Chapter 86: A Traveler

In the morning in New York, a beam of light slipped through the curtain’s gap and woke Shiler, who was still asleep, stirred by the symbiote’s voice.

“I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I want to eat brains… eat one brain, eat two brains, eat three brains…”

Shiler sat up helplessly from bed and said, “You get hungry?”

The symbiote ignored him, muttering to itself. Shiler got up to wash his face; the symbiote asked, “Aren’t they coming anymore?”

“Who?”

“Those brains.”

So to you, superheroes are just Yigege brains?

But if you must put it that way, it’s not wrong—there aren’t many superheroes with brains, and most of them have gathered here anyway.

“I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I want to eat that blue-eyed brain first, save the brown-eyed one for tomorrow…”

Shiler realized the symbiote truly did get hungry—it kept transmitting a sensation of hunger through brainwaves, making Shiler himself feel hungry.

He went to the kitchen first, opened the fridge, took out some chocolate, and ate it, but the symbiote didn’t stop crying out for food.

What puzzled Shiler was that this time he’d spent longer in DC, yet on the night he met the Godfather, he’d been so exhausted he could barely think.

Shiler wasn’t someone who needed much sleep; normally, during work, he relied on coffee to stay alert, sleeping only four hours a day, sustaining that state for a week without feeling tired.

But the day he came to Marvel, he’d merely stayed up all night caring for Gordon—and he was utterly drained. This made Shiler wonder: where did his ability to shuttle between worlds come from? What were its limits?

After thinking for a while, Shiler realized he couldn’t find answers from existing clues, so he decided to first deal with the symbiote’s hunger.

The symbiote wanted brains. Shiler didn’t mind finding a few criminals in Hell’s Kitchen to feed it—he wasn’t Batman, and he didn’t follow any no-killing rule. After all, Hell’s Kitchen, though not as bad as Gotham, still had no shortage of vicious criminals.

“Will you bite off a person’s head in one bite?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, of course not. You know, dining has etiquette—we can’t be so bloody. That’s uncivilized. You can just crawl into their skull and eat the brain, but don’t make a mess…”

“Alright, fine…”

He definitely wanted to bite off heads!

Shiler thought: all symbiotes must have a common ancestor—they’re astonishingly similar in certain ways.

Shiler dressed and stepped out, planning to stroll through Hell’s Kitchen and see if he could find a few unlucky robbers.

Hell’s Kitchen might not be as illustrious or virtuous as Gotham, but it wasn’t lacking either.

As Shiler reached the corner convenience store, he saw a man in a black down jacket, hands in his pockets, walk in. His psychic sense faintly picked up the man’s emotions. Shiler watched him from across the street—and sure enough, the man pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the shopkeeper behind the counter.

Shiler was about to move forward when he saw the shopkeeper pull a larger gun from under the counter and point it at the robber. The unlucky robber raised his hands and slowly backed away, then bolted out of the store.

Well, his luck was bad—the first robber he encountered was a fool, a rookie. Robbing in Hell’s Kitchen with just a pistol? He’d be lucky not to be riddled with bullets.

Shiler kept walking, crossed a small bridge over a drain, and passed behind an old clothing store.

Hell’s Kitchen resembled Gotham in some ways: chaotic, evil, crawling with criminals—but it also had a magnetic vitality and life.

Not far from Shiler’s clinic stood a famous graffiti street. Every building here was painted in wild colors, their structures stacked like colorful shipping containers. The alleys were narrow and cramped, shops radiating 1930s retro charm—even the hot dog cart was a tin shed covered in exaggerated, colorful graffiti.

Honestly, such a colorful style in a slum seemed absurd—but it looked strangely harmonious. Compared to Gotham, this place was sunnier, livelier.

If Gotham was filled with souls dragged down by evil and crime, struggling to survive, Hell’s Kitchen, beyond its criminals, also housed many rebels who voluntarily fled the ordered society—living free, happy, and bringing unique energy here.

A sizzle came from the griddle as the hot dog flipped. The young man in an orange-and-red striped apron had brown skin and blue eyes. He waved his spatula, then swiftly scooped up the fries, speaking in a cheerful Mexican accent: “Want some of my special hot sauce? Guaranteed to keep you wide awake all day! Free!”

