Chapter 220: The Everyday Injured: Part One

No one knew when a black clinic had opened in an alley in South Los Angeles, but everyone knew that if you were injured, you could go there for treatment—far cheaper than legitimate hospitals, and no annoying questions asked.

Derek, a Mexican kid with a gunshot wound that looked serious, had no choice but to take his companion to this mysterious black clinic.

He made this choice because Derek knew he was wanted by the police; if he showed up at any legitimate place requiring ID verification, he'd draw cops to his door within minutes.

Logically, it was him who was wanted, not his wounded companion—he could just dump the guy at any hospital and be done with it.

But the truth was, Derek didn't know whether his companion had a warrant out for him.

After all, no one casually checked if they were wanted by police, and in 1993 America, the internet wasn't advanced enough to look up such information—many only found out they were wanted when cops knocked on their door.

In short, Derek wouldn't risk it, and he didn't want to hand his companion over to the police, or else he'd face the rival gang's crackdown alone. So, following underworld rumors, he came to a hidden alley in South District.

Halfway up the iron roller door, graffiti spelled out "The Mender." Derek pushed the door upward, opening the entrance fully.

The shop space was shallow, like a butcher's storefront, with a transparent refrigerated glass cabinet blocking most of the path—but this cabinet wasn't powered, and inside it was empty, holding no valuable goods.

On top of the glass cabinet sat a call bell. Beneath the bell hung a note reading: "Someone's here—ring if you need help."

Derek had planned to bypass the cabinet and open the door leading to the back, to see if this seemingly closed butcher shop was indeed the rumored black clinic.

But the door, secured with a standard latch lock, wouldn't budge. He twisted it several times—nothing. Even when he pounded on it and shouted, "Anyone in there?"—no answer came.

Was no one home? Had he come for nothing? Frustrated, Derek retreated to the cabinet and slammed his fist onto the call bell.

The bell, struck repeatedly, didn't just ring—it clanged heavily. Derek seemed determined to vent all his rage on it, as if trying to smash it outright.

In the blink of an eye, the locked door swung open from within, revealing a white man with an oddly striking appearance—his hair half-white, half-black, covering half his face, and a long scar stretching from forehead to cheek, unmistakable.

He wore a white shirt like those worn by 19th-century nobles, with ruffled cuffs and collar, a black silk tie knotted at the neck, paired with black trousers and black leather shoes.

This man looked more like a stage actor—Derek seriously doubted his medical skill. Was he some nurse, vet, or tailor masquerading as a quack?

In America, if you avoided legitimate hospitals, the black doctors you found were usually physicians who'd caused major medical accidents—or willingly or unwillingly taken the blame, and been expelled from the medical system.

Such people, if they hoped to return to the system, had to keep their heads down, waiting for someone to take pity and pull them back.

But if someone chose the black doctor path openly—and got caught—it was over. No hospital would ever hire someone with such a stain.

Beyond them were those with medical training but who'd never entered the legitimate system—after all, everyone who came here was hiding, and if they wanted to live, they couldn't care whether their healer had proper credentials.

Then there were those with no medical background at all—just bold enough to cut into others. Derek instinctively felt this noble-looking actor was exactly that kind: simply reckless.

The one who opened the door was Henry, known in the underworld as "The Mender." Though he ran a black clinic, he didn't stay there 24/7—he spent most of his time at his rented apartment or doing his own things.

Instead, he placed a call bell on the fake storefront. The ordinary-looking bell contained a device emitting ultrasonic frequencies—inaudible to ordinary people.

Whenever someone rang it, the device alerted him anywhere within Los Angeles that a patient had arrived. He'd then change his appearance, don his special attire, and come to treat—or eliminate—the patient.

The Mender glanced at the Latino kid supporting his companion—one with a single gunshot wound to the abdomen, the bullet still lodged inside, bleeding steadily; the other had multiple abrasions, minor.

"Bring him in," The Mender said, turning and stepping aside to clear the narrow hallway.

The clinic's interior was extremely spartan: a single bed, a table, a chair in front of the table, a cabinet with all its glass shattered and in ruins, and a dim fluorescent light that flickered intermittently.

Inside the clinic, it was crude: one bed, one table, one chair in front of it, a cabinet with all its glass shattered and broken, and a flickering, dim fluorescent light that blinked erratically.

"Watch out for the broken glass," The Mender warned, then kicked aside the shards near his feet.

Derek, helping his companion in, asked: "What happened here?"

"Probably a thief broke in yesterday, trying to steal something valuable. This neighborhood's black territory—get used to it." He pointed to the bed. "Put him on the bed."

The bedsheet was far from clean, stained with dried blood. The only thing not repulsive was that the stain was dry—not wet.

It meant no one had bled there recently, but whether the sheet had ever been washed—or was clean at all—remained unknown.

Seeing the Latino kid hesitate to place his companion on the bed, The Mender said bluntly: "If you don't want treatment, leave. You can still save him by taking him to a legitimate hospital now. I won't force you."

After long consideration, Derek laid his unconscious companion on the bed and said: "He's been shot."

"I'm not blind," The Mender replied, but didn't move to treat him—instead, he extended his hand. "Five bucks for the save. Pay first, treat after."

"If you don't give it, then get out." The Tinkerer said decisively.

"No payment, then get out." The mender spoke decisively.

【39】 Derek looked at his companion's miserable state, then pulled out all his money and slammed it hard onto the hands of the extravagantly dressed man. He growled, "You better pray he's all right!"

Looking at his companion's condition, Derek pulled out every last dollar from his pocket and slammed it into the man's outstretched hand. He glared and growled: "You better pray he lives!"

"Relax. This kind of wound won't kill him."

Satisfied with the payment, The Mender finally took out medical tools from his briefcase on the table and began treating the patient.

【43】 (End of chapter)