Chapter 39: An Awkward Performance—and…
Ethan felt a little satisfied.
Having a sensible, obedient subordinate was every boss's dream.
If anything, he was starting to regret how readily Mary had agreed earlier—maybe he hadn't asked for enough.
He thought about it for a moment, then decided to probe a little further.
"I saved your life," Ethan said solemnly, his tone grave, as if delivering an official declaration.
"Yes," Mary answered without hesitation, reclining against the pillows. The pain in her abdomen made her breathing slightly uneven.
"So," Ethan continued, his expression unchanged, "you owe me your life."
"…Yes."
Mary's expression grew subtly complicated.
Gratitude was only natural—of course it was. But the way her savior stated it so bluntly… and repeatedly—this was already the second time—felt a little unsettling. Somehow, this man didn't quite fit the traditional image of a righteous hero.
"So," Ethan asked calmly, as if discussing a routine business matter, "how do you plan to repay me?"
Mary raised an eyebrow, thought for a moment, then replied cautiously, "...After I graduate, I'll come work at the clinic as a doctor?"
"Besides being a doctor?"
She hesitated. "Cleaning the clinic?"
Ethan stroked his chin, apparently considering it seriously. To be fair, aside from working for the clinic, there wasn't much he urgently needed her to do.
"Alright," he finally nodded. "You'll work at the clinic. We'll start with that. I'll think later if there's anything else."
Mary shrugged indifferently and lay back down to rest.
After a moment of silence, Ethan suddenly seemed to recall something.
"Actually—forget cleaning."
Mary sat up again, suspicious of his sudden generosity. "Why?"
Ethan replied earnestly, "If you're cleaning, who's treating patients? That's a waste of talent. You save lives and make money—we'll hire someone else to mop the floors."
Mary stared at him, as if only now realizing how ruthlessly efficient her boss could be.
"…Alright."
"Oh, right," Ethan added casually. "You know massage therapy, right? You'll give me a massage every day."
"Okay."
"And dancing. I want to see you dance."
"…Fine."
"And—without clothes."
Mary went silent.
She sat fully upright, narrowed her eyes, and fixed Ethan with a gaze as sharp and precise as a scalpel—dangerous, amused, and faintly threatening.
Ethan felt a chill crawl up his spine. That look was more terrifying than any whisper from the Void.
Oh no.
I asked for too much.
What the hell was I saying? I sounded like a bargain-bin villain who takes advantage and then plays innocent.
As he frantically reflected, another thought struck him.
Why had those words come out so naturally? That wasn't like him.
Shadow corruption? That didn't make sense—his Holy Light was practically overflowing.
Unless…
Was it the Holy Light itself?
Too much "righteousness" and "honesty," making him blurt out whatever crossed his mind—confident, shameless, utterly convinced of his own moral standing?
He shook his head, forcing the thought away, keeping his expression calm and composed as he stood.
"Ahem. I should go," he said, clearing his throat, attempting damage control. "Just now… must've been a draft. You probably misheard. Don't worry about it."
Mary studied his rapidly shifting expression, then glanced at him once more before lying back down.
"Get some rest," Ethan said, waving lightly. "School and clinic stuff—we'll talk next week. No rush."
Before leaving, he discreetly cast a healing spell.
A soft, life-tinged green glow slipped quietly into Mary's body, easing the last traces of pain.
Watching the glow fade, Ethan unconsciously murmured a prayer:
"…May the Holy Light guide your path."
Mary's ear twitched. She looked up. "What did you just say?"
Ethan froze, then coughed lightly. "Nothing. Probably… the wind."
She stared at him for two seconds—clearly unconvinced—but let it go.
As Ethan turned to leave, his heart skipped.
Did I just… recite a Holy Light prayer?
Okay, not shameful. Holy Light is supposed to be sincere and righteous—but why did that sound so… preachy?
He sighed internally. Yeah. I'm definitely overcharged with Holy Light.
Since the clinic was closed for the day, Ethan considered grabbing dinner.
