Suicide Slum lay in southern Metropolis. Its economy was backward, crime ran rampant, guns were everywhere, and violence was frequent. As its name suggested, it was Metropolis's poorest and most crime-ridden district. Life was hard for its residents, and gangs of every size flourished there.
Its real name was not Suicide Slum, but Hobie Bay.
It was simply too despairing and chaotic. Whenever people spoke of it, they would mock themselves, saying that anyone who came here was committing slow suicide. Since only the truly destitute, with nowhere else to go, would consider living here, it gradually came to be called Suicide Slum, while no one cared about its real name anymore.
Ba Di stepped into this environment. The moment he entered, his white Martin boots were already dirty. He stepped into black puddles, filthy water staining the white leather. Countless mixed odors constantly assailed his nose—rotting stench, the reek of socks that had not been washed in centuries, the stink of feces. It was simply foul and suffocating.
Fortunately, Ba Di could control his sense of smell. Otherwise, this Kryptonian would have already perished in the stench of Suicide Slum the moment he entered.
Mike carried the case behind Ba Di. Seeing the dirt on Ba Di's shoes, he could not help viciously cursing inside, Dirty, dirty, dirty. Good, get dirtier. There's so much dog shit here—step in it already. Someone upstairs, hurry up and dump a bucket of piss over him.
So what if you're wearing that flashy white trench coat? So what if you're handsome? So what if you can fight? So what if bullets can't pierce you? He kept viciously cursing in his heart. He simply could not get over how his three hundred thousand dollars had been used by Ba Di to keep women. He