“You’re from Mexico?” Shiler asked, standing before the hot dog cart.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I said I was born in America—but it’s true. My mom smuggled me across the border when I was very young.”

The Mexican kid’s tone was always cheerful, as fiery and lively as his hot dog-making motions.

“She works in a garment factory on the east side of Manhattan. I’ve loved cooking since I was a kid—I inherited her skills. Gonzales’ hot dogs are the best in all of Hell’s Kitchen! You won’t find authentic Mexican hot dogs anywhere else!”

“But isn’t taco Mexico’s specialty?”

“Come on, you Americans can’t handle corn tortillas. I used to make tacos too, but no one bought them.”

“You make them? Give me one then. When I traveled to Mexico, I loved their tacos and avocado soup.”

Gonzales snapped his fingers and grinned warmly: “You’ve got taste! Gonzales’ tacos are the best in all of Hell’s Kitchen!”

He began preparing the ingredients. A few kids kicked a soccer ball over, sniffed the aroma, and clustered around the cart. Gonzales waved them off: “No fried tortilla chips right now. Come back later.”

The kids craned their necks, saw there was nothing they wanted, and kicked the ball away again. Gonzales flipped the tortillas as he said: “These brats come every day asking for chips. That big bucket of chips? They’d finish it in minutes. Come to think of it, I was the same as a kid—always felt hungry…”

“Are they really hungry?”

“Nope. The leader, that Black kid? His dad’s a truck driver in Hell’s Kitchen. Whatever’s left on the truck’s enough for his whole family to eat. The others’ parents all have real jobs—they’re not short on food.”

“New York’s slums are messy, but they’re nothing compared to Mexico’s. Most people here get enough to eat.”

Soon, the hot dogs, tacos, and soup were ready. Gonzales packed everything with swift, acrobatic motions, handed it to Shiler, who paid and left a generous tip. Gonzales beamed, tapping the counter with his spatula: “You’re a friend of Gonzales’! Next time, I’ll give you a discount!”

Shiler waved goodbye and kept walking along the graffiti street.

Actually, crime was scarce in Hell’s Kitchen during the day. Sunlight fell on the bizarre buildings, casting more beautiful shadows than the orderly skyscrapers of downtown New York. Tangled wires stretched overhead into the distance; narrow alleys were jammed with flashy motorcycles and “ Tongche .” In the distance, children laughed and screamed.

Shiler realized—just like Gotham—this place was chaotic, yet possessed its own unique vitality.

If Gotham had many people with no choice, Hell’s Kitchen had many who chose to abandon the ordered society.

2k novel

Likewise, the gang hierarchy here wasn’t as rigid as Gotham’s. In Gotham, if a guy had just stormed into a store to rob it, the shopkeeper would ask: Which gang? Which street? Who’s your boss? Are you starting a war? It might even spark a small gang war.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, shopkeepers didn’t care which gang you belonged to. If you dared rob, you better be ready to get shot. Whoever you were, they’d grab their guns and defend their property to the death.

In some ways, the local spirit here was even purer. Don’t let the Mexican hot dog guy’s warm service fool you—Shiler had spotted two big guns behind his cart. If any idiot gang tried to rob him, Gonzales would show them Mexican hospitality.

But equally, Gonzales happily paid protection money to the gangs, and gang members loved coming here for breakfast—he even gave them discounts.

There weren’t as many tragic stories here as in Gotham. Most people were just trying to survive on the path to freedom—living recklessly, indulgently, like the rock music always blaring in American road movies, radiating a unique sense of humor.

If Satan entered Gotham, he’d be stripped of several layers by its layered, rigid gangs, then invited by the Godfather for a “chat,” possibly knocked out by some spandex-clad weirdo, then dragged by police to a psychiatric hospital—no money, no exit.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, if Satan showed up, people would grab pots, pans, and utensils, swarm him, chop him to pieces, then fry, boil, steam, and roast him—and even hold a global cuisine showdown.

Everyone here is a chef. Their skills aren’t refined, but nearly everyone finds joy in cooking the devil.

This is Hell’s Kitchen—a place chasing ultimate freedom, chaotic, joyful, wild.

No one can be its emperor. No one can be its savior. Not even the biggest gang.

Everyone here and their lives represent a fierce rebellion against dull, ordered society. This is the largest graffiti on New York’s map—messy, yet brilliantly colorful—and no one can erase it.