Wreckage and Dawn

The entrance to the Wreckage bar was a heavy airtight door, covered in scratches and dents, as if recounting the countless violent blows it had endured.

Old Dog stepped forward. Instead of knocking, he tapped a particular spot on the door three times with his crowbar, in a set rhythm.

Clang, clang, clang.

The dull metallic knocks echoed through the silent street.

A few seconds passed. The viewing hatch stayed shut, but an inconspicuous intercom beside the door crackled, followed by a rough male voice. "Who is it?"

"Old Dog," he told the intercom. "Brought some fresh 'dog food.'"

The intercom fell silent for a moment. Then came a heavy hiss of hydraulic pressure releasing, and the watertight door slowly swung inward, revealing a dark gap.

A wave of heat mingled with cheap alcohol, cigar smoke, and hormones poured through the opening, accompanied by deafening heavy metal.

"Stay close," Old Dog said over his shoulder before ducking inside.

Zhao Fan took a deep breath, adjusted his backpack straps, and followed.

Upon entering the bar, Zhao Fan's first impression was that this was one enormous scrapyard.

The interior was spacious, apparently converted from an underground air-raid shelter. Rough concrete and rusty pipes lay exposed along the walls, while all manner of "postwar relics" hung from the ceiling: a flattened taxi door, half the wing of a Chitauri aircraft, a torn Iron Man poster... These things were piled together haphazardly, casting menacing shadows in the dim red light.

There were no elegant booths here. Most of the tables were repurposed industrial cable spools or oil drums. The patrons were just as varied: heavily tattooed bikers, sinister-looking loners in hoodies, and even a few men in tattered suits who looked like down-and-out businessmen.

Every table held weapons or some sort of dangerous-looking device.

When Zhao Fan and Old Dog entered, the people at several tables near the door glanced up. Their gazes were like knives, appraising and greedy, lingering on the backpack on Zhao Fan's back for a few seconds before quickly shifting away.

Here, curiosity could get you killed.

Old Dog was clearly a regular. He threaded his way through the crowd with practiced ease, ignoring the malicious stares as he headed straight for a corner at the far end of the bar.

There were no tables there, only a semi-enclosed counter fenced off with wire mesh. Behind it stood a bald bodyguard built like a bear, his arms folded as he coldly watched everyone who approached.

In the shadows behind the bodyguard sat a woman.

Zhao Fan could not make out her face. All he could see was her dark red qipao, shimmering with silk's distinctive sheen in the dim light. She held a slender cigarette between her fingers, and amid the drifting smoke, one long-fingered hand gently swirled a glass of amber liquid.

"Shadow." Old Dog stopped before the wire mesh, his tone less casual than usual and more respectful.

The woman did not answer immediately. She merely raised her head slightly and glanced at Old Dog through the curling smoke before settling her gaze on Zhao Fan.

For an instant, Zhao Fan felt like a lab mouse being X-rayed. Her gaze was keen, almost penetrating.

This woman was no ordinary person.

"This is the newcomer you found?" The woman's voice was unexpectedly young, languid and husky, yet possessed a metallic quality. "Employee number 9763?"

Zhao Fan's heart tightened. She even knew his employee number!

Old Dog also seemed a little surprised, but quickly hid it. "Heh, you're well informed. That's right. This kid's interesting. Brought him here to learn the way today, and... move some goods."

Shadow lightly tapped the ash from her cigarette, her movements as elegant as if she were attending a high-society dinner rather than sitting in this filthy underground bar.

"Let him in," she said indifferently.

The bald bodyguard immediately stepped aside and opened the little gate in the wire mesh.

Old Dog gave Zhao Fan a push. "Go on, kid. Show her what you've got. I'll wait here."

Zhao Fan glanced at Old Dog and saw that he had no intention of following. It was a rule, and a form of protection; Zhao Fan swallowed, gripped his backpack straps, and stepped alone into Shadow's domain.

The light was a little brighter behind the counter. Zhao Fan finally got a clear look at the woman called Shadow.

She was Asian and looked under thirty. Her long black hair was pinned up behind her head with what appeared to be a hairpin carved from some kind of bone. Her features were delicate, but her beauty was not fragile. Instead, it carried a sharp, aggressive edge. Especially her eyes, as black as two bottomless pools of stagnant water.

"Sit." Shadow pointed to the chair opposite her.

Zhao Fan sat down and placed his backpack on his knees without opening it immediately.

"I heard," Shadow said, setting down her glass and leaning forward slightly, an oppressive presence bearing down on him at once, "you blew up a D.O.D.C. security checkpoint today?"

Zhao Fan's heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to stay calm and met Shadow's eyes. "It was an accident. Equipment malfunction."

