Goodman

As a transmigrator, the ironclad rules of keeping secrets and planning before acting were things he had to follow. Two days later, Song Ya felt that given his current capabilities, he had done as much preparation as he could. So, taking advantage of the fact that the whole family was present during dinner, he decisively implemented his plan: "I need money." He got straight to the point.

"How much?" Aunt Susie handed Little Freddy, who was in her arms, to Connie and took out her coin purse.

"About seventy to one hundred dollars," Song Ya replied.

The sound of cutlery clinking and the chewing of food vanished instantly; everyone's gaze focused on him.

"I'll pay it back, with interest," he added.

"Damn it!"

A few seconds later, Aunt Susie reacted, furious, "Who did you get pregnant!?"

"Where is your mind at!?" Song Ya was speechless.

"Him? Impossible." Connie loved to go against her mother, but she looked at the problem from a different angle, "The chicks at school don't even look at him twice."

Uh... never mind. Song Ya didn't want to explain his "invisible man" strategy to her; it just felt a bit stinging.

"Why? Alexander looks pretty good, doesn't he?" Aunt Susie's attention was diverted again, "I met a teacher from his school on the street yesterday. She likes Alexander a lot and said his grades have been improving very quickly..."

"You aren't trying to stir up trouble, are you?!"

Tony, who had been silent, remembered something and interjected: "You've been asking about Little Lowry, Al, AK, and record companies for the past two days..." He stared into Song Ya's eyes, "I'm warning you, don't get any bad ideas!"

"Am I that kind of person?"

Song Ya didn't intend to show his cards to Tony just yet, "I'll have a good talk with you tomorrow night."

"We really should have a good talk. You've been very off lately, very off..."

Tony had shared a room with the former Alexander Song since they were kids and knew him best. Naturally, he felt the changes in Song Ya's behavior, personality, and way of thinking after the transmigration most deeply. He had been muttering about how things were "off" for days, but as for why, he couldn't explain it; he was becoming a bit obsessed.

"Child, what do you actually need the money for?" Aunt Susie asked with concern.

Song Ya stated the reason he had carefully considered, "Uh... I need some legal help. You know, lawyers are expensive..."

"Did you really get someone pregnant?"

He hadn't expected his words to cause such "ambiguity." Now even Connie was a bit unsure, "You aren't planning on a shotgun wedding, are you!? Don't you dare believe those bitches' lies. You know, they might just be looking for someone to take the fall. The kid might not even be yours, or she might not even know who the father is among several guys..."

Song Ya felt his forehead twitch with frustration.

"Oh my god, will you shut up!"

Aunt Susie stood up, "You're seventeen, aren't you ashamed to know so much? I'm M-FXXXing ashamed for you!" She turned and went upstairs, followed by the sound of a door locking; she was likely going to get the money from her hiding spot.

"She never gives me pocket money when I ask, let alone such a large amount," Tony grumbled.

"Alexander has good grades, that's why," Connie said, deliberately provoking him, "Have you ever ranked first in the whole grade? Have you ever gotten an A+?"

"Wow, is brother Alexander really that amazing?" Little Emily, the elementary schooler, still had a normal worldview.

"Hmph, don't forget, I'm the one bringing in income for the family now!" Tony pouted sourly, "Emily..." he said in a high-pitched voice, "Do you like that tutu?"

"I do." That day, Emily had brought home the tutu she wanted from the thrift store.

"Then who helped earn the money for that tutu?" Tony asked again.

Emily thought for a moment, "You." She added, "But I also danced until I was tired."

Connie burst into laughter.

"Here." As she spoke, Aunt Susie came down from upstairs and tossed the roll of money, bound by a rubber band, in front of Song Ya.

"Thank you."

Song Ya touched the roll of bills, which were a mix of small and large denominations and tightly bound: "It shouldn't take long for me to pay it back, including interest."

"You should also express your gratitude like this."

Aunt Susie turned her cheek, "You haven't kissed me in a long time."

Fine, Song Ya knew this was a normal way for Westerners to express affection, and Aunt Susie had been very good to him, "Thank you, Aunt Susie." He hugged her and pecked her on both cheeks.

The next day, Song Ya got up very early. He groomed himself carefully: his self-cut short hair was neat and clean, he wore a dark turtleneck sweater, freshly washed light-colored jeans, and sneakers, topped off with a plaid suit he'd found at a thrift store for $9.90. New cheap suits often had thick shoulder pads, but Song Ya preferred this old style.

He organized a stack of written musical scores, a notebook, and some useful clippings into a second-hand canvas briefcase. Aside from the small change needed for the bus, he stuffed all the paper bills into his socks and pressed them under his feet. There was no helping it; the chance of being robbed around here was too high, especially with how flashy he looked right now.

No one else in the house was awake yet. He took a cold pie from the cupboard and ate it as he walked out the door.

He took a bus, transferred to two subways, and then walked a distance to reach his destination: Clark Street.

Connie should have helped him ask for leave from school by now, right?

He was a person of habit who liked things to go according to plan, so he really liked how things felt right now. Ever since that "apocalypse" experience, he had the confidence of a transmigrator; all that was left was his own effort.

Of course, finding the right direction was also crucial.

He took a clipping from his bag and followed the address on it.

There were more and more pedestrians with black hair and yellow skin nearby. That's right, this was Chicago's Chinatown.

Black people in the South Side slums never had anything good to say about lawyers, and they didn't even care much for Black lawyers. Song Ya felt it would be easier to just find a Chinese lawyer for a consultation, and he could take the opportunity to walk around Chinatown and brush up on his Chinese. Of course, the main reason was that it was the cheapest, costing thirty-five dollars for an hour of consultation.

However, he hadn't expected that the area was primarily Cantonese-speaking; even English was barely useful for asking for directions. After wandering around, he finally arrived at the building matching the address on the clipping.

"Here?"

Before him stood not the cloud-piercing glass curtain walls of the financial district he had imagined, but a plain, unremarkable old-fashioned commercial building.

"Forget it, when in Rome, do as the Romans do."

He muttered to himself, took the antique elevator with a barred gate up to the fourth floor, and finally arrived at his destination: Goodman Law Firm.

He first took off his shoes, pulled the money out of his socks and stuffed it into his pockets, straightened his appearance, and pressed the doorbell.

"Who is it?" a man asked from inside.

"Alexander Song, I had an appointment over the phone yesterday," Song Ya replied.

A bleary-eyed white man opened the door. "You know my fees, right?" he asked, ushering Song Ya inside.

"This is a law firm?"

Song Ya looked in surprise at the small cubicle before him; one desk, two chairs, and a row of filing cabinets—that was it.

The white man, in his thirties and slightly balding, sat behind the desk and pointed to two certificates hanging on the wall. "That's right, I am Goodman. Please, have a seat. You mentioned on the phone yesterday that you had concerns regarding copyright, correct? Let's get started; no sense in wasting either of our time."

Song Ya felt like the man was afraid he would turn around and walk out, losing the business.

Glancing at the certificates on the wall, they seemed legitimate enough, so he asked directly, "If I may be so bold, why did you open a law firm here?"

"There's business to be done here. Chinese people don't like using their own kind when it comes to divorce and inheritance lawsuits," Goodman replied.

Hmm, that actually made some sense. "But my issue is about copyright..." Song Ya asked again.

"I understand copyright too!" Goodman said, sounding a bit impatient as he pulled out a small timer and slapped it onto the desk. "The clock is ticking."