Nick didn't want to turn into a sentimental philosopher or poet, so he chose to keep finding things to do, such as fiddling with the Barrett M107.
The Barrett was famous, but its accuracy was actually far inferior to that of other anti-materiel sniper rifles of the same caliber, such as the TAC-50. It was widely known because the US military used it extensively and it often appeared in Hollywood films and television shows, much like the Desert Eagle.
But for Nick, this rifle was already good enough. In fact, this was his first time even trying to aim at anything through its 16x scope.
The Barrett wasn't loaded. Nick lay on the terrace, aiming this way and that, treating it as practice. If he were firing live rounds, he would definitely aim in another direction. After all, there was a heroine in the east tower opposite him whom he needed to rescue for a secondary objective.
Over the past few days, he had occasionally noticed some activity across the gorge. Like him, the other person was probably busy with maintenance and preparations for winter.
But the two sides were rather far apart, and mist drifted up from the depths of the gorge from time to time. Even through the binoculars, he could only make out a blurry figure. He could tell from her build that she was a woman, but that was all.
The weather was good that afternoon, and the sunlight had dispersed the damned mist. Nick first trained his scope on the top of the east tower and found that it had already been cleaned, even the windows polished until they gleamed.
Through the window, he could vaguely make out a mattress on the floor. It gave him pause, because that spot had been empty yesterday.
It seemed the other person had the same idea as him and planned to spend the coming winter at the top of the tower.
As he lowered the scope, Nick's gaze swept down the somewhat weathered exterior of the east tower and focused on its base.
There was a vegetable patch on the south side of the east tower too, but it looked poorly tended, with only a sparse scattering of green. It fit the stereotype of Russians; he had heard they could only grow corn and potatoes. Just kidding.
A figure in black stood on the north side of the tower's base, her back toward him, doing something he couldn't identify. Nick tried adjusting the focus, but he still couldn't see clearly.
He simply got up, went over to the Steiner Observer 20x80 observation binoculars, and adjusted their angle. As he zoomed in, a stunning glimpse of pale skin came into view.
The tower keeper opposite him was wrestling with a log, chainsaw in hand. Her movements had lifted her sweater just enough to expose a small section of her slender waist.
What a figure, Nick marveled. Completely captivated by the sight, he couldn't help letting out a soft wolf whistle.
To his surprise, the woman opposite him suddenly stopped what she was doing and turned to look toward the west tower, as though she had heard that whistle.
Nick jumped, thinking she had caught him peeping. But it was precisely because she turned that he got a clear look at her face.
Very pretty, and somewhat familiar.
But clearly, with more than three hundred meters separating them, she could neither have heard that quiet wolf whistle nor seen Nick peeping from the top of the tower.
Perhaps her sixth sense had merely picked up on something amiss. After a moment, the girl turned back and continued concentrating on her work.
Nick felt too embarrassed to keep staring at her backside. Instead, he returned to his room, sat down on an old sofa, and racked his brains. Though he had only caught a fleeting glimpse, he was certain he had seen that face in his previous life.
After going over the Hollywood blockbusters and American television shows he had watched in his mind, he finally recalled an American series about chess from his previous life-The Queen's Gambit.
The show featured a fictional, "inspirational" female lead who drank heavily and took drugs but was still a good girl, and she was none other than the short-haired girl across the gorge.
Only their hair colors were different. Although both had short hairstyles, the original show's heroine had red hair, while the girl opposite him now had black hair.
Nick couldn't remember the original actress's name. He didn't understand chess, so he had never downloaded the series to watch it.
He had merely clicked on it while looking for something to watch, drawn by the heroine's alluring figure in a promotional still, skimmed the synopsis, and remembered its interesting title.
The heroine's face in that still was distinctive. Taken individually, her features weren't actually outstanding: her eyes were too large, her brows too far apart, her cheeks so thin that her cheekbones looked overly severe, and her lips weren't the full kind common among Hollywood actresses.
Yet when those features came together on one face, those flaws vanished in a remarkably magical way. Nick was especially struck by her thin, naturally smiling lips, which had a mysterious, feline elegance.
This girl was worth saving!
But the question was, how? Nick was still completely in the dark. He didn't know what danger she would face, much less how he was supposed to cross this gorge more than three hundred meters wide.
That evening, torrential rain fell on both sides of the gorge, and the temperature suddenly dropped below ten degrees Celsius. Resin-rich firewood crackled in the fireplace, keeping the room as warm as spring.
With a sizzle, piping-hot oil was poured over steamed fish scattered with pieces of wild scallion. The enticing sizzling and aroma made his mouth water.
Nick set the plate on the table and casually pulled a copy of The Mysterious Island from his newly made bookshelf to read while he ate. Although he wasn't on a deserted island, his circumstances didn't seem much better than those of the book's protagonists.
He had no shortage of food or drink here, but the place wasn't much different from a deserted island. Though the protagonists had lacked clothing and food at first, at least they hadn't been alone.
And in the book, they had soon achieved a fairly "comfortable" life through their intelligence and hard work.
The last time Nick had read The Mysterious Island was in middle school in his previous life. Revisiting the novel's plot now, in light of his current circumstances, he found himself deeply relating to it.
A crash of thunder pulled his thoughts out of the novel's world.
The rain outside was still heavy. Through the curtain of rain, Nick was surprised to discover that a light was actually on in the tower opposite him.
In the more than two weeks since he had moved to the top of his tower, the east tower had never shown any light apart from its three searchlights aimed down into the gorge.
Remembering the mattress he had seen during the day, Nick had a thought. He opened the door, went out onto the terrace, and put his eyes to the observation binoculars.
Sure enough, the girl he had seen that day was sitting by the window, staring into space. She wore only a tank top and long socks, leaving large expanses of snow-white skin exposed.
An idea struck Nick. He went back inside to find a writing board, drew the M1911 from his waist, and fired a shot into the sky.
The gunshot did indeed alert her. When he saw the girl open her door and step onto the terrace, Nick hurriedly raised the writing board high. On it, in English and somewhat clumsy Cyrillic lettering, he had written, "What's your name?"
When Nick put his eyes to the binoculars again, he saw that the girl had already gone back inside and put on a coat. Before long, she appeared carrying a writing board of her own.
On her board was a string of English words written no more neatly than Nick's Cyrillic letters: "We're not allowed to communicate!"
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