In the Old Bookstore, an oil lamp glowed.
Benjamin sat in a rocking chair, a newspaper in his hands.
His posture was exactly the same as usual: leaning back slightly, legs crossed, the newspaper covering most of his face.
At the sound of the door opening, he lowered the newspaper, revealing an ordinary, unremarkable face that looked no older than thirty.
His gaze swept from Harding to Dirk, then back from Dirk to Harding, without the slightest extra expression.
"You can browse if you like," he said, his voice neither warm nor cold.
No surprise, no tension, no curiosity.
It was as if he had merely seen two ordinary customers walk in.
Yet that very attitude made Harding even more certain of his inner suspicions.
After all, they had come in uniform. The fact that he showed no significant reaction upon seeing them meant he had expected them long ago.
Harding did not browse the bookshelves.
He walked over to the rocking chair and sat on a stool opposite Benjamin.
Dirk stood by the door, his hands hanging at his sides. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes never left Benjamin's hands.
"We're not here to look at books," Harding said bluntly.
Benjamin looked at him without speaking.
"The improved Gene Serum on the black market was made by you."
Harding's tone was flat, as if he were stating a fact he had confirmed countless times.
Benjamin's expression did not change at all.
He neither denied it nor admitted it.
He merely folded the newspaper and set it on the table, then leaned back against the rocking chair, clasped his hands over his stomach, and calmly looked at Harding. "That shouldn't be against the law, should it?" he said.
Harding was somewhat surprised by his reaction and could not help