"Heh." Shadow gave a soft, faintly mocking laugh. "A 'malfunction' during those few minutes when the system was hacked and surveillance was cut off?"

Zhao Fan's pupils contracted sharply. She even knew about Benjamin! And in such detail! Just how terrifying was this woman's intelligence network?

"Don't be nervous." Shadow seemed pleased with his reaction. She leaned back in her chair again. "I'm not interested in your little tricks. What interests me is... what you went to so much trouble to bring out."

She extended a hand, palm up, in an inviting gesture.

"As long as the goods are good, I don't care where they came from or how much trouble they'll cause. At Wreckage, we only discuss value."

Zhao Fan took a deep breath. He knew there was no turning back now. Before someone who could even see through D.O.D.C.'s internal operations, any lie would be feeble.

He unzipped his backpack, unwound the tape, and lifted out the heavy lead bag, setting it on the table.

"Class B residue," Zhao Fan said quietly. "Half the core of a Chitauri energy rifle; it's still live."

Shadow's gaze changed instantly. Her languor vanished, replaced by the focus of a hunter spotting prey, and... greed.

Rather than rush to open the lead bag, she took a palm-sized black instrument from beneath the counter. It looked extremely advanced, even more sophisticated than the one Dr. Evelyn had held.

She brought it near the lead bag. Its red light immediately began flashing wildly, accompanied by rapid beeps.

"Energy index... stable." Looking at the reading, Shadow's lips curved into a playful smile. "It is still live. And its fluctuation frequency is very unusual."

She raised her head and, for the first time, properly studied Zhao Fan, as if reassessing this seemingly unremarkable cleanup worker.

"This thing suffered severe damage in the explosion. Its casing is cracked, and the energy core inside is extremely unstable; ordinarily, something like this would have self-destructed on impact. How did you get it out? And keep it in this... marginally stable state?"

Zhao Fan froze for a moment. Of course, he could not say that the system's [Relic Recycling] function had, to some extent, "soothed" the energy core during analysis.

"Luck." Zhao Fan offered that all-purpose answer. "Maybe my hands are just steady."

"Luck is a kind of strength, too." Shadow nodded noncommittally. She put away the instrument, took a thick stack of banknotes from a drawer, and tossed it onto the table.

"Ten thousand dollars."

Zhao Fan's heart pounded as he looked at the money. But his reason told him it was not enough; before coming, he and Ben had looked up records of similar black-market deals online. Just as Old Dog had said, the starting price for a core of this grade was at least fifty thousand.

"That's too little," Zhao Fan said, steeling himself. "This is Class B merchandise. And the core isn't completely destroyed or dead. You know what it's worth."

Shadow raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the newcomer's bargaining. She picked up her cigarette, took a drag, and slowly exhaled a smoke ring.

"You're new. Newcomers don't get to negotiate." Her voice was even, but carried a chill. "Besides, you're a hot potato yourself right now. That madwoman Evelyn may already have her eye on you. Every extra minute you keep this thing adds to your danger. If I take it, I'm also taking the risk of cleaning up your mess."

She paused, her gaze becoming sharp as a blade. "Ten thousand. Cash. Used bills, nonconsecutive serial numbers."

Zhao Fan fell silent. He knew she was right. What he lacked most now was not money, but time.

He needed to get rid of this hot potato as quickly as possible and pay that damned rent, or he would be thrown out. In the United States, that was a dangerous thing.

"Deal," Zhao Fan said through gritted teeth.

Shadow did not open the lead bag for another inspection. She waved a hand, and the bald bodyguard behind her stepped forward, lifted the heavy bag with one hand, and disappeared through a concealed door behind the counter.

Watching the lead bag vanish into the darkness, Zhao Fan finally felt a weight lift from his heart, followed by a sense of exhaustion.

He reached for the stack of banknotes on the table. The rough paper rubbed against his fingertips, its tangible texture leaving him momentarily dazed.

Ten thousand dollars.

Only a few days ago, he had been worrying about his apartment rent. Now he held a fortune.

Was this the price and reward of crossing that line?

"Want to count it?" Shadow watched him with the hint of a smile.

"No need." Zhao Fan quickly stuffed the money into his inner pocket. Its bulge reassured him. "I trust Wreckage's reputation."

"Smart." Shadow nodded approvingly. She drew a fresh cigarette from the pack, but instead of lighting it, toyed with it between her slender fingers. "Zhao Fan, employee number 9763. I'll remember you."

Zhao Fan paused halfway to his feet. "I never told you my name."

"In this circle, names are worth less than anything. But I believe you'll make yours worth something. I like remembering my business partners." Shadow leaned forward slightly, her black eyes seeming capable of drawing people in. "What you did today went beyond the scope of a D.O.D.C. temp worker. Both the eye to spot that thing and the nerve to bring it out."

