Chapter 171 Lawrence’s Late Night

Chapter 171 Lawrence’s Late Night

Lawrence was still awake.

Two forty in the morning. His massive frame was curled up on an iron equipment bench in the corner of the training area, like a stationary mountain of steel. His right hand gripped a heavy cast-iron dumbbell tightly as he pushed through the final set of single-arm curls.

Up, pause, slow descent.

The muscle fibers trembled violently as they stretched to their limit. Each elbow bend locked at the extreme angle, each lowering accompanied by heavy muscular control.

He turned his head to look at his left arm. That arm, which had nearly been completely destroyed in the last fight, now showed only a vicious brown scar on the surface of the skin. The muscle definition had fully recovered, and from the outside, it looked no different from his powerful right arm.

But the core strength hadn't fully returned.

Grant had told him yesterday, holding the electromyography results, that to recover the explosive power he once had—the kind that could single-handedly rip off a light armored vehicle's riot door—would take at least six more weeks of genetic restructuring.

Compared to two weeks ago when the arm was useless and couldn't even hold a water glass, his left hand could now easily grip heavy dumbbells. But compared to the version of himself who had dominated battlefields, there was still an extremely dangerous gap.

Exhale... inhale...

Lawrence powered through the last set and dropped the dumbbell heavily onto the floor. Cast iron struck rubber with a harsh, dull thud.

He yanked the tactical towel from around his neck and scrubbed his sweat-drenched face hard. The towel was already soaked cold with sweat. When it pressed against the back of his neck, it sent a sharp chill through him.

From the end of the dim corridor, the sound of extremely light footsteps suddenly emerged.

The rhythm was steady, unhurried, each step like pressing piano keys.

In this underground base full of killing machines, this kind of footstep—free of any guard or killing intent—was unique.

Lawrence didn't turn around. He just draped the towel over his shoulder.

Leah emerged from around the dark corner of the corridor. She carried a frosted metal thermos in her hand. Tonight she wasn't wearing one of her usual gentle, light-colored dresses, but had changed into an oversized dark gray athletic jacket that wrapped her slender frame in warmth.

She walked straight up to Lawrence and stopped, tilting her head up slightly as she held out the thermos.

The cold metal surface was densely covered with tiny droplets, cold and heavy in the palm.

"Ginger tea that May made herself," Leah said, her voice soft. "She said you'd definitely be secretly training extra tonight, and if you don't drink something warm after, the chill won't leave your bones. She knew you'd push it."

Lawrence grinned widely and reached out to take the thermos, which looked far too small in his hands.

Click.

The moment he unscrewed the lid, a rush of scalding steam burst out! The rich sweetness of brown sugar mixed with the sharp spice of old ginger, quickly condensing into a winding column of white mist in the cold air.

He tilted his head back and took a large gulp.

The warm liquid, tinged with a slight burning sensation, slid down his throat and crashed into his stomach, instantly spreading into a wave of searing warmth. In this dead, cold steel tomb filled with the smell of overloaded circuits, that warmth felt especially real.

"How'd you get in here?" Lawrence held the thermos, staring down at the steam rising from its opening.

"I went to Akira and had him open the access for me," Leah said, settling down beside him on the iron equipment bench, her legs dangling and swinging lightly. "He said you definitely won't go back to your room to sleep tonight until you've pushed yourself to complete exhaustion."

Lawrence didn't argue.

He took another large sip of ginger tea, then screwed the lid back on tightly. He wrapped the thermos completely in his massive palm, letting the heat seep gradually into his calloused skin.

"May was talking about you just now," Leah said, turning her head to look at him. The cold overhead light carved her delicate profile into half brightness, half shadow. "She said no matter what, you have to go back to Los Angeles with Jack this weekend to eat at the estate. She said... she misses you."

Lawrence's pupils moved slightly.

He kept his head lowered, his gaze fixed on the faint moist steam lingering at the rim, staring for a long, long time.

"I heard," he said, voice low and hoarse. "I'll go back this weekend."

The two sat side by side on the cold equipment bench, falling into a long silence.

In the distance, the underground ventilation ducts emitted a dull, low-frequency hum. Extreme cold and extreme heat wove together silently in the empty training hall. Leah's small hand rested on the edge of the iron bench, only two or three centimeters from Lawrence's massive, rough palm.

"Lawrence..." Leah broke the silence, her voice as light as a breeze crossing a desert at dusk.

"Your hand... is it really okay?"

