Chapter 4: Damn, Ice

In the dim corridor, the old, swaying hallway lights flickered uncertainly; the faint glow could barely illuminate the surrounding walls and the outline of the passage. From the darkness came occasional rustling sounds, and sometimes a few gray rats could be vaguely seen darting by.

Ma Zhaodi followed the man down this corridor, carefully stepping over the trash and flowing sewage on the ground, yet the pungent stench still wafted up from the hallway into his nose, nearly making him gag and vomit.

"I really can't stand it. Even in the slums, I can understand it being a bit dirty and messy, but why does it smell so terrible?"

The man replied in a muffled voice, "I'm not sure either. It might be that a corpse in one of the rooms has started rotting again."

"Damn."

Ma Zhaodi wondered why the man's voice had become somewhat different. He stretched his neck to look and saw that the guy had long since plugged his own nose.

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

"It's not necessarily hidden in the house. Maybe they just died in the room. The landlord said there have been cases before where drug addicts high on their own supply or gangsters fleeing home ended up rotting in their rooms."

"People still dare to rent such a place?"

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

"Suddenly, I think this place is pretty good."

A broke pauper certainly couldn't afford a hotel. As for sleeping on a park bench or under a bridge—the best case scenario was being stripped of all clothing, money, keys, and everything else by a homeless person; the worst case was having one's throat cut in some dark, uncared-for corner, then being stripped clean.

No one would even bury them.

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

"Wait a moment. Who is at your home?"

"My wife."

"Then how will you introduce me to her?"

"I can say you are a new friend I just met."

"Then what should I be called?"

"..."

The air in the corridor suddenly became awkward.

Ma Zhaodi couldn't quite hold back his expression: "Seriously, with your brain, being a criminal has no future. Or rather, staying in Gotham has no future."

The man's face turned slightly red again, but he still suppressed his anger and asked, "Then what is your name?"

"Ma Zhaodi."

"That's strange. Why does it sound like an Asian name?"

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

"..." "If you hadn't said it, I wouldn't have noticed." The man's gaze scanned Ma Zhaodi up and down: "You are clearly Asian, yet you look more like a local from Gotham."

His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes fierce, carrying a peculiar cunning and cold aura. This unique temperament could make people overlook his Asian features.

Hearing this, Ma Zhaodi immediately felt warmth in his heart, and even his corpse spots seemed to fade a bit. It turned out the system, having taken the money, actually did its job, rather than just hastily giving him an identity and related documents and sending him off.

"My name is Drake Lane."

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

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

"Thirty-five?"

"Thirty-three..."

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."

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

"Fine."

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

"Come, let's go to the rooftop to talk."

The dark corridor had no lights; relying only on the faint moonlight and city glow filtering through the windows, they could barely make out the steps. Neither spoke; they simply walked up the stairs one after another, the clomping of their feet on the steps sounding extremely oppressive.

After climbing four flights, Drake pushed open an iron door. Outside, the outlines of the bustling city's buildings were faintly visible in the distance, while a huge billboard stood to the side, barely serving as a light source for the rooftop.

The two stepped onto the rooftop. Looking down from here at the surrounding buildings and streets, it was still pitch black, 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 nearby, wiped the water off it with his hand, and sat down. The cold touch made goosebumps rise all over his body, but it also cleared his exhausted mind a bit.

"As I said, I was originally a programmer in Metropolis. Just before I was laid off at thirty-three, I hadn't really figured out where I was going next, and I never thought of coming to a place like Gotham."

"Starting before I was laid off, my wife's coughing and hair loss had been going on for six months. I urged her to go to the hospital, but she refused, saying she needed to focus on her work. Until that day, she returned from the hospital holding a diagnosis notice."

"Before the diagnosis came out, neither of us paid much attention, thinking it was just some minor, unimportant issues. But that diagnosis notice said she had contracted a rare disease. Such cases are extremely scarce, and the treatment costs and medications required are very expensive."

Speaking of this, Drake's gaunt figure seemed to hunch even more, his head almost buried in his chest. He grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling out several strands, as if trying to use that pain to alleviate his guilt.

His voice became somewhat hoarse. His bloodshot eyes, surrounded by heavy dark circles, looked slightly hysterical and mad.

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

Hearing this, Ma Zhaodi's mindset was on the verge of exploding. He knew this was a very sad moment, but his heart instinctively rose with an urge to turn and run right then and there.

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

Damn, ice!

(End of Chapter)