Sparks of Extremis

The D.O.D.C. temporary medical station in Queens.

The smell of the medical personnel in the station was cleaner than any scent in the ruins, yet it was just as cold, entirely devoid of a human touch.

Zhao Fan sat on a white bench, letting a freckled medical assistant who looked younger than him roughly wipe the wounds on his arm, scratched by debris, with a cotton swab dipped in iodine. Every contact brought a sharp, stinging pain, but his expression remained blank, as though that arm did not belong to him.

His thoughts remained stuck on that earth-shattering explosion half an hour ago. That destructive energy, that scorching heat wave, the weightless sensation of being hurled into the air, and the agonizing pain of hitting the wall as if his bones were about to shatter had all settled now, leaving clear and profound marks in every nerve ending of his body.

Death, it turned out, was this close to him.

The wounds on Zhao Fan's body had yet to heal, but something inside his heart was hardening and turning ruthless at a much faster pace.

"Alright, it's just some superficial injuries. Don't touch water for a week, and don't let it get infected," the medical assistant said in a businesslike, utterly flat tone, casually tossing him two Band-Aids. "Next!" Zhao Fan silently applied the Band-Aid himself and stepped aside.

Not far away, Old Dog Jose's condition was somewhat worse. His left leg was struck by a steel bar; although there was no fracture, it sustained severe soft tissue contusion. At the moment, it was wrapped in thick bandages, his calf swollen high like a steamed bun. An older doctor was examining him, constantly complaining, "At your age, you should apply for a light job in the logistics warehouse. Jose, how many times have I told you that your bone density can no longer withstand this kind of torment?"

The Old Dog merely grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, chuckled, and muttered incessantly, "It's fine, Doc. Old bones, sturdy. In a couple of days, I'll be able to carry a crowbar and go back to work."

They were like machines on a construction site that had suffered a minor breakdown, simply hammered and repaired, only to be thrown right back into operation until they completely broke down.

Soon, a middle-aged man wearing a crisp uniform, with a "Safety Inspector" badge hanging on his chest and his hair slicked into a shine, walked in. Holding an electronic clipboard, he didn't even look at the injuries of Zhao Fan and Old Dog, getting straight to the point. "Badge 9763, Zhao Fan. Badge 7541, Jose Rodriguez. You are the parties involved in the secondary collapse and unidentified explosion at the Zone A-4 clothing store ruins. Now, give me a detailed description of how things went down."

His tone did not sound like he was questioning victims, but rather interrogating prisoners.

Old Dog spoke before Zhao Fan, vividly describing the pre-arranged story with a tone carrying the cunning unique to people at the bottom. He said how strictly they followed safety protocols, only to unfortunately encounter an accidental collapse of a structural weak point, which then somehow triggered an energy-object explosion deep within the ruins. He blamed everything on "bad luck."

Zhao Fan listened in silence from the side. He knew that this safety inspector did not care about the truth at all; he only cared about one thing: whose fault it was. As long as the accident was classified as an "accident" and "force majeure," then the D.O.D.C. would not need to bear any responsibility for managerial negligence, and the injuries of the two temporary workers would simply become the consequence of their own "bad luck."

Sure enough, after listening, the inspector scribbled rapidly on the clipboard and nodded with satisfaction. "Hmm, preliminarily judged as an accidental incident. Your report is basically consistent with the preliminary conclusions of the site inspection team. Alright, go back and rest once your medical check is done. Tomorrow... well, the department is short-handed, can the two of you still work tomorrow?"

"Yes! Of course we can!" Old Dog immediately patted his chest in assurance, terrified that his only rice bowl would be smashed.

The inspector noncommittally grunted an "hmm" and turned to leave.

When Zhao Fan supported the limping Old Dog out of the medical station, out on the construction site, the other cleaners were gathered in twos and threes eating lunch. Seeing them come out, everyone's gazes shifted over, those expressions complex and subtle. There was sympathy, schadenfreude, but mostly an uncontainable hint of jealousy.

"Hey, Old Dog, I heard you guys found a treasure down there?" A familiar coworker sidled over, winking and lowering his voice to ask. "Did you find any good stuff? With a commotion that big, it definitely wasn't ordinary."

"Get lost," Old Dog cursed with a smile as he pushed him away. "If I found a treasure, would I be walking out with a limp? I'd have gone to Hawaii on vacation long ago! It was just a secondary collapse, pure bad luck."

Despite the Old Dog's vehement denials, the rumor that "there is a big one in Zone A-4" still spread rapidly among the cleaners like the wind.

Zhao Fan noticed that not far away, a burly figure was leaning against a bulldozer, coldly watching them-it was Rattlesnake Rick.

His gaze was filled with undisguised greed and suspicion, like a true venomous snake testing the strength of its prey.

He was surrounded by two lackeys, the few of them whispering to each other and pointing toward Zhao Fan and Old Dog from time to time.

Alarm bells rang wildly in Zhao Fan's heart! He knew trouble was coming.

Sure enough, when work resumed in the afternoon, trouble found them.

Mike reassigned the cleaning areas. Because the clothing store ruins in Zone A-4 were completely cordoned off, awaiting further inspection by the expert team, Zhao Fan and Old Dog were transferred to a new area-Zone C-2, a scrap metal yard densely bombarded by Chitauri energy cannons.

This was universally recognized as one of the hardest, most exhausting, and most dangerous areas in the entire Queens cleanup operation.

Most of the scrap metal here came from destroyed Chitauri flyers and chariots, which had melted at high temperatures and solidified together, forming bizarre, huge metallic lumps. Not only were these metal lumps hard as iron and difficult to break down, but more importantly, the residual energy unstable to the extreme contained within them continuously radiated a low-dose ray harmful to the human body.