Suddenly, she reached out and slid a black business card across the table toward Zhao Fan.

The card was metal, cold and heavy. There were no words on it, only a distorted, cutout design that resembled a broken gear, or an eye devouring something.

"Take this." Shadow's voice grew low and enticing. "It's not just a business card. It's an admission ticket."

"What do you mean?" Zhao Fan did not reach for it, watching her warily.

"D.O.D.C. is just a garbage collection site. You think you're cleaning up a battlefield, but you're only sweeping away the dust on the surface." A mysterious smile curled Shadow's lips. "The real 'treasures' are always buried deeper. And down there, the rules are different."

She pointed at Zhao Fan's chest, where those three thousand dollars were hidden.

"That little bit of money will only rent you a decent doghouse in Queens and buy a few full meals. If you want more... if you want to control your own fate rather than be trampled like an ant, come find me."

"Bring something more valuable."

"Such as?" Zhao Fan could not help asking.

Something flickered in Shadow's eyes. "Such as... information classified as 'S-rank' or 'top secret' even within D.O.D.C. Or things that only certain specialized equipment, or certain people, can detect."

Zhao Fan's heart clenched.

He was certain he had revealed nothing unusual during their conversation. But he remembered that earlier sensation of being watched, and the sophisticated instrument in her hand.

This woman knew far more than she let on.

Zhao Fan said nothing. He merely reached out in silence and pressed his hand against the card. The chill of the metal spread through his body from his fingertips, bringing him instantly back to his senses.

"I'll think about it."

Zhao Fan pocketed the card and turned to leave. He did not want to spend another moment in this oppressive place.

When he stepped out through the wire mesh, Old Dog was sitting on a table outside, holding a freshly opened bottle of whiskey. Two tattooed brutes who looked like trouble sat opposite him, and he seemed to be boasting about his past "glorious exploits."

Seeing Zhao Fan emerge, Old Dog immediately shut his mouth. His clouded eyes swept over Zhao Fan's slightly bulging chest, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed them.

"All done?" Old Dog stood up and brushed the dust off his backside.

"All done." Zhao Fan nodded, unwilling to say more.

"Then let's go. The booze here is strong, but drink too much and you can lose your life." Old Dog asked no more questions and said nothing about splitting the money. Like a dutiful guide, he simply led Zhao Fan toward the door.

Only after leaving Wreckage and returning to the cold, damp streets of Hell's Kitchen did Zhao Fan let out a long breath.

The cold wind struck his sweat-soaked back, making him shiver.

"Here." Zhao Fan pulled the stack of money from inside his coat, counted out a portion, and offered it to Old Dog. "Your share."

Though he had risked his life to earn this money, he knew very well that without Old Dog's guidance and cover, he could never have completed the deal. He might not even have made it out of the bar in one piece.

Old Dog stared at the offered money for a moment.

It was a full three thousand dollars. For an old drunk like him, that was enough for six months of the finest whiskey, or a month of splurging in a low-end red-light district.

But he did not take it. Old Dog pushed Zhao Fan's hand away, fished a crumpled cigarette he had swiped from somewhere out of his pocket, and put it between his lips.

"Put it away, kid," Old Dog said indistinctly. "Shadow already gave me my share."

"What?" Zhao Fan did not understand.

"A 'finder's fee.' That's the rule." Old Dog lit his cigarette and took a deep drag, a complicated expression crossing his face. "Besides... keep the money. You've got important uses for it."

He glanced at Zhao Fan.

"Rent, debts, and... buy yourself something decent to eat. Look at your face. Thin as a skeleton. If you want to survive in this man-eating world, you have to get your body healthy first."

"I still have to give an old acquaintance some business, so I won't head back with you."

With that, Old Dog turned and limped toward the other end of the street.

"See you tomorrow, Zhao. Don't be late."

Holding the money, Zhao Fan stood beneath a streetlamp and watched Old Dog's stooped figure gradually disappear into the darkness.

He suddenly realized that in this coldhearted city, beyond profit and calculation, there really did seem to remain a little something... called human kindness.

He put the money away. Old Dog had said he did not want his share, but Zhao Fan could not simply refuse to give it to him.

By the time he returned to his apartment in Queens, it was three in the morning.

The old apartment building was still steeped in deathly silence. Only the bulb with the faulty connection in the hallway flickered tirelessly.

Zhao Fan dragged himself up to the fourth floor. With every step, he could hear the faint rustle of banknotes rubbing together in his pocket. It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Reaching his door, he habitually glanced at his neighbor Maya Chen's apartment. No light shone beneath her door; she was probably asleep. Several new cardboard boxes stood outside, filled with discarded metal parts and paint cans. It seemed the talented art student had made another "haul" today.

