Claire, dressed in his training gear, was wandering alone through the hospital rehabilitation center's hallway late at night, humming a strange little tune.
"I'm lying in an empty room, not a penny left in my pocket."
Before he could finish singing, he suddenly scowled and pointed at the empty corridor, muttering under his breath, "Ugh, damn capitalism! Taking 40% of my taxes? Might as well work for free at this point!"
"And those so-called tax evasion lawyers and accountants—charging me 10% just to talk about saving money? Screw that, I'm done!"
As he walked, the bright white fluorescent lights somehow faded into dim yellow streetlamps. Claire looked up and realized he was now facing London's famous Hyde Park. "Hmm, maybe I should take a little stroll? Been stuck in this hospital for almost a month..."
With no one around to supervise him, Claire was like a wild horse freed from its reins. He carried a soccer ball under his left arm and hummed an odd melody under his breath.
Hyde Park was London's most famous park—and the largest royal park in the UK. Located in Westminster, it spanned over 360 acres. The eastern gate was only 30 meters from the hospital where Claire was staying.
Since the park belonged to Westminster Abbey, it was open 24/7.
During the day, it was a playground for the wealthy—parties, picnics, leisurely walks, and all sorts of bourgeois activities. It was also a hotspot for political rallies and public events. The eastern entrance even had a famous spot called "Speakers' Corner."
But at night? "Speakers' Corner" became a haven for the homeless. Drunkenness, drugs, fights, and muggings were common. In fact, Hyde Park at night was one of London's most crime-ridden areas.
Of course, Claire knew none of this. Under the dim streetlight, he studied the sheet music he'd received for his match against Arsenal. For some reason, the songs the system had been giving him lately were weirdly uplifting, and he found himself getting more and more addicted to them.
Looking for a place to sit and read, Claire noticed that every bench was occupied—either by a single sleeper or a pair of drunkards muttering to themselves.
Ahead, the path was barely lit, plunging into darkness. To keep things simple, Claire casually tossed his soccer ball into the air and caught it with a smooth stop, then plopped down on it like a makeshift stool.
Leaning against the lamppost, Claire looked like a total weirdo—mumbling to himself as he examined the sheet music. "Huh, this song came with three versions? Nice! Let's see… Guitar version, female version, and a duet? Damn, that's awesome!"
Time passed quietly.
Occasionally, loud laughter or angry shouts echoed from the dark paths deeper in the park, but Claire paid no mind. He even tossed a few coins to a couple of passing homeless men, who quickly disappeared after receiving their "donation."
"Ah, I feel like I'm about to hit it big again!"
"Oh yeah, money, money, money—I'm gonna be rich!"
Claire swaggered toward the park's exit, but just then—a woman's bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.
"HELP!"
"Ugh, see no evil, hear no evil..." Claire knew his limits. If he couldn't even outmuscle Ronaldo on the field, what was he supposed to do against actual criminals? No way was he playing the hero.
He forced himself to keep walking, but the sounds behind him grew louder—high heels clacking frantically, followed by drunken laughter and crude catcalls.
"Get away from me! Let go!"
"Wait… she's speaking Chinese?!"
That changed everything. Claire's tortured conscience finally found an excuse. He had to step in.
Spinning around, he saw two ragged drunks groping at a long-haired woman. She had a killer figure—long legs, wavy hair, the kind of look that would make any guy's head turn. But Claire wasn't here to admire her.
"Hey!"
"Let her go!"
Before he could even strike a cool pose, a glass bottle came flying at his head! Claire barely dodged with a quick backstep, but the leftover liquor inside splashed all over his training clothes.
The woman, seeing a potential savior, fought back with renewed desperation. She wrenched herself free from one drunk's grip, her short skirt riding up in the struggle—not that she cared. She flailed wildly, trying to escape.
The second drunk, instead of chasing her, turned his attention to Claire. Seeing the soccer player fiddling with his ball, the man smirked, as if amused by the sight.
"Oh, you think I'm here to show off?"
Claire planted his foot on the ball, then—WHAM!
A powerful kick sent the ball rocketing straight into the drunk's face. The impact was so loud it sounded like a coconut being cracked open.
"Did I just give someone a concussion?" Claire wondered briefly.
But he didn't stop there. The other drunk was still on top of the woman.
Claire sprinted the short distance in seconds, grabbed the bald drunk by the head, and yanked him off. When the man tried to get up, Claire delivered a brutal stomp—
CRACK.
The drunk howled in pain, clutching his ribs.
Claire flicked his hair back, ready to strike a heroic pose and maybe charm the damsel in distress—
But then the woman, still on the ground, gasped: "There's more of them!"
Sure enough, angry shouts came from deeper in the park. Shadows moved. More men. And they were carrying something sharp.
"Run!" Claire ordered.
"I—I twisted my ankle!"
Without hesitation, Claire scooped her up and bolted for the exit.
When he reached the hospital gates, the bright security cameras and the two smirking guards gave him an overwhelming sense of safety.
Panting, Claire realized he was still holding the woman. His left hand absentmindedly squeezed—
"Mmph!" She squirmed, trying to break free.
Now that he got a better look, something felt off about her.
She never lifted her head, keeping her face hidden the entire time. Her fingers rapidly tapped on her phone—click, click, click—like she was sending urgent messages.
Claire's mind raced with movie scenes: The Godfather, Once Upon a Time in America, A Better Tomorrow…
"Oh crap, did I just save a mobster's girlfriend?"
He took a cautious step back—then noticed blood trickling down her neck.
Frantically patting himself down, Claire found nothing but his sheet music. He reached out to help, but she snatched the paper from him and pressed it to her wound.
"I know your line of work is risky," Claire said, trying to lighten the mood, "but you're kinda bad at it. You should watch The Godfather—learn from the pros."
Silence.
"Lost a lot of money, huh? Next time, don't drink with strangers. Never know what could happen."
Still no response.
"I'm a VIP at this hospital. Want me to get you checked out?"
Nothing.
"Fine. Suit yourself."
Claire shrugged and strolled off, whistling a tune. As he passed the guards, he casually said, "Hey, that woman's a friend. If anyone gives her trouble, help her out, yeah?"
The guards exchanged glances but said nothing.
By the time Claire disappeared inside, the woman had already climbed into a luxury van and sped off.
Had he seen it, Claire would've spun another wild theory—maybe even nicknaming her "The Gangster's Woman."