A gray one-way ticket

The chaos in the washdown area lasted less than five minutes. But to Zhao Fan, those five minutes felt as long as walking a tightrope.

Although the man-made "dust storm" temporarily obscured visibility, it failed to completely mask the high-energy radiation alarm coming from that damned vacuum cleaner. The roars of special security guards, the overlapping beeps of precision instruments, and the workers' panicked shouts mingled into a heart-stopping symphony.

Zhao Fan and Old Dog pushed the cumbersome vacuum cleaner, charging frantically toward the perimeter through the haze like two frightened rats.

"Left! Head for the scrap pile!" Old Dog kept his voice low, yet it carried a note of composure. "Don't go to the changing rooms. They're definitely sealed off by now."

Without hesitation, Zhao Fan immediately changed direction. His palms were slick with sweat as he gripped the cart's handle. Hidden in the vacuum's collection drum was the "treasure" he had risked his life to snatch from the vault ruins-the core components of half a Chitauri energy rifle. Even through the lead-steel alloy walls and countless layers of sludge, the thing still gave him a psychological sensation of burning.

It was Class B contraband. Getting caught meant a federal felony: spending the rest of his life mining in some unknown black prison, or simply disappearing as "experimental material."

Pushing the cart, the two stumbled around the main washdown station building and ducked into the shadows among a pile of discarded shipping containers. This was a real dump awaiting clearance, somewhere no one normally wanted to visit.

"Stop." Breathing hard, Old Dog dropped onto a tire. His injured leg had clearly reached its limit and was trembling uncontrollably.

Zhao Fan stopped too, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He glanced warily back at the distant security checkpoint, which remained in chaos. Only after confirming that no one had followed did he turn to Old Dog.

"What now?" Zhao Fan's voice was a little dry. "The thing's still inside the vacuum. We can't get it out of here."

Although the D.O.D.C. perimeter was chaotic, the outermost detection gates were not just for show. As internal equipment, the vacuum cleaner was not permitted to leave the worksite at all.

With trembling hands, Old Dog fished that half-pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, only to find it had long since been emptied. Irritably, he crushed the pack into a ball. A sharp glint flashed through his cloudy eyes in the dim light.

"Who said we were taking the vacuum out?" Old Dog pointed at the machine. "What we want is the filling."

"Take it apart here?" Zhao Fan frowned. "It's too conspicuous."

"The most dangerous place is the safest. Those uniformed idiots are busy sucking up dust over there. No one will imagine we'd dare divide the loot right under their noses." Old Dog grinned, revealing yellow teeth, with the cunning of someone who survived at the bottom. "Get to work. Take out the dust bag. Hurry, this stuff's hot."

Zhao Fan took a deep breath and wasted no more words. He crouched and deftly released the catches on the vacuum's rear cover.

With a soft click, the rear cover popped open. An intense wave of heat hit him in the face.

It was the thermal effect of highly concentrated residual radiation.

Fighting his physical discomfort, Zhao Fan put on radiation-resistant gloves and carefully dragged out the bulging, immensely heavy dust bag. Its surface was coated in gray-white concrete powder. Inside were the highly toxic sludge dug out of the underground sewage pipes and the lead bag wrapped in layer after layer.

"This thing..." Zhao Fan felt the heaviness in his hands-not just its weight, but some unknown fear. "What exactly is it?"

Back in the underground vault, he had grabbed it on instinct and the system's prompts, without any time to examine it. Now, in the faint light filtering through gaps between the containers, he could vaguely sense that, even through so many protective layers, the thing was still "calling" to the system inside him on some level.

His newly acquired [Weak Energy Perception] ability was now sending faint but distinct pulses through his mind like radar.

Hum... hum...

Right inside this lump of sludge.

"Stop looking. This is a deal that could get us killed." Old Dog interrupted his thoughts and pulled something incongruous with the surrounding ruins from a hidden compartment in his tool bag-an old-fashioned high-density containment bag, normally used to transport medical nuclear waste. "Stuff it in. Sludge and all."

Zhao Fan did as instructed. The lead bag, along with the sludge around it, was forcibly stuffed into the containment bag, which Old Dog then tightly wrapped in several layers of tape.

"Done." Old Dog struggled to his feet and patted Zhao Fan's shoulder. "Now put it at the very bottom of your tool bag. Cover it with your dirty work clothes and those battered tools. Remember, keep your back straight when you're carrying it. Don't hunch and duck your head like a thief."

Zhao Fan stuffed the heavy package into his backpack and put it on. In that instant, he felt as though a mountain had come down on him.