Zhao Fan smiled, his nerves finally easing a little after the black-market deal.

He opened his door and entered his bare little room. It still smelled damp and musty, but now the odor did not seem quite so hopeless.

He did not turn on the light. Instead, by the moonlight coming through the window, he walked over to the rickety table.

The first thing he did was pay off his rent.

He reached into his coat's inner pocket and pulled out a thick stack of worn banknotes, still warm from his body. These were the three thousand dollars he had just received in the trade.

He removed the rubber band and, by moonlight, deftly thumbed through the corners of the bills with his rough fingertips.

One, two... until he had counted out eight Franklins.

He rose, went to the door, and opened it a crack. This was the time the landlord invariably staked out the hallway each night to collect rent. Sure enough, that bulky figure was leaning there, smoking.

Without a word, Zhao Fan handed over the stack of money.

The landlord took it, moistened his fingers with saliva, and counted the bills one by one in front of him. Their rustling sounded particularly grating in the silent hallway.

A few seconds later, the landlord stuffed the money into his pocket and blew smoke through his nostrils.

"Paid. At least you know what's good for you." The landlord gave him a sidelong look, his tone as nasty as ever. "Don't be late again next month, or I'll still throw you and your bedding out."

Zhao Fan shut the door with a bang. Though that fat, greasy face was nauseating, he felt immensely relieved. At least for the rest of this month, he had somewhere to sleep, a refuge of his own.

Returning to the table, he picked up the remaining stack of money.

This was for Ben.

He counted out another three thousand dollars, found a crumpled envelope, and stuffed the money inside, writing "Ben" on the front.

Looking at the last pile of bills scattered across the table, Zhao Fan let out a long sigh.

Ten thousand dollars had become four thousand in the blink of an eye.

But he felt a lightness he had never known before. He was no longer that bottom-rung cleanup worker burdened with enormous debts, liable to collapse at any moment. He had room to breathe, and the capital to turn things around.

He collapsed onto his only mattress and stared at the mottled water stains on the ceiling.

Just then, a crisp notification suddenly sounded in his mind.

[Ding! Host detected completing first high-value relic transaction.]

[Hidden achievement quest completed: First Pot of Gold.]

[Calculating rewards...]

Zhao Fan shot upright. The system? There were quest rewards, too?

[New feature access obtained: Relic Compendium (level 1).]

[Relic Compendium: All residue encountered by the host will be recorded, with detailed origins, construction, and potential uses displayed. Currently available: Chitauri infantry armor, Chitauri energy rifle, Chitauri guard remains...]

A pale blue holographic interface instantly appeared before Zhao Fan's eyes. Several miniature 3D models were arranged across it, all things he had encountered over the past two days.

He selected the "Chitauri energy rifle" model.

A detailed stream of data cascaded past:

Item name: Chitauri standard-issue energy rifle (damaged)

Origin: Chitauri Army

Core structure: bioelectric induction trigger, isotope fusion energy core (unstable), high-energy particle accelerator tube.

Analysis value: B+

Potential uses: the energy core can be used to modify small power generators or improvised explosives; the particle accelerator tube's special material makes it excellent for manufacturing high-strength cutting tools.

Zhao Fan's eyes lit up.

This wasn't just a reference guide. It was a "bargain-hunting guide"!

Before, he could only rely on luck and [Weak Energy Perception] to stumble across something by chance. But now, with this guide, he could find out exactly what each piece of junk was useful for, how much it was worth, and even... how to modify it!

For instance, the entry for that "guard drone" actually noted that its power core could be made into an extremely rare, high-performance energy generator, something whose demand far outstripped supply on the black market.

"Knowledge is money," Zhao Fan murmured, the corners of his mouth rising despite himself. "Shadow was right. We're only brushing away the dust on the surface; finding the real treasure takes a discerning eye."

He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes, but he couldn't fall asleep no matter how he tried.

Everything that had happened that day kept replaying in his mind: the exploding security checkpoint, Old Dog covering for him, Ben's technical support, Shadow's business card, and Dr. Evelyn's eyes, which seemed able to see through everything.

He knew this was only the beginning.

He had already stepped into a dangerous vortex. Evelyn wouldn't let him off easily, and Shadow wouldn't give him benefits for nothing. Then there was Rick, who had been trying to get him killed all along.

But he had no regrets, because just moments ago, he had hurled the coin he had been clutching in his palm at the trash can in the corner.

In the darkness, the coin traced a strange arc and struck, with perfect accuracy, the cockroach stealing bites from his remaining half-piece of bread.

Smack.

One hit, one kill.

Zhao Fan looked at the dead cockroach and gave the most genuine smile he had worn since coming to this world.

"Whether you're a superhero, an alien monster, or a black-market kingpin..."

"Here in these ruins, now, I'm a player too."