When Damian opened his eyes, the lights simulating the starry sky on the dome had automatically dimmed, and only a few of the most distant "stars" were still twinkling, like the real sky before dawn.
His neck was a little stiff. He couldn't quite remember how he finally fell asleep last night. He only remembered that after Roy poured the fourth glass of whiskey, he started telling the story of the patrol recruits who were chased by dogs for slacking off by climbing over the wall. Mila laughed and threw sofa cushions at Roy. Barlow closed his file, found a spot on the sofa, closed his eyes, and then completely forgot everything.
Damian tilted his head to the left.
Mila pressed down on his right shoulder, most of her hair freed from the hair tie, spreading between his collarbone and neck, rising and falling gently with her breath. There was a dried drool mark at the corner of her mouth, stretching from her lips to the edge of her chin. The right strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder, the whole dress was wrinkled, and her legs stretched all the way to the other end of the sofa, her feet being held in Roy's arms.
Barlow was no longer on the sofa; only three people remained on the circular sofa.
It took Damian about half a minute to slowly move Mila's head off his shoulder and let her lean against the sofa armrest.
Mila's hand flailing limply in the air, grasping nothing, then she turned over and went back to sleep.
Damian stood up and stretched his shoulders, which had been weighed down by Mila all night.
His gaze swept across most of the underground space. An empty wine bottle stood in the center of the coffee table, next to two half-empty glasses that had been forgotten.
The pool table still had the same triangular formation that Barlow had casually arranged after his third clear yesterday. The dartboard held the three darts Roy had thrown last, none of which hit the bullseye. The piano lid was open, and Roy's jacket was draped over the piano bench.
He then went up the spiral staircase to the ground floor. The White Wax Wood was ajar, and a gap could be seen from the inside.
The entrance to the staff passage is an inconspicuous gray iron door located on the staircase transfer platform between the second and first basement levels, separated from the main space on the third basement level by an entire floor.
So last night, the fighting, bickering, clinking of bottles, and finally the even snoring on the third basement level were all completely audible from the other end of the staff corridor.
They couldn't push the door open; that was a rule Mila had set.
From 7 p. m. last night to 6 a. m. this morning, a full eleven hours.
The chef leaned against the aisle wall, his apron folded into a pillow behind his neck, his eyes closed but not actually asleep.
His assistant squatted in the corner, drawing hopscotch squares on the ground with chalk; he had already drawn the forty-seventh square.
Two waiters leaned against the armrest of the food cart, each with an earphone, sharing the same music Den Den Mushi). By the third time, they were sick of hearing it, but neither of them took it off.
The waiter in charge of drinks kept wiping the same glass repeatedly until it was so shiny it was reflecting light, but he kept wiping it.
The dishes on the food cart were changed four times. Just before dawn, the manager finally told the chef to redo them once someone came out of the kitchen.
The mini croissants on the food cart were baked just seven minutes ago; the bacon was fried until the edges were slightly browned, and the fried egg was still runny.
This isn't entirely Mila and Roy's fault.
Rosa is the de facto operator of all underground space affairs in the entire Sea Market, and the only person authorized to enter the underground area on her own initiative without Mila's permission.
When Mila wasn't around, Rosa had the final say, but last night, with both Mila and Rosa absent, the rules became unbreakable.
They dared not push the door open and go in, nor did they dare to leave without permission.
The manager leaned against the aisle wall, arms crossed, expression calm, watching the food on the food carts go from steaming to cold, and from cold to dawn.
He is forty-seven years old this year. He rose from an ordinary waiter to become the actual manager of the entire nightclub. He has dealt with pirates causing trouble, drunk nobles smashing the liquor cabinet, and even accompanied the navy and merchants to negotiate until four in the morning.
He had seen many nights more unbearable than this, but waiting for his boss to wake up was a first for him.
He didn't dare leave. Last time, a waiter left early without permission, and Mila only glanced at him as she passed by without saying a word. The next day, someone else took that job.
It can't be called unreasonable; the salary was settled on the spot, and an extra three months' compensation was paid, on the grounds that the employee was "not well-suited for the job."
The Uchiha Clan's "unsuitability" is, in some ways, more nerve-wracking than the Navy's demotion.
As the clock struck six, the chef stood up, dusted off his apron, walked over to the manager, and asked in a low voice, "Boss, another one?"
The manager glanced at the third edition of breakfast, which had gone cold, on the food cart and nodded.
"Make sure the bacon is well-done."
The chef turned and walked back. The assistant, who had finished drawing the forty-eighth hopscotch square in the corner, stood up, dusted off the chalk on his hands, and obediently followed.
The two waiters also straightened up from the armrest of the food cart; there was no resentment on their faces, at least not obvious resentment.
Miss Rosa repeated more than once at the staff meeting: the Uchiha pays three times the salary of their counterparts in Water 7, overtime pay is calculated by the hour, and the year-end bonus is at least three months' salary.
If you want to complain about anything, count the change in your bank account balance three times before you speak. From then on, very few Uchiha employees complained.
But as they rubbed their aching calves in the corridor at six in the morning, waiting for breakfast that might never be delivered, the same question inevitably arose in their minds: When does the boss finally get up?
The White Wax Wood finally opened, Barlow stepped out.
The sleeves of his gray shirt were still rolled up at his elbows, and there was a small wrinkle on the collar. His hair was slightly looser than usual, and there were very fine water droplets at his temples, indicating that he had just washed his face with cold water in the bathroom.
The metal pen clip was still neatly fastened to his chest, not crooked at all. His shirt hem was tucked back into his trousers, and his shoelaces were tied neatly, as if he hadn't been the one lying fully clothed on the sofa the night before.
Everyone in the passageway stood up straight at the same time. The chef's assistant kicked away the hopscotch squares he had drawn and wiped his trouser leg with the hand holding the chalk behind his back.
"Mr. Barlow." The manager hurried to greet him, his steps quick and his tone steady. Twenty years of experience in the service industry had taught him that he should never show any impatience in front of his boss.
"Please allow me to report that Miss Mila arranged a dinner party last night. The kitchen prepared cold dishes, main courses, and sea salt grilled fish, among other things. Miss Mila wrote an extra ingredient list for the grilled fish, which she told the chef to follow, saying it was 'Big Brother's favorite flavor.' The waiters arranged for live cocktail mixing and music. All preparations were complete by around 10 PM, but..."
He paused, then continued cautiously, "Since you haven't summoned us, and we haven't received any instructions, we're not allowed to enter the designated floor or leave our posts without permission. Therefore..."
"So you waited all night," Barlow continued.
The manager pursed his lips, his expression saying, "That's right, but I can't just say, 'Boss, you made us wait all night.'"
"We work in shifts, and each of us managed to doze off against the wall for a little while, so it's not like we didn't get any rest at all."
Barlow nodded and pulled the metal pen from his shirt pocket.
The pen body is matte silver, the clip is engraved with a tiny Gunbai pattern, and the nib is gold-plated.
Barlow's custom-made pen, the same model used by the inksmiths in Loguetown when mixing ink, was used by Barlow for many things: signing a cooperation agreement with the Capone Family, approving the underground rule amendments submitted by Mila, and writing a letter to Damian.
At that moment, he tore off a piece of sticky note, placed it on the wall, and wrote a few words on it with the tip of his pen. His handwriting was so neat that it was impossible to tell that he had just woken up due to lack of sleep. After writing, he folded it twice and handed it to the manager.