Chapter 28

"Looks like I arrived just in time." Roger slipped the Silver Pocket Watch into his pant pocket.

"Here." Anjielina picked up the pizza from the car, about to hand it to him, but hesitated suddenly: "Did you listen to my song?"

"Of course." Roger hummed the first two lines: "My old truck hums a D-sharp blue, the town fades softer in the rearview."

The girl immediately sang the next two lines: "Texas red clay clings to the wheels, like a homeland unwilling to let go. You really listened. Thank you."

"In Eastern slang, this is called 'eating someone's food shortens your tongue, taking someone's gift shortens your hand.'" Roger said, then took the entire box of pizza.

Through the packaging, he could still feel the warmth radiating from inside.

Time to eat, boys!

But the white kid beside him seemed annoyed by how happily he and Anjielina were chatting, and sneered: "You know that crazy bitch from earlier? Have you ever paid her?"

Anjielina's eyebrows tightened at his cruel words, about to speak—when Roger cut in: "Kid, you'd better learn respect before you casually judge others."

Roger stepped up to the white kid. At one meter eighty, and with a Physical Function rating above 8, he looked an entire cycle bulkier than the young man across from him.

The white kid's posture naturally shrunk under Roger's presence.

"Ain't what I said true? You two were flirting. Dare you say you don't know her?"

"Of course I know her." Roger admitted without hesitation.

Just as the white kid's face lit up with triumph, Roger continued: "Not just me—everyone on this street knows her. Even your father, mother, and grandparents probably know her."

"That's impossible!" the white kid shouted in disbelief.

"Fenni Wili—she used to be a magazine model, even starred in a few Hollywood films." Roger spread his hands: "Though her career collapsed after her addiction issues, and now she's like this—she's still right. You kids like you? She's seen hundreds, maybe thousands."

Fenni Wili was a well-known homeless person in Seattle; because of her past achievements and fame, many reporters had covered her story.

Unlike Eastern social logic, where a famous person's downfall, if not marred by major scandal, often draws public sympathy and renewed exposure—and income—

in the West, sorry, no one will donate to you, and no one will wave cash to sign you for livestreams.

Because Hollywood never lacks people, and the public never lacks news.

To turn things around, you must do it yourself.

This bloody survival rule applies even to the famous—it's the underlying logic etched into the entire nation's social fabric.

That's why Hollywood loves the rags-to-riches American Dream trope, with its best example being the reformed Xiao Luobote Tangni.

Because he hit exactly where Meilijian's public anxiety lay.

Who hasn't had bad luck, seen their career crash into the abyss? Whether from insurance, car accidents, or drug addiction—life is full of traps. One misstep, and climbing back up becomes nearly impossible.

When Anjielina heard the name, she instinctively covered her mouth: "Oh my god—it's her. I saw her news."

"Disappointed?" Roger asked.

Anjielina didn't know how to answer.

"Disappointment is normal. Don't feel ashamed." Roger comforted her, then raised the pizza: "I'm off."

"Okay, goodbye." Anjielina snapped back to herself and hurriedly added: "My album's starting recording soon. I'll come back to deliver pizza after I finish."

"Congratulations. Hope your songs hit the top of the Billboard charts."

Roger turned and walked away.

The white kid watched his back, seething: "So what if she was a star once? Now she's just a slut who sleeps with anyone."

"Wansi, you shouldn't talk about her like that."

Anjielina's bright mood soured. She retorted and returned to the car.

On the other side, Roger brought the pizza to the homeless camp with Juan.

He didn't expect to see a familiar fatty.

"Qiangsen, what are you doing here?" Roger opened the pizza box in front of the fatty. The scent instantly triggered the man's hunger—he sniffed like a hound, nose twitching nonstop.

Seeing this, Roger handed him a slice, earning constant thanks.

After taking a bite of the hot sausage pizza, he explained: "Juan told me to come—he's afraid the gangs will come after me again."

"Again? So they really came to question you?"

"Right." Qiangsen nodded: "They asked me how Gideon died. I told them what you said, and they believed me right away."

In truth, facing the gang's beatings, Qiangsen had nearly pissed himself, kneeling and begging for mercy.

Perhaps his pitiful, cowardly demeanor made the gang assume he was just plain scared—so they never doubted his words.

After all, homeless street rats die fast, and Gideon wasn't important—his only role was selling powder.

Besides, he didn't have much stock. Annoying, yes—but not worth a full-scale war.

But over the past few days, several shootings had occurred near Clay Street. Rumor said Blood Gang members ambushed a rival's drug spot and stole their goods.

As a result, homeless people living on Clay Street were all on edge.

Seeing the danger, Qiangsen quickly sent Juan a text—and was brought here by the man.

Luckily, Roger had just left, and there was now a place to stay.

Roger listened, thinking it wasn't bad—Juan could at least keep an eye on him.

"So what are you planning next?" he asked.

Juan, stroking his dog's head, said: "I got a job—moving corpses. I'm taking Qiangsen with me."

Qiangsen's face twisted in discomfort, but he dared not refuse.

"Alright, corpse hauler now? Must pay well." The job sounded dishonorable—surely the pay was decent.

"Not bad. Twenty bucks per corpse." Juan replied.

Roger whistled: "Nice. Five corpses a day nets you a hundred! But you better take precautions—never know what diseases are on those bodies."

"I thought the same," Qiangsen agreed.

Juan nodded, accepting Roger's advice.

Then he left the tent to wash clothes outside, while Qiangsen suddenly whispered: "Boss Roger… can Juan's illness be cured? He hugs this dog every night, muttering to it—I'm scared."

Roger couldn't help but laugh out loud: "You guy, what Juan has isn't a disease, it's a way of returning to sanity, just like how playing games makes you happy."

"But…how can games and talking to yourself be the same thing!" Qiangsen still didn't quite understand.

Roger was just about to briefly tell him about Juan's past, when he suddenly received new intel from the system.

【Intel: Garage Handsaw Demon】

【Late at night, someone outside a pitch-black garage somewhere in the Xin Yidunweier Shequ community heard the intermittent sound of sawing wood. What was unsettling was that, in the gaps between the rasp of the sawteeth, there were faintly interwoven cries resembling a human wail. Investigators are asked to look into it as soon as possible.】

【Reward upon investigation: Bronze Coin of the Ancient God *1, $50】