Chapter 229: The Daily Injured, Part Three

Actually, the Black Clinic has no back door; the place many injured patients mistake for a back door is just a small room used as a storage closet, with not a single window.

Besides an empty shelf, there's also a single bed—intended as one of three hidden escape routes, but it has never been used.

On the other side of the small room's wall is the internal corridor of the apartment building; with few residents, the corridor sees almost no foot traffic.

The Repairman uses his super speed to achieve molecular penetration, passing through walls to create the illusion that the clinic opens directly from inside.

But when he opened the door and saw who was pressing the fake storefront bell, he immediately switched to an annoyed expression and said, "You're not injured. Get lost."

He moved to shut the door.

"Wait!"

It was a white guy in a cheap suit, dressed in no proper way—shirt half-tucked out, suit buttons undone—classic thug style. Add the tattoos visible on his neck and wrists, and no one would think he was respectable.

He grabbed the Repairman's hand as he tried to close the door and said, "Our boss wants you to come with us."

"This is under Big Old O's protection. You know that, right?" The Repairman named his landlord, Black.

But the white guy just chuckled and said, "Even Big Old O won't dare offend our boss. You think saying this place is under his protection means anything?"

The Repairman struggled slightly, realized the man was gripping him tightly, and sighed in disgust: "So you won't let me grab some tools—you plan to have me use a kitchen knife and sewing needle to treat patients once we get there? Or are you not even looking for a doctor?"

"Heh." The guy released his hand but still threatened, "Doctor, don't even think about running. You can't escape, you understand?"

The Repairman suddenly wondered: did this guy know he was a Continental Hotel service provider? Or did the Continental Hotel simply not care about its service providers' fates?

Then he thought again—this situation wasn't unreasonable. His relationship with the Continental Hotel was merely that of an outsourced vendor. Strictly speaking, he wasn't even one of them.

If someone of comparable strength showed up, would the Continental Hotel really go to war over someone who wasn't even their adopted son?

This made him curious about who was behind this white guy. Was he just an ignorant fool? Or another big-shot figure?

Without needing the guy outside to urge him, the Repairman wanted to see what this was about. He picked up the old suitcase he'd bought at the flea market—filled with medical tools and basic medicines—and followed.

Before leaving, he tucked away the call bell and replaced the note with "Out on Call," to avoid patients arriving while he was away.

After finishing all that, the Repairman followed the guy to the alley's mouth. The car waiting to pick them up was a Rolls-Royce—the low-end version of a top-tier luxury car…

This meant its owner was merely rich, with no legitimate power visible to the public.

But even the low-end version was still a Rolls-Royce—the ride felt completely different.

It wasn't about expensive vibes or getting aroused by the hand-painted stripe on the body panels. It was the angle of the sofa seats and the feel of the genuine leather—nothing like cheap plastic faux leather stuffed with foam.

There was no unpleasant odor inside the car. Once the door closed, the air inside and outside felt like two different worlds, completely blocking out grease and stench.

Especially European cars like the English-Euro series—their stiff suspension felt utterly unlike the spongy suspension of American cars.

Driving his own Cadillac felt like sitting on a waterbed half-filled with water. If the road was rough and he didn't pick his route carefully, he'd be jolted into questioning his entire life.

But this Rolls-Royce didn't head to any wealthy neighborhood with grand villas—it turned into a warehouse district, weaving left and right until it entered what looked like an abandoned factory.

It was like seeing a man with a greased-back pompadour, dressed in a full suit and tie, but wearing colorful baggy shorts below, his legs hairy and bare, and sandals on his feet.

You just wanted to complain—but didn't even know where to start.

Inside the abandoned factory, the space was vast and mostly filthy and stinking. But one section had been arranged beautifully, as if designed by a master.

Art-grade standing lamps, French Rococo-style armchairs, and an antique tea table that looked ancient.

Oil paintings that couldn't be hung on the wall were arranged in a full row on easels. A small patch of floor was covered in Persian carpets so expensive you didn't dare step on them.

They even had a grand piano placed to one side. A Miss in an evening gown sat at it, playing a gentle, melodious tune—soft and soothing, making listeners spellbound.

Brought into this absurdly upscale section, the Repairman finally saw the main person: a massive white man in a bright red robe, flanked on both sides by two stunningly beautiful women—one black, one white.

With his burly frame, if he weren't in Los Angeles, the Repairman might have thought he'd stumbled into a Marvel universe villain—Kingpin.

But Kingpin wouldn't be this tasteless, stitching together beautiful and ugly things like a Frankenstein monster.

Plus, under the Repairman's X-ray vision, it was just a massive lump of fat—not muscle. So he could rule out the possibility of it being the crime emperor.

Kingpin, a normal human without mutations, could knock out Spider-Man—he was a peak of human capability.

"You're the Repairman, right?" the fat white man asked. As two girls attended him, he lit a cigar.

The Repairman, as if they were old friends, cut open another cigar and lit it himself.

The fat white man waited patiently as the man in front of him took a deep drag and exhaled thick smoke before speaking: "If I said I wasn't you, would you punish your incompetent subordinate?"

This trapped him in a self-proof dilemma: how do you prove you are yourself if you refuse to admit it?

A fool, or someone who thinks he's clever, would be stuck by this question. Only the truly smart could step outside the question itself to solve it.

The fat white man was someone who thought outside the box—but he was also angered by this impolite response, and said coldly:

"If you're not him, I'll have my men beat you until you admit you are—or tell me where the real one is."

"Alright, let's save time. I'm the Repairman. What do you want?"

(End of Chapter)