The aroma of the liquor was indeed overpowering.
It was like an invisible hand, rudely pushing away the high-end perfume scent in the air that made Jessica so uncomfortable.
It replaced it with a mellow aroma that was more down-to-earth and allowed her taut nerves to relax slightly.
Jessica Jones's gaze slowly moved from the bottle of whiskey to William's face, which wore a 'professional' smile.
She didn't speak.
She walked straight to the sofa and plopped down.
The sofa let out a satisfied groan, and its soft texture indeed made her want to just fall asleep right there.
William poured her half a glass, then poured one for himself.
"Try this, 1982 Macallan, a client insisted on giving it to me," William said, making it up on the spot, his face betraying no emotion.
He attributed this to the psychological resilience he had developed when dealing with difficult clients before his transmigration.
Jessica picked up the glass but didn't drink immediately.
She ran her fingertips along the rim of the glass, feeling its cool, smooth touch.
Her eyes scanned the living room, finally settling on William.
"Tell me, William," her voice was calm, yet carried an unchallengeable interrogative tone.
"What exactly are you up to?"
"What am I up to? Am I not warmly entertaining my valued client?" William raised his glass, gesturing to her.
Jessica scoffed, then tilted her head back and downed the amber liquid in the glass.
A spicy, warm current burned down her throat and into her stomach, dispelling some of the night's chill.
"Don't give me that, Rodriguez," she said, placing the empty glass heavily on the coffee table with a dull thud.
"This place, this liquor, and your... 'dressed to the nines' outfit."
She pointed to the expensive-looking casual suit William was wearing.
"An insurance salesman, even if he sold policies to Captain America, couldn't move from a rundown apartment in Hell's Kitchen into a place like this in such a short time."
"Unless..." she leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes fixed on William.
"You're not selling insurance, you're selling something else."
William swirled the liquor in his glass.
The ice cubes clinked against the glass.
He met Jessica's scrutinizing gaze without flinching.
"You're half right," he said slowly, bringing the glass to his lips, the amber liquid moistening them.
"I am indeed selling insurance, but my clients might be even more... special than Captain America."
Jessica didn't respond, only urged him to continue with her eyes.
"Just recently, I signed a policy."
William put down his glass and also leaned forward slightly.
He maintained a close, almost oppressive distance from Jessica.
"The client is Tony Stark."
That playboy, billionaire, genius inventor—Tony Stark.
"Stark?" Jessica's tone was filled with disbelief.
"He's my client now, and my highest-level VIP client," William spread his hands, his smile appearing both sincere and annoying.
"This apartment is part of his upfront 'exclusive advisor service fee.' You know, important people always like to use these methods to show how unique they are."
He deliberately emphasized the words 'exclusive advisor.'
The air seemed to solidify for a few seconds.
Jessica stared intently at William's face, trying to find any trace of a lie.
But there was nothing.
Only candor, and a relaxed 'believe it or not' attitude.
"Ha."
Finally, Jessica let out a short, complex laugh.
She leaned back into the sofa.
The tension in her body seemed to ease.
She picked up the empty glass again and raised her chin towards William.
"Fill it up, Advisor Rodrigues," she said.
"I need to charge a drinking fee for listening to your bragging."
William smiled.
The rich whiskey became the only language between them.
Glasses were refilled again and again, and emptied again and again.
They no longer talked about work, no longer mentioned Stark, and no longer brought up the troubles lurking in the city's Shadow.
They talked about which pizza place in Hell's Kitchen had the most cheese.
They talked about which street's stray dogs were the most human-like.
They talked about those seemingly insignificant fragments that made up their lives.
The alcohol was like a key, prying open Jessica's perpetually locked exterior, revealing the soul within that also felt weary and lonely.
Her words were no longer so sharp.
Her eyes also became a little hazy.
And William, under the dual stimulation of alcohol and success, also shed most of his usual pretense.
He was no longer the cautious insurance salesman.
He was more like a fellow outsider, also thrown into this crazy World, seeking a moment of solace.
The last thing he remembered was the crisp clinking of glasses.
A fleeting, complex emotion in Jessica's deep eyes, and the night sky outside the window, dyed purple by the neon lights.
Then, a fragmented darkness... The next morning.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting dappled light and Shadow on the expensive carpet.
Headache.
The kind of hangover where it felt like someone was repeatedly hitting the inside of his skull with a blunt object.
William groaned as he sat up in bed, rubbing his throbbing temples.
Familiar ceiling.
An overly soft mattress.
And the lingering scent in the air that wasn't his own: faint perfume and leather.
Memories of last night flashed back like broken film reels, scattered and disjointed.
The spiciness of the whiskey, Jessica's laughter, and...
William's movements froze.
He slowly turned his head to look at the other side of the bed.
Empty.
The sheets still bore the creases where another person had slept.
There was also a faint indentation on the pillow, but the person was gone.
She left without a sound, very much in her style.
William self-deprecatingly tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He threw back the covers, ready to get out of bed, but his attention was caught by something on the nightstand.
There, neatly stacked, was a small wad of U.S. dollars.
A few twenties, a ten, and several one-dollar bills, crumpled and pressed down by a quarter.
A mix of bills and change, totaling one hundred thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents.
William's expression froze.
He reached out, pinching the wad of money with two fingers, and held it up to his eyes.
In the sunlight, Franklin's portrait seemed to silently mock him.
A feeling of absolute absurdity welled up in his heart.
He, a transmigrationer with a super system, whose client list included Tony Stark and the future Spider-Man.
After sleeping in a luxurious apartment worth millions of U.S. dollars, found over a hundred dollars left on his nightstand.
What was this supposed to be?
Money for drinks?
Or... an overnight fee?
William looked down at himself, then at the money in his hand, and an outrageous thought formed in his mind.
"Was I... treated like a gigolo?"