just now?

Free fighting? Proficient level?

He bent down to pick up his briefcase from the ground and dusted it off. His arm muscles were trembling slightly, whether from nervousness or from exerting too much force earlier, he couldn't tell.

"Wonderful."

A voice came from the shadows at the other end of the street.

Arthur abruptly raised his head, spread his feet apart, lowered his center of gravity, and raised his hands. His body automatically went into a state of alert.

A person slowly emerged from the shadows.

He was wearing a dark wool coat, impeccably tailored, and made of expensive-looking material.

He held a dark-colored cane in his hand, the tip of which appeared to be silver. His leather shoes were polished to a shine, and he walked with a steady gait.

He was about fifty years old, with his hair neatly combed, his face expressionless, and his eyes indistinct in the dim light.

He walked over and stopped five or six steps away from Arthur. His gaze swept over the three people lying haphazardly on the ground, and he gently shook his head.

"What a pity," he said.

It was impossible to tell from his tone whether he regretted Arthur being attacked or regretted the attackers' failure.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked. He didn't relax his posture. This person's appearance was too opportune.

The man didn't answer immediately. He tapped the ground lightly with his cane, making a soft thud. Then he looked up at Arthur, his gaze scrutinizing.

"You can call me Samuel. I read your article. It was very interesting."

"so what?"

"So, I was originally planning to help you solve this little problem."

Samuel pointed the tip of his cane at the person on the ground.

"Then, I'd like to buy you a coffee and we can chat. But it seems you don't need my help right now."

Arthur didn't reply. He stared at the other man, trying to find a flaw in his calm face.

"Who sent these people?" Arthur asked.

"Does it matter?" Samuel asked rhetorically.

"There are probably more than just one or two people in this city who want you to shut up. The city hall? Your newspaper colleagues? None of that matters. What matters is that they failed. And you're still standing."

Arthur was not at ease with this stranger and said to cover it up, "I was lucky."

"Luck?" Samuel chuckled softly.

"Maybe."

He took a card from the inside pocket of his coat, bent down, and placed the card on a discarded wooden box next to him.

"Tomorrow, after three o'clock in the afternoon." Samuel straightened up and looked at Arthur again.

"If you'd like to chat, just call this number. It'll only take a coffee and a conversation. You can choose the location, any public place is fine."

"What are you going to talk about?"

"Let's chat casually. Perhaps we can talk about the Tammony Society, or even Hearst. Of course, this is just an invitation. You can decline."

After saying this, he nodded slightly as a farewell. Then he turned around, leaned on his cane, and walked back the way he came with the same unhurried pace, eventually disappearing into the shadows at the end of the street.

Arthur stood there, watching him leave until the figure was completely out of sight. Then, he looked down at the three people on the ground.

Arthur assessed the situation and realized that it would be quite difficult for him to take three people to the police station by himself.

By this time, the short, stocky man had struggled to his feet, clutching his dislocated wrist, his face deathly pale. The tall man was still sitting against the wall, rubbing his knee. The one with the knife had also stood up, but his left hand was still clutching his right arm.

The three of them exchanged glances, then looked at Arthur.

They didn't say anything more, supporting each other, and limped off in another direction, soon disappearing into the darkness.

After a while, three screams could be faintly heard in the distance.

The streets were completely deserted.

Arthur took a deep breath, walked to the wooden crate, and picked up the card. It contained only a handwritten phone number, the ink fresh, with no other information.

After watching for a while, he put the card into his coat pocket, straightened up, and took one last look in the direction the attacker had left, then looked at the street corner where Samuel had disappeared.

Then he turned around and walked towards his residence.