Williamsburg Restaurant popped into his mind—then was immediately vetoed.
Let's eat something decent.
He headed to the Cheesecake Factory instead.
---
The Friday-night bustle and rich aromas washed over him as he pushed open the door. He quickly spotted Penny in uniform, clearing tables.
"Ethan!" Penny beamed, leading him to a booth. "BBQ burger—extra fries?"
"Yes. And your memory is incredible. I've only been here twice."
Sincere praise—the ultimate critical hit. Penny lit up immediately and tossed him a playful smile.
Ethan settled in. The atmosphere here was miles better than Williamsburg—if nothing else, the hygiene standards were reassuring.
The burger arrived. He took a satisfying bite, juice dripping, when Penny leaned forward eagerly, hands on the table.
"Hey, Ethan—you'll never guess what happened!"
"Judging by that smile, I'm guessing good news."
"Tonight, there's a small gig at the Sunrise Bar. A band invited me to be their lead singer."
"Wow—nice!" Ethan praised through a mouthful of food. "That's huge!"
"It's nothing major," Penny said, modest but clearly excited. "Just one night. But there'll be producers and agents there, so… who knows?"
"That's amazing, Penny. Go crush it."
"Thanks!"
She hesitated, then sighed. "I invited Leonard and Sheldon, but Leonard said they had some… uh… extremely important lecture? Something about 'cosmic background radiation' that absolutely couldn't be interrupted."
She mangled the explanation. "Anyway, they can't come. So… would you?"
She looked at him hopefully.
Ethan swallowed, rapidly assessing the risk.
Under that please-support-me gaze, he found himself utterly incapable of saying no.
"Uh… sure," he said quickly. "I'll be there. Front row. Full applause."
"That's amazing! You're the best!" Penny cheered, hurrying off to other customers.
---
Later, back at the apartment, Ethan found Leonard glued to his laptop and Sheldon in his throne, gaming intensely.
"Hey, Ethan," Leonard greeted him.
Sheldon didn't even look up—just waved vaguely.
Ethan frowned. "Wait—weren't you two supposed to have some critical lecture tonight?"
Leonard stiffened, glancing at Sheldon.
Sheldon replied flatly, "No. We simply conducted a cost-benefit analysis."
"…A cost-benefit analysis?"
"Yes," Sheldon said seriously. "The psychological endurance cost of listening to Penny sing vastly exceeds the potential social benefit of supporting a neighbor."
"In simpler terms," he concluded, "she sings terribly."
Ethan blinked. "That bad?"
"Imagine a spoon scraping a pan while a wild animal chews on your skull."
"…What?!"
Leonard sighed. "It's not that bad, but… yeah. It's rough."
Ethan finally understood.
Even Leonard—Penny's biggest admirer—had bailed.
He'd walked straight into a trap.
---
That night, resigned, Ethan arrived at the Sunrise Bar.
The band was called Static Interference.
That alone felt ominous.
When the first off-key note hit, Ethan fully grasped the honesty of the name—it didn't just interfere with sound, it assaulted the concept of music itself.
Penny burst onto the stage, radiant, energetic, hair flying.
Then she opened her mouth.
Her pitch wandered like a drunk mountain climber—up, down, sideways, unpredictably. No one could guess where the next note would land.
Ethan sat in the front row, face locked into a stiff, supportive smile.
When Penny hit a particularly ambitious high note, he felt his temples begin to throb.
This, he realized grimly,
is what true suffering sounds like.
Ethan discreetly scanned the room.
The expressions on the audience's faces shifted in stages—from initial anticipation, to confusion, to pain, and finally… numb resignation. Some people started checking their phones with suspicious frequency. Others pretended to take calls and slipped out quietly.
By the third song, the bar was already half empty.
By the time the performance neared its end, what had once been a lively venue was reduced to exactly three people:
the bartender, bound by professional duty behind the counter,
a man who was either profoundly drunk or had entirely lost his sense of hearing,
and Ethan—demonstrating a level of endurance and self-sacrifice that bordered on heroic.
