She is a natural disaster.

Chapter 7 Life is as worthless as grass

"Did you kill them?"

The next morning, Anastasia strolled out of her riverside apartment.

According to her plan, she should continue sitting on the bench, idly waiting for her target to appear, and then begin her colorful nightlife.

However, someone was already sitting on the bench opposite the apartment building. It was the coachman who drove Mike away in the carriage last night, and also the one who performed the disguise and walked around in front of Anastasia yesterday.

"You killed them, didn't you?" the coachman asked again.

He had a fierce appearance, with messy hair and a full beard; he didn't look like a good person.

"Are you going to avenge them?" Anastasia asked as she walked toward the bench. Denying it was pointless; it was better to ascertain the driver's intentions.

The coachman wasn't tall, but he was strong and muscular. His bent arms were so muscular that his clothes could barely contain them, and his thick arms looked even thicker than Anastasia's waist.

"Would you like some bread?" The driver had a large bag of bread beside him, and his tone was sincere, as if he genuinely wanted to treat Anastasia to bread.

"Thank you, I've already had breakfast," Anastasia said. She had indeed eaten breakfast and wasn't lying.

"I didn't poison him." The driver took back the bread, stuffed it into his mouth, and said, "Poisoning is something only despicable people do. A real man fights with fists."

Anastasia sat down at the other end of the bench, so close to the coachman that she could slit his throat with a knife.

"I'm not here for revenge," the coachman continued. "I advised them that someone wanted to attack Master Montague, and that now was not the time for infighting; we should unite, but they wouldn't listen."

She tried to dissuade him, but didn't try to stop him; the rough-looking man in front of her was somewhat to Anastasia's liking.

If you can't persuade someone or stop them, then that's their fate. Let go of your desire to help others and respect their destiny.

"Did you glance at me last night before you drove away from the bar, as a warning?" Anastasia asked.

"I suppose so," the driver said. "If you understand it, that glance is a reminder; if you don't, it's nothing."

That's very true. The driver and Anastasia were complete strangers, and he had no obligation to offer her any help. The fact that he gave her a friendly look before leaving the bar was already a very kind gesture.

"Anyway, thank you for reminding me," Anastasia said.

"You're welcome," the driver said. "My name is Rupert Courtney, and I used to fight in underground boxing matches."

Having said that, Rupert stopped stuffing bread into his mouth. He turned to the side and looked solemnly at Anastasia, who was sitting at the other end of the bench.

Rupert continued, "Young Master Montague may not look like much, but he's a good man. If it weren't for his help, I'd probably still be in the underground boxing ring, or maybe I'd already be dead."

Based on the current situation, the coachman Rupert Courtney should be one of Mike Montagu's men, and the two dead men who died last night should be people sent by Bill Montagu.

Bill Montagu, as a father, seems to be somewhat domineering, and this domineering attitude may be one of the reasons for the deterioration of the father-son relationship.

Anastasia, while racking her brains, extended her right hand and said, "Anastasia Angel is currently a private investigator."

Rupert Courtney was taken aback; he hadn't expected Anastasia to shake his hand.

After all, Anastasia had just killed two of her colleagues last night.

The rough-looking Rupert hurriedly wiped his hands, carefully grasped Anastasia's fingertips, and then quickly let go.

One hand was fair and soft, while the other was rough like sandpaper; these two hands, like their owner, were very different.

"Mr. Courtney, may I ask you a question?"

Before Rupert could speak, Anastasia immediately asked, "Are you familiar with that person in the apartment building?"

This was Anastasia's discovery last night. After the murder, she returned to the Riverside apartment, intending to understand its internal structure, but unexpectedly confirmed another of her previous suspicions.

The coachman Rupert Courtney, the cloaked man who became a ghost, and the ordinary gunman are just the visible protective forces. The person truly responsible for protecting Mike is actually Mike's neighbor.

The man lived next door to Mike's apartment. Anastasia greeted him from afar, and although he responded, he did not show up. Anastasia then wisely refrained from visiting him.

On the bench in front of the apartment building, the coachman Rupert looked at Anastasia at the other end of the bench in astonishment, his small eyes filled with shock.

"No wonder Mr. Montague sent you to protect Master Montague," Rupert said thoughtfully. "Those two damned guys really messed up."

Those two damned guys refer to the cloaked man and the gunman who were already dead.

They chose to fight amongst themselves when they shouldn't have, and they ended up offending someone they couldn't afford to offend. If neither of them should die, then who should?

"I wasn't familiar with the guy in the apartment building; he never interacted with me," Rupert continued. "It wasn't until much later that I realized I had another person in the building."

Anastasia nodded; she hadn't had any hope for Rupert's answer anyway, so she wasn't disappointed.

Mike Montague's neighbor wants to remain mysterious, so let him remain mysterious. As long as he doesn't cause trouble at crucial moments, he can do whatever he wants.

For a moment, the area around the bench in front of the apartment building fell silent, and Anastasia and Rupert, this somewhat odd pair, remained silent.

The bench was surrounded by lush green trees and babbling brooks; it would have been perfect if Rupert hadn't been making such a jarring noise of chewing.

After an unknown amount of time, the sun began to set again, and Rupert Courtney left first.

