What?
Food?
If Stana's emotions had been complicated a moment ago, now she truly didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Only then did she realize: the man's gaze hadn't been fixed on her at all — He was staring straight at the loaf of bread in her arms.
For a brief instant, an irrepressible urge to laugh bubbled up inside her.
But just as quickly, a faint pang of sadness pressed it down.
Pierre, for his part, noticed none of these subtle shifts in her expression.
"Madame, would it be possible?"
As he spoke, his stomach gave an audible gurgle.
"Of course," Stana said, a soft chuckle escaping her lips at the perfectly timed growl.
"But... it hardly seems fair to trade just a piece of bread for your perfume."
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then added:
"I live just up the road, in that building.
If you don't mind, you could come with me — and besides the bread, I can also make you some soup."
Mind? How could he possibly mind?
When you're parched and starving, the promise of hot soup sounded like paradise.
What's wrong with me?
Ten minutes later, Stana was still puzzling over herself, even as she peeled potatoes in her kitchen.
Why did I invite a strange man into my home?
It was completely unlike her.
Half distracted, she kept glancing toward the living room.
It was very quiet there.
She couldn't resist pausing her work for a moment, letting her gaze fall naturally on the man sitting on her sofa.
Pierre was indeed quietly observing the room.
The house was tastefully decorated — You could tell at a glance that the woman came from money or at least... she used to.
On one side of the fireplace stood a bookshelf, crammed with volumes; on the other, a grand piano, long abandoned and now thick with dust.
Above the fireplace were a few framed photographs:
Snapshots of the woman herself, smiling beside a man in uniform — presumably her husband.
A military officer, huh?
Pierre mused.
No surprise, really — It was wartime. Almost every able-bodied man had ended up in the service.
After a brief look around, however, hunger quickly overrode his curiosity. Now his mind was filled with only one thought:
When's the food ready?
But no matter how pressing hunger was, there was another matter even more critical:
Identity.
Here he was — in wartime London — a foreigner without papers.
To the authorities, that could only mean one thing:
Spy.
Which meant getting arrested... and possibly shot.
That would be the end of his time-traveling adventure — before it had even properly begun.
He needed a plan.
How could he explain his origins? How could he get legal identity papers?
These were urgent questions — and the wrong answer could mean disaster.
Honestly, he grumbled internally, if you're going to get thrown across time, couldn't it at least be to somewhere safer — or richer?
Still chewing over the problems, time slipped by.
It wasn't until nightfall that Stana finally emerged, carrying a few simple dishes.
"Sir, dinner is ready," she announced softly.
"Thank you, Madame," Pierre replied — the gratitude plain on his face.
Seeing the joy lighting up his features, Stana smiled reflexively. But inside, she couldn't help another small pang of disappointment.
So it really was just the food after all.
He picked up the loaf of bread first. The faint aroma of wheat rose to greet him, with the rich scent of bacon tucked inside.
Biting down, Pierre almost moaned in bliss.
So this...
...this is what heaven tastes like.
Of course, anyone would say the same after a full day without food.
There was mashed potato too, and a few other humble dishes.
It wasn't a lavish meal — ingredients were scarce —
but to him, it might as well have been a feast.
As he ate, Stana finally asked:
"Sir...
You're French, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am,"
Pierre replied.
"But how did you know?"Sou
"Before the war," Stana explained, "I spent two years living close to the Mediterranean Seas.
The Spanish tend to be a bit shorter, and the locals — well, they have darker skin and rougher features so I guessed you must be French."
"Madame, you are remarkably clever — spot-on in one guess!"
Pierre complimented with a light laugh.
"But," she continued, "why would you be willing to trade such expensive perfume... for a simple meal?"
At last, she touched on the real question.
In truth, there was a trace of deeper curiosity — or perhaps hope — behind her words.
"In fact, I only just arrived in Britain,"
Pierre said smoothly, having already anticipated the conversation would eventually steer this way.
"Just arrived?
Stana asked, surprised.
"No,"
he sighed, as if weighed down by bad memories,
"I escaped from France."
That caught her off guard.
Her eyes sharpened with suspicion.
"Escaped from France? How could that be?"
Curious, she leaned closer.
"Years ago," Pierre began weaving his story,
"to escape the turmoil in France, my family fled to Vienna.
Before the war broke out, I came back to France to study.
But fate had other plans — no sooner had I arrived than the war erupted.
After France fell and surrendered, life there became unbearable for people like me."
He gave a helpless shrug.
"It took me months to find a way out — slipping into Spain, and from there, I managed to board a Spanish fishing boat bound for Britain..."
As he spun his tale, his mind wandered briefly to the perfume tucked in his pocket.
Smiling, he shifted the subject:
"God must have taken pity on me — to let me meet such a kind lady like yourself the moment I arrived.
Otherwise, I might still be starving on the streets."
He placed the perfume carefully on the table.
"This bottle was a gift from a friend back in France.
And now, Madame, I want you to have it — as thanks for your generosity."
"You really mean it?"
Stana's face lit up with delight.
"Of course.
Thank you for your hospitality."
Without hesitation, Stana scooped up the perfume bottle, cradling it like a precious treasure.
"Thank you," she murmured, voice warm and sincere.
At that moment, the translucent screen popped up again.
[Second transaction detected.]
The system — again?!
This counts as a transaction too?
And... that means more experience points?!
In high spirits, Pierre eagerly awaited the result.
Sure enough, lines of text soon scrolled across the screen:
[This transaction involved actively seeking out an opportunity.
You are now eligible to learn the skill 'Psychology.'
Would you like to learn it?]
"Learn, learn!"
Pierre didn't hesitate for a second.
Another new skill unlocked — this system was truly a marvel.
Seeing the words Psychology Learned flash across the screen, a surge of happiness rose in him.
To think even something like this could trigger a skill upgrade!
No matter what, skills were always an asset — you could never have too many.
Although he'd only just begun his strange journey across time,
Pierre couldn't help but feel a growing excitement for the future that awaited him.