The Basement and Martha's Cigarette Smoke

After working at Fortune House for a month, Lin Mo had finally saved up his first rent payment. Brother Qiang had kept his word. Besides the promised $2,000 in cash, he had slipped him another fifty bucks, calling it a "perfect attendance bonus." That day, Lin Mo stood before the sink, his hands covered in suds, staring blankly at the running water for a long time. Life was rough as sandpaper, but for some reason, in that moment, he suddenly felt that maybe he could keep going.

But he knew he could no longer sleep in that little compartment behind the restaurant kitchen. The smell of cooking fumes had seeped into the fibers of his clothes and could not be washed out. Old Wang's snoring at night was so loud it felt like it could shake the plaster off the walls. More importantly, he needed a quiet place to study the wristband—the thing called the "X Check-in System." It counted down every day like an electronic clock welded to his wrist, both exciting and nerve-racking.

So after work, he began wandering street by street through Queens, asking at every door whether there were rooms for rent. Most of the time, he got either cold stares or a nasal, "We don't rent to Asians." Once, he knocked on an apartment door and had barely shown his face when a white housewife screamed and slammed the door. He even heard someone inside shouting, "Call the police!"

Lin Mo clenched the money in his pocket until his knuckles turned white. He knew racism ran deep in this city, but when it truly hit him in the face, it still felt like someone had kicked him squarely in the chest.

That evening, he stopped before an old building covered in ivy. A handwritten note saying "Room for Rent" was taped beside the entrance, the handwriting messy. After hesitating for a few seconds, he stepped forward and knocked on the leftmost door on the first floor.

The moment the door opened, a thick wave of cigarette smoke hit him in the face, making him instinctively step back half a pace. An old woman stood in the doorway, her hair permed into curls, a cigarette hanging from her lips with ash trembling at the tip. She wore a floral shirt with the collar open, a gold necklace resting on her collarbone. Her gaze swept him from head to toe like a security scanner, openly sizing him up.

"Looking to rent?" Her voice was hoarse, roughened by years of smoking.

"Yeah... yes." Lin Mo's throat tightened slightly.

The old woman blew out a smoke ring that settled right over his head. "Yellow kid, can you fix pipes or unclog toilets?" There was open provocation in her tone.

Lin Mo froze for a moment, then understood that she was testing him. Before crossing over, he had been a programmer. He could not carry heavy things, but he was fairly good with electronics. "I can fix computers," he said. "Phones and routers too."

The old woman raised her brows, seemingly a little surprised. She jerked her chin toward the staircase. "Three hundred a month. First month plus deposit. Utilities not included, internet extra." After a pause, the fingers holding her cigarette tapped his chest. "Try any funny business here—drugs, bringing people around for nonsense—and my son will toss you into the Hudson River to feed the fish."

"Your son is...?"

"A cop." She spat out the two words crisply. "Queens precinct. He specializes in catching unreliable-looking punks like you."

Lin Mo's heart tightened, then he secretly rejoiced. A police officer's mother as a landlord meant security was at least guaranteed. He would not have to worry about gangs or deranged neighbors. He immediately pulled out six hundred dollars and handed it over. "I'll take it. That's the deposit and first month's rent."

The old woman took the money, stuffed it into her shirt pocket without even looking, then tossed him a ring of keys from behind the door. "The bottom key is for the basement. Go look for yourself. If you don't like it, get lost now. No refunds." With that, she slammed the door shut. A few curses drifted through the crack, probably because she thought he had interrupted her soap opera.

Lin Mo picked up the keys and took a deep breath. They felt heavy in his hand, with a small tag engraved with "Martha"—probably her name. He walked to the basement entrance and pushed open the rusted metal door. A damp, moldy stench rushed out, even harsher than the back kitchen of a Chinese restaurant.

He turned on his phone flashlight—a fifty-dollar secondhand phone—and descended the steep stairs. The basement was roughly fifteen square meters. Bare concrete walls surrounded it, gray-green mold covering the corners, while the floor was cold and hard. The only window sat high near the ceiling, as small as a vent, letting in only a faint sliver of light.