"How do we get through the final gate?" Zhao Fan asked. "Even if we don't have to pass through the security scanner, they still have handheld detectors at the entrance."

Old Dog chuckled and pulled a small, flat flask from inside his clothes. It was the last of his stash. "Kid, this is why we came out at this hour. Shift change."

Zhao Fan paused, then looked toward the distant gate.

Sure enough, the two special security guards who had been watching them were handing over their posts. Replacing them were two noticeably lax-looking National Guard soldiers.

"I know those two soldiers." Old Dog took a swig, a sickly flush rising in his previously pale face. "Let's go."

Half an hour later

Manhattan at night always possessed a fractured kind of beauty.

There were not many passengers on the subway train from Queens to Hell's Kitchen. The carriage lights flickered a pallid white, like nerve endings with faulty connections. Outside the windows, billboards on the tunnel walls raced backward, displaying Stark Industries' latest clean-energy advertisements. Iron Man's armor gleamed on the posters, promising a bright future.

Yet those sitting inside the carriage were people that bright future had forgotten.

Zhao Fan sat in a corner, clutching his backpack tightly to his chest. His back was drenched in cold sweat, both from nerves and from the faint heat seeping out of the containment bag.

The thing was like a red-hot coal, constantly reminding him that he had crossed a line.

Old Dog sat opposite him, eyes half closed, his head bobbing slightly with the swaying train as though he were asleep. Yet his callused hand remained lightly poised over the crowbar at his waist.

"Jose," Zhao Fan finally broke the silence, his low voice buried beneath the train's roar. "Where exactly are we going?"

Old Dog opened one eye, his cloudy left eye, threaded with bloodshot veins. "Hell's Kitchen."

"Isn't that..." Zhao Fan paused. He had heard about that place. Even before the Battle of New York, it had been notorious for its chaos. After the battle, it had become a gathering place for all manner of unsavory characters. Even D.O.D.C. recovery convoys needed fully armed escorts to enter.

"It's a place beyond the law, and a place of opportunity." Old Dog yawned. "Kid, that thing you're holding is hard currency there."

"You know a buyer?" Zhao Fan asked tentatively.

Old Dog scoffed. Rather than answer directly, he countered, "What do you think has kept me in this business so long? Hard work?"

He pointed at his head. "Connections. Somewhere like D.O.D.C., if all you care about is that fixed paycheck, you'll have starved to death long ago, or been crushed in the ruins like an ant. If you want to live like a human being, you have to learn to deal with devils."

Zhao Fan fell silent. He thought of the fat man named Ben, the arrogant Rick, and the lofty Dr. Evelyn. Everyone had their own rules for survival.

"The buyer's called 'Shadow,'" Old Dog said suddenly, his voice almost inaudible. "She's a woman. Strange temper, but her reputation's decent. As long as your goods are genuine, she pays readily. But remember, never ask her name or where she comes from, and don't even try to haggle."

Shadow... Zhao Fan silently repeated the name.

"One more thing." Old Dog's expression abruptly turned serious, his eyes fixed on Zhao Fan. "Once we get there, talk less and watch more. Keep those little clever tricks of yours to yourself. The people there could kill you more easily than squash a cockroach. Right now, you're not some D.O.D.C. employee. You're just a scavenging 'cleaner.' Understand?"

Zhao Fan looked at Old Dog and nodded solemnly.

"Understood."

The train began to slow, and an emotionless female voice announced over the speakers, "Next stop, 50th Street. Please mind the gap."

Zhao Fan stood up, feeling a little weak in the legs, but gritted his teeth and shouldered the heavy backpack anyway.

This was the path he had chosen himself.

The moment he stepped out of the subway station, an atmosphere utterly different from Queens hit him. The air here was damper, mingled with the rotten stench of garbage.

Half the streetlights lining the road were broken, and the remaining half flickered intermittently. Clearing the ruins here had progressed far more slowly than in central Manhattan. Collapsed walls were covered in menacing graffiti, and the occasional sound of breaking glass and muffled screams came from the dark alleys.

This was Hell's Kitchen. The Avengers had saved the world, but seemed to have forgotten to save this place.

Old Dog limped ahead, his silhouette looking especially stooped beneath the wavering lights, yet unusually resolute. He knew every alley and every turn here like the back of his hand.

Zhao Fan followed closely behind him, his right hand in his pocket, gripping the nut he used as a weapon, ready to strike. It was his only source of security at that moment.

They passed through two streets thick with the smell of marijuana, skirted a group of brawling thugs, and finally stopped outside an unremarkable-looking bar.

The bar's sign was a huge, rusted plate of spaceship armor, with red neon tubing bent into crooked English letters-Debris (wreckage).