Chapter 4: Hello, Plumber

With the system's support, even something as simple as gaining a new skill was enough to fill anyone's heart with hope.

The future was full of possibilities!

Sighing in wonder, Pierre exited the system, just as the woman's voice drifted into his ears:

"God bless you for escaping," Stana said warmly.

"Thank the heavens.

If you hadn't made it out of France, I would never have gotten my hands on that perfume."

Despite her polite words, a subtle shift flickered across her face.

Her lovely features grew slightly stiff, and even her smile became forced.

He escaped from France?

Is that even possible?

Because if someone had truly managed to come from France at this point...

There was only one kind of person.

A spy.

The moment the thought flashed through her mind, Stana's heart began hammering uncontrollably.

"Would you like some coffee?"

she asked hastily, rising to her feet.

"I still have a little left."

Using the excuse, Stana slipped into the kitchen.

There, panic fully seized her.

What should I do?

He's a spy! A spy! I need to call the police!

But the telephone... the telephone's in the living room!

Pacing back and forth in agitation, she hesitated by the window, debating whether to jump and run for it.

Just then, she caught sight of her neighbor preparing dinner across the street.

The neighbor's window was open — and inspiration struck.

Grabbing a pen and a notepad from the counter, she scribbled a quick message, stuffed it into a small glass bottle, and tossed it toward the other house.

The sudden clink of the glass surprised the neighbor, who turned and saw Stana half-hanging out of the window, urgently waving her hands.

...

Before long, the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.

"Thank you,"

Pierre said sincerely.

Stana handed him a cup.

He took a sip — and immediately winced.

Bitter.

Just as he was about to complain, Stana spoke quickly:

"I'm sorry — I'm afraid there's no sugar left."

She offered a sheepish smile, though inside her heart was tied into knots.

"Black coffee has its own charm,"

Pierre replied smoothly,

"Besides, I haven't had coffee in a long time.

After the war broke out, even in France, coffee became a rare luxury."

Completely unaware of the tension radiating from Stana, he forced himself to drink the bitter brew with a look of enjoyment, even making casual conversation.

From their chat, he learned that her husband had once been a senior employee at the North Borneo Company.

When the war began, he had reportedly joined the local forces to resist the Japanese invasion — and then... nothing.

No news ever came again.

"He must still be alive,"

Pierre said gently.

"Sometimes, no news can be good news."

Stana simply shook her head.

"One can only hope.

But enough about that —what are your plans next?"

Grateful for the topic change, Pierre put down his cup, thought for a moment, and asked:

"Madame, may I ask — where could I rent a room?"

"Rent a room?"

Stana glanced at him, then at her watch.

Where are the police?

They should be here by now!

Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door.

Her heart leapt.

Finally!

Trying to suppress a smile, she called out:

"Who is it?"

"Madam, it's Hack the plumber.

The neighbor downstairs reported a leak from your bathroom.

I'm here to take a look."

Plumber?

As Stana got up to open the door, Pierre remained seated, sensing nothing amiss.

The door swung open, and two men dressed like workers stepped inside.

For a moment, Pierre thought he saw a flicker of surprise cross their faces when they spotted him.

Trouble always seems to find widows, doesn't it?

he mused idly.

But before he could react further, the two men split up, then lunged at him.

As he was tackled to the ground, Pierre instinctively shouted:

"Help!

Robbery! Robbery!"

...

A spy?

Captain Adam stared at the man now handcuffed before him, frowning slightly.

Turning to the officer beside him, he asked:

"Have you ever heard of the Germans sending a French to Britain as a spy?"

As a counterintelligence officer, Adam had long since stopped taking police arrests at face value.

The police always claimed to have "caught a spy" — yet somehow, they'd never managed to catch an actual spy.

"Sir," the policeman replied, "I can't say for sure.

But the lady next door reported him as suspicious — said he was a spy from France.

That's why I called you."

"From France?"

Adam frowned.

"Does he have any documents?"

"None whatsoever."

"And what was he doing in the lady's home?"

Adam glanced at the young man, now slumped unconscious. It didn't take a genius to guess:

young, good-looking men didn't exactly have trouble getting invitations.

...

The heavy black hood still reeked of old blood and sweat. The stench was so overpowering that it had nearly made Pierre vomit.

By now, though, he had gotten used to it.

From the moment of his arrest, to the bumpy ride in a truck, to now — he sat, hands cuffed behind his back, perched on a chair in a dimly lit room.

One thought kept running through his mind:

Where the hell am I?

Shivering slightly, Pierre couldn't help but conclude:

I must be the unluckiest time traveler in history.

French background.

No identification.

Suspected spy.

Put all that together, and there was only one outcome:

Hanging.

Maybe he'd even get a second chance at time-traveling, courtesy of the gallows.

Footsteps approached.

The hood was ripped off, and Pierre squinted against the harsh light as he tried to adjust.

In front of him was a table. Two British officers sat behind it, both in uniform — one with a neatly trimmed mustache.

Military men.

Pierre's heart sank.

Having watched enough World War II movies — and read enough novels — he understood immediately:

He was being interrogated as a spy.

And spies, in wartime...

weren't given trials.

They were simply hanged.

God help me, he thought bitterly.

Looks like I really am about to time travel again.

Now what?

The mustachioed officer spoke:

"Alright, monsieur. Anything you'd like to say?"

"I'm sorry — I don't understand what you're saying."

Despite the cold sweat trickling down his spine, Pierre forced himself to stay calm.

He quickly activated his Psychology skill.

At Level 1, it was basic — just reading facial expressions and simple psychological cues —

but it was enough to tell: they were suspicious, not certain.

The officer leaned forward:

"Come on.

What's the mission the Germans gave you?"

Facing him, Pierre replied calmly:

"Sir, I am French — France is an ally of Britain.

Why would I help the Germans?"

The best defense was always a good counter-question — to shake the other side's assumptions.

Even with just beginner-level Psychology, it was clear:

the captain didn't fully buy the spy theory either.

Captain Adam — despite his outward demeanor — was more interested in the strange young man's story of escaping from France than in hanging him.

Pierre pressed the advantage:

"Sir, moreover, I look nothing like a German. You know how easily someone like me would stand out in London. If you were the Germans, would you really send someone like me as a spy?"

Adam chuckled dryly:

"Not very likely, no.

But you never know."

He leaned back slightly and said:

"Why don't we start with your story, monsieur.

How exactly did you escape France?"