The room was empty except for a broken wardrobe and a desk with peeling paint, obviously left behind by the previous tenant. Lin Mo reached out to touch the wall, and his fingertips were immediately covered in sticky moisture. He hurriedly wiped them on his pants.

"The conditions are a little rough..." he muttered to himself. But when the door closed behind him and he heard the footsteps outside gradually fading away, he finally let out a breath. At least this was a space completely his own. He would not have to fight homeless people for plastic bags, sleep on park benches, or get splattered in the face with hot grease anymore.

He had brought a rag from the restaurant and began cleaning. First, he wiped away the mold in the corners, even though he knew it would grow back tomorrow. Then he cleaned the desk and wardrobe. While rummaging through the wardrobe, he found an old sweater that smelled of mothballs, as if someone had left it behind. He tried it on and found that it actually fit. Smiling, he considered it a lucky find.

Halfway through cleaning, the wristband on his arm suddenly flashed, displaying pale blue text:

[Current environment detected: Damp (humidity 85%), insufficient lighting (10 lux), mold spores present.]

[Health slightly decreased (87/100). Recommendation: Improve ventilation, disinfect regularly, avoid prolonged exposure to damp environments.]

"It can even monitor the environment?" Lin Mo was somewhat surprised. This system was smarter than he had expected. He looked up at the tiny window and decided to buy a fan tomorrow, if only to get the air circulating.

That night, he returned to Fortune House to pack his belongings. Brother Qiang and Sister Li were both happy to hear that he had found a place to live. Sister Li stuffed a bag of apples into his hands, saying they were homegrown and good for vitamins. Brother Qiang patted his shoulder. "Come back and visit when you've got time. If you need anything, tell your brother."

Lin Mo's nose stung. He nodded and picked up his canvas bag—containing a few changes of clothes and the quilt Brother Qiang had given him—then left Fortune House. Walking beneath the dim streetlights, he looked back at the restaurant sign, his heart full of mixed feelings. It was exhausting there, but it also had the warmth of everyday life, a brief kind of comfort.

Back in the basement, he spread the quilt on the floor, planning to buy a mattress tomorrow. Lying down and listening to the rain outside—New York's rain never seemed to end—he fell asleep surprisingly quickly. He did not dream that night. He only remembered his old childhood home, another damp basement like this one, where his mother would always bring him a cup of hot milk.

Early the next morning, he went to the supermarket. He bought the cheapest inflatable mattress—eighty bucks—a thick blanket, a bottle of disinfectant, and a small fan. While checking out, the supermarket television was airing the news: Tony Stark's search-and-rescue team had discovered suspected personal effects in Afghanistan, but he himself was still missing.

"He still hasn't escaped?" Lin Mo muttered, anxious inside. He knew Tony would become Iron Man, but that experience was destined to be painful. After paying, he carried his bags back. Passing a hardware store, he bought a desk lamp and batteries as well. The basement was too dark, making reading difficult.

After returning to the room, he first sprayed the walls and floor with disinfectant. The pungent smell overpowered the moldy stench. Then he aimed the fan at the window to move the air. Finally, he plugged in the desk lamp. Its dim yellow light filled the little room, giving it a hint of warmth.

He sat at the desk and spread out the New York Map he had borrowed from the library, studying the layout of Queens. His place was a ten-minute walk from the Chinese restaurant, and Peter Parker's home was not far away either. He had looked up the address online, though it had no practical significance.

After work, I can take walks around the neighborhood, he thought. Maybe he would run into Spider-Man as a child, or get to know some future "big shots" early. But he immediately shook his head and dismissed the idea. Right now, he was just an ordinary person. The farther he stayed from the world of superheroes, the safer he would be.

Just as he was thinking that, the wristband lit up again:

[Host's current status: Stamina 65/100, Mental State 70/100, Health 86/100 (affected by dampness).]

[Time remaining until first check-in: 332 days, 8 hours.]

