Chapter 4: Holy Crap, Ice!

In the dim stairwell, the flickering light of a dilapidated corridor lamp barely illuminated the surrounding walls and the outline of the hallway; from the darkness came rustling sounds every now and then, and occasionally, a few gray rats could be vaguely seen scurrying past.

Ma Ma Zhaodi followed the man down this corridor, carefully avoiding the trash at his feet and the flowing sewage, yet the pungent stench still drilled into his nose from the stairwell, nearly making him nauseous enough to vomit.

"I really can't stand it; even in a slum, I can understand it being a bit dirty or messy, but why does it have to smell this bad!"

The man replied in a muffled voice: "I'm not sure either; perhaps a corpse in one of the rooms has started to rot again."

". Damn."

Ma Ma Zhaodi was curious why the man's voice sounded somewhat different; leaning over to take a look, he realized the guy had plugged his own nose long ago.

So he also reached out and pinched his own nose, his voice becoming muffled: "Why would anyone be stupid enough to hide a corpse in their own home, and let it rot until it stinks?"

"It's not necessarily hidden in the home; they might have just died in the room. According to the landlord, there have been cases before where junkies high on drugs or gang members fleeing back home ended up rotting in their rooms."

"Someone actually dares to rent out such a house?"

"You could also choose to find a luxury hotel on the street and book a presidential suite, or spend the night under a bridge or in a small alley."

"I suddenly feel this place is quite good."

A penniless pauper naturally couldn't afford a hotel, and as for sleeping on a park bench or under a bridge—the best-case scenario is being stripped by vagrants of all your clothes, money, keys, and everything else; the worst-case scenario is having your throat slit in some uncared-for dark corner, then being stripped completely clean.

No one would even bury you.

The man stepped forward and took out his key to open the door, but Ma Ma Zhaodi suddenly reached out to stop him.

"Wait a moment; who is in your home?"

"My wife."

"Then how will you introduce me to her?"

"I can say you are a new friend I've made."

"Then what is my name?"

"."

The air in the stairwell suddenly became awkward.

Ma Ma Zhaodi couldn't quite keep his expression in check: "Really, with your brain, you have no future as a criminal, or rather, no future staying in Gotham."

A hint of redness appeared again on the man's face, but he suppressed his anger and asked: "Then what is your name?"

"Ma Ma Zhaodi."

"That's strange; why does it sound like an Asian name?"

"Hmm?" Ma Ma Zhaodi paused slightly: "Where do I look like I'm from?"

". If you hadn't said anything, I wouldn't have paid much attention." The man's gaze swept up and down Ma Ma Zhaodi: "You are clearly Asian, yet you somehow look more like a local from Gotham."

With gaunt cheeks, fierce eyes, and carrying a special cunning and chilly aura, this unique temperament made people even overlook his Asian features.

Hearing this, Ma Ma Zhaodi immediately felt a warmth in his heart, and even his livor mortis seemed to fade considerably. It turned out the system did its job after taking the money; it hadn't just hastily issued him an identity and related documents to get rid of him.

"My name is Drake Lane."

"Then I'll call you Drake. By the way, you aren't an archaeologist, are you?"

"An archaeologist? No, I'm not; I'm a software engineer. Why do you ask?"

"Thirty-five years old?"

"Thirty-three years old."

Ma Ma Zhaodi immediately understood; he casually made a gesture of invitation, signaling Drake to open the door: "But regardless, you shouldn't have fallen to this state, should you?"

Drake, who had just inserted the key into the keyhole, fell silent for a moment, then looked up at Ma Ma Zhaodi and said: "I'll tell you this, but once you enter my home, do not mention anything related to this matter."

"Alright."

Drake pulled out the key and instead led Ma Ma Zhaodi toward the stairwell.

"Let's go; we'll talk on the rooftop."

There was no light in the dark stairwell; only a sliver of moonlight filtering through the windows and the city's colorful lights barely illuminated the steps. Neither spoke; they simply walked up the stairs one after the other, the sound of their footsteps landing on the steps echoing with extreme oppression.

After climbing four flights of stairs, Drake pushed open an iron door; outside, the outlines of buildings in the distant bustling city were faintly visible, while on the side stood an enormous billboard that barely served as a light source for the rooftop.

The two stepped onto the rooftop; looking down at the surrounding buildings and streets from here, it was still a stretch of darkness, with only the sound of scattered raindrops falling into puddles.

"So, how did you end up here?"

"It was for my wife."

Drake casually pulled over a rusty iron chair from the side, wiped the water stains off it with a swipe of his hand, and sat down; the cold touch sent goosebumps rippling across his body, but at the same time, it sharpened his exhausted mind slightly.

"As I said, I was originally a programmer in Metropolis. Just when I was about to be laid off at thirty-three, before that happened, I actually hadn't decided where to go next, and I had never thought of coming to a hellhole like Gotham."

"Starting from before I was laid off, my wife had been coughing and losing hair for half a year. I urged her to go to the hospital, but she kept refusing, saying she needed to focus on work, until that day when she returned from the hospital holding a diagnosis notice."

"Before the diagnostic report came out, neither of us paid much attention, thinking it was just some minor, non-serious problem, but that diagnosis notice stated she had contracted a rare disease; such cases are extremely scarce, and both the treatment costs and the medications required are exceedingly expensive."

Speaking to this point, Drake's gaunt body seemed to become even more hunched, his head nearly buried in his chest; he used both hands to forcefully tug at his hair, even pulling out several strands, as if trying to alleviate his guilt through this pain.

His voice became somewhat hoarse, his bloodshot eyes framed by heavy dark circles, appearing slightly hysterical and crazed.

He continued: "I nearly emptied my life savings, but still couldn't save her. Her hair fell out almost completely; two months ago, she began coughing up blood constantly, could hardly sleep at night, and her internal organs began to fail. We truly had no other options. Just at that moment, an expert told us that in Gotham City there was a Dr. Victor Fries, a super-genius and a cryogenicist, who had successfully extended his own wife's life through a certain freezing technology."

Hearing this, Ma Ma Zhaodi felt his mindset was nearly about to explode; he knew this was a very sorrowful moment, yet in his heart, an instinctive desire to turn tail and run truly rose up at this instant.

Dr. Victor Fries—compared to his real name, perhaps his alias "Mr. Freeze" is better known to the public.

Holy crap, ice!

(End of Chapter)