Chapter 72: Shelter

"Thump, thump-thump!"

Accompanied by a mournful, eerie electronic melody and the faint mist clinging to the air, the Bronze sphere rolled downward through the launch port, bouncing back and forth between the pegs.

Not long after, the first Bronze sphere dropped into the Small Prize zone.

One minute later, the second Bronze sphere dropped into the Small Prize zone.

Three minutes later, the third Bronze sphere dropped into the Small Prize zone.

"Shit." Roger felt his luck today was terrible—he hadn't won a single Big Prize.

"Maybe next time I should do a ten-pull?"

Roger thought perhaps a ten-pull might reverse fate.

But then he remembered the time required for ten intelligence tasks, shrugged, and decided it was better to just take what he had.

Thinking this, he took three items from the prize outlet.

The first two items were familiar: one was 【Delicious Ham Sausage】, the other was 【Pepper Grenade】.

"Now I can finally try and see how good this stuff really is."

The third item was a pair of very common blue shoe covers.

【Disposable Silencing Shoe Covers: Wear them, and for three hours, your footsteps will be silenced—you become a hunter in the shadows.】

"Looks decent." Roger had no immediate use for them, but who knew? Another Margaret-like incident might happen someday.

Then these shoe covers would come in handy.

After securing the three items, Roger drove back to Mrs. Fiona's house first.

Mrs. Fiona was off today and had specially bought a pound of ground beef to make several beef patties at home.

"Damn it, Walmart prices keep rising," the Black woman muttered while cooking: "Last year, three pounds of this same ground beef cost only $31.70. Now one pound costs me $23.50! What the fuck, Walmart, are you insane? I can barely afford beef anymore!"

Roger listened to her complaints and thought it was absurd.

In recent years, supermarket prices had kept climbing, especially for daily necessities and food—up 50% compared to two years ago!

Even Coke had gone up in price!

Yet Meilijian workers' wages hadn't risen with them.

This had pushed more and more people into the grip of the Execution Line—lives that were once sustainable had suddenly become unbearable.

That was why Mrs. Fiona dared buy only one pound of ground beef—buy more, and she might not make her mortgage this month.

After dinner at five p. m., Roger said: "I won't be back tonight."

"Why?" Natasha looked puzzled, her face filled with worry.

"I'm assisting a journalist with an investigation. Don't worry—it's not joining a gang shootout." Roger knew she was still anxious about his safety.

"Good." Mrs. Fiona tore open a bag of pickled pepper snacks and nodded: "Roger, never get involved with gangs—it only drags your life into misfortune."

"Understood."

"Click."

Roger closed the car door, sat in the driver's seat, and pressed the accelerator.

The engine rumbled with deep, steady growls, and the vehicle pulled farther away from Xin Yidunweier Shequ.

…

Six p. m., St. Mark's Church.

When Roger arrived at the entrance of the shelter behind the church, he met Mary from the phone call.

Mary was a middle-aged woman, broad and heavy, her flesh like car tires, far fatter than Mrs. Fiona.

"You're Roger?"

Mrs. Mary scanned the man up and down; for some reason, she found him oddly likable.

"That's right. You're from Minnesota, aren't you?"

"Yeah, you…?"

"Correct. I grew up in Minnesota, didn't move to Xiya until I was sixteen." Through years of delivering food, Roger had trained himself to identify accents and quickly mimic them.

"Oh my God, what a coincidence." Mrs. Mary covered her mouth and laughed: "I knew there was something familiar about you."

"Glad to meet you." Roger smiled warmly and extended his hand, embracing Mrs. Mary.

"Me too."

Perhaps due to their shared hometown bond, Mrs. Mary didn't probe Roger's background. She only asked a few questions about Medical Knowledge, had him demonstrate a few simple medical motions on a dummy, then approved his volunteer application.

But when Roger put on his mask and gloves and stepped into the shelter, he was startled.

Pale light filtered through dusty lampshades, illuminating the iron bed frames, exposing the rotting pressure sores and emaciated limbs of the homeless men.

The air reeked of stale bedding, disinfectant, and an inescapable stench of excrement, assaulting the senses.

The room was eerily silent—not the quiet of no one speaking, but the silence of life itself fading, nearing its end.

Only the occasional gut-wrenching coughs and heavy, labored breaths proved the men on these beds were still alive.

Even when volunteers pushed meal carts past, the rolling wheels echoed through the deathly quiet corridor, stirring not a single ripple.

Roger scanned the room—twenty beds were overflowing, many holding two people crammed together.

"No wonder it was so easy to get in—they're desperate for hands."

Roger muttered to himself, and the next second, someone waved at him.

"Come help me lift this patient."

"Got it, I'm coming."

Roger threw himself into work without pause.

This shelter housed only homeless or low-class individuals suffering from illness or severe conditions that left them unable to care for themselves.

Unable to afford treatment, yet wanting to draw near to God in their final days, they came here.

All volunteers could do was help alleviate their suffering and use food to sustain their lives as much as possible.

But frankly, it was like trying to put out a fire with a cup of water.

Roger watched a homeless man cough up a large mouthful of blood, then stare blankly at the ceiling and fall silent.

He also saw a white man eat an egg and weep with gratitude, babbling that it was the only egg he'd eaten all year, and that he'd savor it even in his dreams.

But when volunteers checked on him that night, they found him peacefully asleep with a smile on his face.

And this had only taken one night.

If this time frame stretched to a week, a month, even a year, Roger dared not imagine how many poor souls had died in the church.

"Are you new to the neighborhood?"

During his break, a middle-aged white man with a thick beard removed his mask and handed Roger a bottle of mineral water.

"I'm not from this neighborhood—I'm a temporary volunteer." Roger looked at him and noticed the man's arms were covered in scars, with thick calluses on his palms and thumb bases.

The middle-aged man swallowed a large gulp of water: "I see. Just call me Paul."

"Roger."

"How's it feeling? Kind of scary, right?" Paul smiled faintly.

At the word "scary," Roger couldn't help but recall the Mexican Gang's "gift," and forced a smile: "It's fine. I used to be homeless myself—I've seen plenty."

Paul looked at him in surprise, then muttered under his breath: "Damn society—it's driving everyone mad."

"What about you?" Roger asked. "Why are you here helping?"

Paul's mood sank: "Because I recently lost my second son."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Roger patted his shoulder.

"I can only come here when I have time—it helps me stop thinking about him so much." As he spoke, Paul's eyes were vacant and hollow.

"He'll go to heaven," Roger could only offer.

Paul nodded: "I believe God will let him into heaven—he was only eight."

Roger didn't know what to say.

Fortunately, Paul seemed used to it; soon he shook off the heavy mood, checked the time, and asked: "Are you on duty tonight?"

"That's right."

"Good luck."

"Why say that?"

Paul drained the last of the water from the bottle: "Because the shelter is more troublesome at midnight than during the day."