Lin Mo stared at the screen for a moment, then suddenly remembered that he had a "Basic Phasing" ability. He focused and imagined his finger passing through the desk. A few seconds later, his fingertips tingled faintly, as if passing through thin mist. Looking down, he saw that his fingers had actually sunk into the tabletop, with only half of them still exposed!

"It actually works!" He nearly jumped up. He quickly pulled his hand back. The desk surface was completely unharmed. The ability was weak—it could only pass through thin wood and lasted no more than five seconds—but it was already astonishing.

He tried several more times and discovered that metal did not work, such as the wardrobe's iron door. He could only phase one centimeter into the concrete wall as well. It seemed he would need practice to improve it.

At noon, as he was getting ready for work—he planned to keep working at Fortune House until he had saved more money—someone suddenly knocked on the door. His heart tightened. Who would come at a time like this?

When he opened the door, he found old Martha, his landlady, standing there with a smoking router in her hand. "Kid, can you fix this thing?" She tossed it straight at him.

Lin Mo caught it and found it covered in cigarette ash. "I'll take a look." He brought it to the desk and plugged it in, but the indicator light did not turn on. He removed the casing—with his phasing ability, it was easy and saved him the trouble of finding a screwdriver—and discovered that some wiring had come loose.

Using tweezers, he reconnected the wires. Once he powered it on, the indicator light lit up. "It's fixed. Give it a try." He handed it back.

Martha glanced at him, took it, and turned to leave. At the door, she suddenly stopped. "Come over for dinner tonight. Six o'clock." Then she walked away without looking back.

Lin Mo stood there in a daze, unable to react for a long while. This old woman... was inviting him to dinner? He smiled, warmth spreading through his heart. So being able to fix things really was useful.

That afternoon at work, he was in an especially good mood. He even hummed while washing dishes. Brother Qiang glanced at him a few times. "What, did you find money?"

"Better than finding money," Lin Mo answered with a smile.

After work, he deliberately changed into a clean T-shirt—the one with the roast duck print, though it had been washed—and arrived at Martha's house ten minutes early. The door was not closed, so he pushed it open and entered. Smoke filled the house. The old woman was busy in the kitchen, and the range hood buzzed loudly.

"Come in and sit." She did not turn around. "There's Coke on the table. Help yourself."

Lin Mo sat on the living room sofa and looked around. The walls were covered in photographs, most of them showing the same man in a police uniform standing with Martha. He was probably her son. A soap opera played on the television at a very high volume.

"Where's your son?" he could not help asking.

"He's dead." Her tone was calm, as if she were talking about someone else. "Killed by a gang during an operation three years ago."

Lin Mo's heart jolted, and he did not know how to respond. Looking at those photographs, he suddenly understood. Why she smoked constantly, why she spoke so harshly. Perhaps she had hidden all her softness deep inside, wrapping herself in a hard shell.

Dinner was simple: roasted chicken wings, mashed potatoes, and vegetable salad. Her cooking was average. The chicken wings were burnt, and the mashed potatoes were too salty, but Lin Mo ate carefully. During dinner, Martha asked about his background, and he casually made up a story: an international student, family troubles, no money for tuition, forced to work to get by.

Martha did not ask more questions. She only said, "Making a living in New York isn't easy. If something comes up, speak up. Don't try to carry it all alone."

Those words made his eyes burn. He nodded and stuffed a chicken wing into his mouth. The food tasted ordinary, but his heart felt warm.

Back in the basement, he lay on the inflatable mattress, listening to the fan hum. Suddenly, he felt that this Marvel world was not as frightening as he had imagined. At least he had a corner that sheltered him from the wind and rain, a sharp-tongued but soft-hearted landlady, and a job that could keep him fed.

He looked at the wristband on his arm. The countdown was still ticking: 363 days, 6 hours.

A year was neither long nor short. But Lin Mo knew that he would survive. He would live well and wait for that unknown superpower to arrive. No matter what he drew, he would plant his feet firmly in this world.

The rain outside had stopped. Moonlight streamed through the little window, casting a tiny patch of light on the floor. Lin Mo smiled, closed his eyes, and welcomed the coming day.