Lawrence froze. He slowly set down the thermos and raised the left hand that had once had shattered bones in front of Leah.

He spread his five fingers wide, then clenched them tightly into a fist.

Muscles tightened, joints locked together. The entire process was smooth, cold, and powerful, without the slightest hesitation or any uncontrollable tremor.

Lawrence stared at his left hand. The knuckles were thick as iron pile drivers, the finger pads covered with hard calluses from gripping guns and heavy objects. Deep in the palm, a pale, sunken scar sat cruelly—the permanent mark left that rainy night in New York when he'd blocked a high-frequency vibration blade for Jack.

"It's fine," Lawrence said, his voice low and certain. "The bone healed. It won't break again."

Leah looked at that scar, a faint moisture rising in her eyes.

She said nothing more, only slowly extended both hands and gently placed her slender, cool fingers on Lawrence's impossibly rough giant palm.

Her fingers threaded through his thick finger gaps one by one. Her ring finger and index finger wound tightly between his knuckles, her warm palm pressing against his callused palm lines.

His hand was too large—large enough to completely cover hers. His hand was too warm, his palm carrying the violent arterial pulse that came after intense exercise.

The rough calluses brushed against Leah's delicate skin, creating an extremely faint friction.

Leah held him quietly like this, leaning her whole body slightly toward him, not loosening her grip at all.

"Have you ever thought about..." Leah tilted her head slightly, her voice so soft it seemed afraid to wake the ghosts sleeping in this training room, "if... if after that final battle is over, what would you most want to do?"

Lawrence fell completely silent.

He lowered his head, staring blankly at the sight of Leah's pale, soft little hand wrapped in his dark purple calluses.

Her nails were trimmed extremely clean and neat. Her pink knuckles bore no trace of gunfire or smoke.

Lawrence's fingers pulled back slightly with extreme care. He didn't dare use too much force, afraid this hand used to crushing enemy throats might hurt her. He only gripped her fingers in his palm with an incredibly gentle motion.

"Open a car repair shop," Lawrence answered honestly.

"Car repair?" Leah paused.

"Yeah, car repair." A rare warmth and nostalgia appeared in Lawrence's eyes. "I used to work as a mechanic for an old comrade in the Far Eastern ice fields of Russia. Forget ordinary trucks—I've disassembled and reassembled old tank diesel engines dozens of times. Fixing regular passenger cars wouldn't be hard for me."

Leah blinked, then couldn't help but burst out laughing with a "pfft."

Her clear, bell-like laughter echoed through the empty, silent underground training area, making the surrounding cold steel equipment seem less grim.

"A repair shop? Lawrence, with your build you're going to open a repair shop?"

"What's wrong with car repair?" Lawrence looked completely serious, his thick brows raised high. "Every city needs repair shops. And... if it works out, I can give May's old Ford lifetime free maintenance. I absolutely won't charge her a cent."

The smile on Leah's face slowly faded somewhat, but the corners of her eyes and mouth still curved upward, carrying an indelible sweetness.

She let down all her defenses and slowly leaned toward Lawrence's shoulder. Her forehead pressed against his wall-like upper arm. Through the heavy tactical training uniform fabric, she gradually transferred the warmth from her small frame to him.

"I don't care," Leah said, leaning against his arm, looking at their intertwined shadows on the ground. "I'm going to be the cashier at your repair shop."

"I'll sit at the front desk every day, specifically collecting the money you earn, then use that money to buy the sweetest red apples at the supermarket and bring them to May."

Lawrence lowered his head slightly, gazing at the top of the head nestled in the crook of his arm.

The dim yellow overhead light poured down from above, coating the edges of her fine, soft hair with a dreamlike warm golden halo.

Lawrence said nothing more.

He only tightened his grip a little more, using his massive, rough frame to completely shield this fragile girl from the shadows of desert nights and war smoke.

After a long while, from deep in the distant corridor came the heavy sound of night patrol boots hitting the ground. Tap, tap, tap—approaching from far away, then gradually fading beyond the blast door.

Lawrence raised his head and swallowed the last sip of lukewarm ginger tea from the thermos. He stood up and carefully tucked the empty metal cup into his tactical jacket pocket.

"Let's go," he said, looking down at Leah. "I'll walk you back to your room."

Leah stood up and obediently followed behind his towering frame.

The two walked side by side through the empty, silent metal corridor. The lights stretched their shadows infinitely long.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway—one heavy, one light, alternating in rhythm, extending step by step toward the unknown darkness ahead.