After some time, as the sun set and the sky darkened, Anastasia got up and left the bench.

Almost at the same time, the doors of the Riverside Avenue apartment building opened, and Mike Montagu walked out looking radiant.

One second the young master Montagu was full of energy, the next second he changed his expression and his face turned ugly as if he had seen a ghost.

"What a coincidence, dear Mike, we meet again!"

Anastasia waved, her eyes still full of love. Yes, her eyes were full of love.

Mike looked up at the sky, spread his hands, and muttered something under his breath, probably praying that Anastasia would disappear quickly.

However, God did not respond to Mike's devout prayers. Anastasia remained standing across the street, arms crossed, looking relaxed and at ease.

The vibrant nightlife has begun.

Looking dejected, Mike wandered through the streets and alleys, entered the same restaurant as yesterday, and ordered the same food as yesterday.

Mike clearly enjoyed the food at this restaurant, but the sight of Anastasia sitting at the entrance made it difficult for him to swallow the food he was putting in his mouth.

To distract himself and avoid having his appetite affected by people he disliked, Mike picked up a newspaper he had bought on the street and used it to block his view.

Instantly, the newspaper headline caught Mike's attention.

Someone died; a gang fight broke out in the Upper City last night.

When the police arrived at the scene of the fire, the gang members fled in panic, leaving behind only two bodies.

Mike brought the newspaper closer and began to read it carefully.

If a gang fight breaks out in the old town, it's not news, it's just everyday occurrence. But in the new town, it's definitely big news, especially since someone died.

Mike carefully read the newspaper. He saw that the fire occurred not far from the Floating Life Bar, and that it happened right after he left the bar.

The timing and location of the fire were both related to Mike and the Floating Life Bar, which made him suspicious. It was too much of a coincidence, as if it had been arranged in advance.

Mike put down the newspaper that was trying to cover up the truth, looked up at Anastasia standing at the store entrance, and wondered if this had anything to do with her.

"Hello, checkout."

Anastasia, who was sitting near the entrance, called over a waiter.

Today, Anastasia did not shamelessly skip out on the bill, nor did she put her bill in Mike's name.

After all, Mike Montague didn't bother her today; on the contrary, her presence infuriated young master Montague so much that he couldn't eat.

Anastasia's offer to pay the bill put Mike at ease, but his doubts remained undiminished. The last time he heard about a gang fight in the upper city was when he was in college.

With doubts lingering in his mind, coupled with being in a room with someone he disliked, Mike hastily finished his tasteless dinner.

Next stop, Floating Life Bar.

The Floating Life Bar was still noisy tonight, and the gang fight in the neighborhood did not affect the bar's business.

However, many guests used last night's gang fight as a topic of conversation. Some speculated about which gangs dared to run rampant in the Upper East Side, while others criticized the Upper East Side police for their inaction. There were all sorts of opinions.

The most outrageous claim is that someone witnessed a gang fight firsthand. This person was surrounded by customers who kept serving him drinks, just to hear him talk about the fight.

"You wouldn't believe how fiercely those two groups fought..."

The man telling the story spoke with great enthusiasm, as if he had actually witnessed that non-existent gang war.

Anastasia, sitting at the bar, found it all laughable. The man telling the story was laughable, the listeners were laughable, and the police station in the upper town was even more laughable.

"...With a swift strike, a man fell to the ground. He was dead, killed instantly. The one who did it must have been one of the gang's top enforcers..."

The audience in the bar nodded repeatedly, agreeing, saying it was absolutely right.

According to newspaper reports and police official statements, the fire killed two people, one of whom was stabbed to death with a single blow.

"...Bang! A gunshot rang out. Someone fired, and someone else fell... a bloody mess... definitely dead..."

The audience in the bar nodded repeatedly, agreeing. They were absolutely right.

The gang shootout in the upper town resulted in two deaths: one was stabbed to death, and the other was shot with a shotgun.

"...The gunshot rang out, and the police rushed over immediately...It's a pity that those vicious gang members still got away...It's such a shame, I hope the police can bring them to justice soon."

The man telling the story was still going on and on, but instead of continuing to recount the non-existent fire, he began to criticize the Uptown Police Department.

While saying he hoped the police would bring the rioters to justice as soon as possible, he also said that the incompetent police would definitely not be able to catch the rioters. His contradictory statements caused his audience to shrink sharply.

Just then, Mike walked up to the bar and stood next to Anastasia.

"You heard it too, do you think there will be a gang war in the upper city?" Mike asked Anastasia.

"Gang fights happen every day in Gloria. This city isn't as wonderful as you think," Anastasia said, an empty wine glass lying face down in front of her, just like yesterday.

"You didn't answer my question directly," Mike said, feeling that the so-called gang fights were full of inexplicable coincidences.

Anastasia looked at Mike and said, "I think you should take a closer look around and see if anyone is missing."

Mike frowned upon hearing this.

There was no photo of the deceased in the newspaper, and the police station did not release any information about the deceased to the public.

Mike knew nothing; he just felt that there was something fishy about the fire, and that it was likely related to him or Anastasia.

"Or, you could ask Rupert Courtney; he can give you the exact answer."