Chapter 4: I Am Super, Ice

In the dimly lit corridor, the flickering, rickety old hallway light barely illuminated the surrounding walls and the outline of the passage. Occasional rustling noises echoed from the darkness, and faintly, a few gray rats scurried by.

Marty Zhao followed the man down this corridor, carefully avoiding the trash and the flowing filth on the floor, but the overwhelming stench still invaded his nostrils, nearly making him gag.

“I really can’t stand it. Even in the slums, I can tolerate some dirt and disorder, but why does it have to smell so foul?”

The man replied in a muffled voice, “I’m not sure. Maybe there’s a decomposing corpse in one of the apartments.”

“...Awesome.”

Curious about the change in his voice, Marty craned his neck to look and realized the man had already blocked his own nose.

So Marty pinched his own nose as well, his voice muffled, “Why would anyone be stupid enough to hide a corpse in their own home and just let it rot and stink?”

“It’s not necessarily hidden. Maybe someone just died in their room. The landlord said there were cases before where junkies overdosed or gangsters ran home and ended up rotting in their rooms.”

“People actually dare to rent such places?”

“You could always choose to book a presidential suite in a luxury hotel downtown or sleep under a bridge or in an alley.”

“Suddenly, this place seems pretty good.”

Of course, the penniless couldn’t afford hotels, and sleeping on park benches or under bridges was at best to be robbed blind by vagrants, losing every possession including clothes and keys; at worst, to be found murdered in some forgotten dark corner, stripped bare.

No one would even bother to bury you.

The man stepped forward and pulled out a key to unlock the door, but Marty suddenly reached out to stop him.

“Wait a moment. Who’s at home?”

“My wife.”

“How will you introduce me to her?”

“I can say you’re a new friend I met.”

“What should I call myself?”

“...”

The corridor suddenly grew awkward.

Marty couldn’t quite hold back a smirk. “Honestly, with your brain, there’s no future for you as a criminal, or really, no future staying in Gotham.”

The man’s face flushed slightly but he held back his anger to ask, “Then what’s your name?”

“Marty Zhao.”

“How strange, sounds like an Asian name.”

“Hm?” Marty paused, “Where do you think I’m from?”

“...I hadn’t really noticed,” the man said, scanning Marty up and down. “You’re clearly Asian, but you look more like a local from Gotham.”

His gaunt cheeks, fierce eyes, and a sly, cold aura gave off a unique temperament that made one overlook his Asian features.

Hearing this, Marty felt a warmth spread through his chest, as if his bruises had faded. So the system really did its job when it took the money—it didn’t just hand him some identity and related documents and send him off.

“My name is Drake Lane.”

“Then I’ll call you Drake. By the way, you’re not an archaeologist, are you?”

“Archaeologist? No, I’m not. I’m a software engineer. Why do you ask?”

“Thirty-five years old?”

“Thirty-three...”

Marty immediately understood. He gestured politely, inviting Drake to open the door. “But no matter what, you shouldn’t have ended up like this.”

Drake paused, key in the lock, then looked up at Marty. “I’m telling you this now—once you’re inside, don’t bring up this matter.”

“Alright.”

Drake withdrew the key and instead led Marty back into the hallway.

“Come, let’s talk on the rooftop.”

The dark corridor had no lights; only the faint moonlight and the city’s glow filtered through the windows to barely reveal the steps. They climbed silently, one after the other, their footsteps echoing heavily.

After reaching the fourth floor, Drake pushed open an iron door. Outside, the outlines of the distant vibrant city buildings could be seen, with a giant billboard standing to the side, barely providing light for the rooftop.

They stepped onto the rooftop, overlooking the surrounding buildings and streets, still shrouded in darkness, with only the occasional drip of residual rain falling into puddles.

“So, how did you end up here?”

“For my wife...”

Drake grabbed a nearby worn iron chair, wiped the water off it, and sat down. The cold surface sent shivers through his body but sharpened his weary mind.

“As I said, I was originally a programmer in the Metropolis. I was due to be laid off at thirty-three. Before that happened, I hadn’t figured out where to go next, and I had never thought about coming to a godforsaken place like Gotham.”

“Half a year before I was laid off, my wife started coughing and losing hair. I urged her to see a doctor, but she refused, saying she needed to focus on work. Then one day, she came back from the hospital holding a diagnosis.”

“Before the diagnosis, we didn’t pay much attention, thinking it was minor. But the report said she had a rare disease—extremely uncommon, with expensive treatment and medication.”

At this, Drake’s thin frame seemed to hunch even more, his head nearly buried in his chest. He grabbed handfuls of his hair, pulling out strands, as if seeking relief from his guilt through pain.

His voice grew hoarse, his bloodshot eyes circled by dark rings, exuding a touch of hysterical madness.

He continued, “I nearly emptied all my savings, but I couldn’t save her. Her hair almost all fell out, and two months ago she started coughing up blood, barely sleeping at night. Her internal organs began to fail. We were out of options. Then, an expert told us about Dr. Victor Fries in Gotham—a prodigy and cryogenics specialist who successfully extended his wife’s life using freezing technology.”

Marty’s mind nearly exploded hearing this. He knew it was a heartbreaking moment, but instinctively, he felt an overwhelming urge to run away.

Dr. Victor Fries—more commonly known as “Mr. Freeze” than by his real name.

Ice... so cold!