When Penny finally finished her last "original" song and shouted enthusiastically, "Thank you! You guys are amazing!", Ethan applauded with something close to survivor's euphoria, delivering the loudest, longest applause of the night.
After the crowd dispersed, Penny's excitement hadn't fully faded, but a trace of disappointment lingered in her eyes.
"Hey, Ethan… thanks," she said softly. "You're the only 'friend' who stayed till the end."
She paused, her voice dropping.
"Leonard and Sheldon didn't even come…"
Ethan swallowed his irritation toward those two traitors and forced his tone into something sincerely encouraging.
"Hey, forget them. Your… stage presence tonight? Absolutely top-tier."
That earned him a small laugh. As Penny packed up her things, she hesitated, then looked up.
"Um… I've got a couple of decent bottles of tequila back at my place. Want to come over for a drink? As… thanks for being there."
"Of course," Ethan nodded. "My pleasure."
---
Back in Penny's slightly messy apartment, a few shots of tequila later, the awkwardness from the stage gradually dissolved, replaced by a warm, tipsy closeness.
Ethan had always thought Penny was underrated—sweet-looking, socially skilled, capable of being friends with someone as bizarre as Sheldon. She might never make it as an actress, but give it a few years and she'd be an excellent salesperson, probably earning more than Leonard ever would.
They sat on the couch, chatting about ordinary things: work, dreams, ridiculous neighbors and roommates.
Alcohol shortened the distance between them.
Sometimes it's not that alcohol gives courage—it numbs foresight, dulling consequences and making people reckless.
The lights were dim. The mood loosened, softened, turned ambiguous.
Whether it was the tequila or the emotional aftermath of the performance, Penny's cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes unusually bright—and unusually gentle.
It was impossible to tell who leaned in first. Maybe it was just one shared glance that quietly erased the last safe distance.
They moved closer.
Their lips brushed together.
At first it was gentle—tentative, tasting faintly of tequila's bite. But the emotions Penny had bottled up all evening—disappointment, gratitude, relief—suddenly found release.
Ethan's arm slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. One of Penny's hands rested on his chest, the other on his shoulder, her body instinctively leaning into his.
The moment escalated—hands, breath, bodies tangling—
Until—
"Ah—wait!"
Penny suddenly pressed her palm against Ethan's chest, pushing him back slightly.
Her breathing was quick, her hair mussed, her eyes filled with sudden panic and apology.
Ethan froze instantly, the heat extinguished like ice water dumped over his head. He raised both hands and leaned back, confusion and rejection written plainly on his face.
Before he could say anything, Penny blurted out, mortified.
"No! It's not you! God, it's really not!"
She covered her face with both hands and groaned, then peeked at him through her fingers, her voice muffled with embarrassment.
"It's… it's me… I—I got my period."
She dropped her hands, unable to meet his eyes.
"I'm so sorry! I completely forgot! It only just hit me—God, I'm really sorry!"
Ethan blinked.
His expression shifted—from confusion, to shock, to something dangerously close to laughter.
His tense posture relaxed completely as he let out a long, silent breath.
"Oh. That explains it."
Penny's face burned red as she grabbed a throw pillow and buried herself behind it.
"This is so embarrassing. Worse than the performance. Like—one hundred times worse."
"Well," Ethan said gently, standing and straightening his clothes,
"that is a rather unexpected… force majeure."
"I should probably head out. You—get some rest."
Penny nodded, still visibly flustered.
At the door, Ethan glanced back at her curled up on the couch like a turtle retreating into its shell. He smiled.
"It's okay, Penny. The performa
nce was… memorable. And tonight… definitely unforgettable."
He winked, closed the door, and left.
---
Penny stayed behind, listening to the door click shut.
Then she collapsed back onto the couch, clutching the pillow to her burning face and letting out a long, muffled wail.
—Great. Absolutely no way to face him again.