Working here required wearing very heavy lead-lined protective suits the entire time, and the respirator had to be swapped for a model with an independent filter circulation system.

Even so, D.O.D.C. regulations dictated that each cleaner's working time here could not exceed two hours per day.

Yet today, Mike's task for them was an entire afternoon.

"Mike, this isn't in the rules!" Old Dog's face looked terrible, and pointing to his injured leg, he protested loudly, "My leg is hurt, and Fan just came out of an explosion; we aren't suited for this heavy labor!" "Rules are dead, people are alive," Mike said, folding his arms with an insincere smile. "We're short-handed right now, and the two of you 'rested' for so long this morning-wouldn't it be fair to do a bit more work this afternoon? Stop talking nonsense, this is an order."

With that, he turned and left, giving Old Dog no chance to argue further.

Zhao Fan's gaze crossed Mike's shoulder, catching sight of Rick not far behind him, flashing a smug and provocative smile toward this side.

Everything was clear; Rick was behind this. Perhaps he had bribed Mike, or perhaps he just used some methods, but in any case, he had successfully utilized the rules to push the two of them into this "hell." His purpose was very simple: he was certain that Zhao Fan and Old Dog must have hidden some "good stuff" in the morning's explosion, and now he intended to use this high-pressure, tormenting method to force them to submit, forcing them to hand over the "loot."

"Damn it! This ungrateful bastard!" Old Dog trembled with rage, slamming a fist against a nearby wall, which jarred the injury on his leg and made him wince in pain.

Zhao Fan's face, however, showed no expression of anger. He patted Old Dog's shoulder and lowered his voice. "Forget it, Jose. Arguing with him is useless. Let's go to work."

Old Dog looked at him in surprise, seeming not to understand why Zhao Fan could accept this unfair arrangement so quickly. He saw Zhao Fan's gaze, a look he had never seen in this young man's eyes before-calm, profound, and even carrying a trace of... icy detachment.

"You..." Old Dog wanted to say something, but it ultimately turned into a heavy sigh. "Alright. You kid, you seem a bit different than before."

Zhao Fan did not reply. He walked silently toward the equipment warehouse and claimed the lead-lined protective suit, heavy as a suit of armor.

When they were fully geared up and stepped into Zone C-2, a wave of heat hit them right through the protective suits. The air inside the suits seemed to be suffused with a pungent odor, stinging the skin like countless tiny needles.

The personal energy counters they carried immediately emitted an ominous, rapid "click, click" sound, like the stopwatch of the Grim reaper counting down.

The entire area was shrouded in an eerie blue fluorescence. Those twisted scraps of metal cast a bewitching gloss under the sunlight. Almost no trace of vegetation could be seen on the ground; even the hardiest weeds had vanished from this land.

Their job was to use specialized hydraulic shears with long insulated arms to break those huge metal lumps into smaller pieces, and then use shovels to haul them piece by piece into the lead-lined recycling bins.

The work was not only grueling, but extremely tedious and oppressive. The thick protective suit was airtight, and before long, Zhao Fan felt as though he had been thrown into a steamer. Sweat streamed down his forehead, trickling into his eyes, stinging and painful.

Inside the respirator was entirely the hot, humid air exhaled by himself, laden with carbon dioxide. Every breath became exceedingly heavy. Beside his ears, there was only the monotonous, death-knell "click" of the energy counter and the harsh "creak" of the hydraulic shears at work.

Old Dog's condition was worse. His injured leg needed rest to begin with, yet now he had to wear a heavy protective suit and stand and walk for extended periods. Zhao Fan could clearly hear the suppressed, ragged panting coming from beneath Old Dog's mask with every movement he made.

Time here seemed to be stretched thin. Every minute felt as long as a century.

While mechanically operating the hydraulic shears, Zhao Fan used the corner of his eye to observe the "safe zone" not far away-there, Rick and his two lackeys sat atop a relatively clean pile of debris, smoking and drinking beverages, watching them struggle in the "blue hell" like spectators at a show. Rick even periodically raised the walkie-talkie in his hand, taunting them with the playful tone of a cat toying with a mouse:

"Hey! 9763! 7541! Put some back into it! If you finish your task early, I might just treat you to a drink!"

"Old Dog, is that leg of yours still holding up? Do you want me to call you a wheelchair?"

The grating jeers traveled clearly through the communicators built into their helmets to the ears of Zhao Fan and Old Dog.

Old Dog turned pale with rage, but he had to endure it. He knew that once he collapsed here, he would not only lose his job, but might even face fines from the D.O.D.C. for delaying the schedule.

Zhao Fan remained silent. He focused all his attention on the work in his hands. Yet his brain was operating at an unprecedented speed.

Analyzing Rick's personality: arrogant, egotistical, fond of using the most direct violence and within-the-rules methods to bully the weak in order to gain a sense of fulfillment. People like this were usually all brawn and no brain, coupled with extreme conceit. This was his first weakness.

He was observing.

Observing the action patterns of Rick and his lackeys. They always congregated to display their strength. But this also meant their vigilance dropped due to numbers. Moreover, Rick seemed overly reliant on his two lackeys to borrow authority. This was his second weakness.

He was memorizing.

Memorizing every single detail of this "hell" called Zone C-2. Where the most unstable energy source was, where the loose metal structures were, where the ground was slickest. This place of punishment in the eyes of others was transforming into a detailed map filled with fatal traps right before his eyes.

Anger and hatred were converted at this moment into the purest fuel, driving the heart belonging to a "hyena" to operate calmly and efficiently. He was no longer a passive victim; he was transforming into a lurking hunter, and Rick was the first prey he had chosen.

He knew he could not fight back today. But a gentleman takes his revenge ten years later. For a hyena, it possessed ample patience to wait for the prey to expose its most vulnerable throat.

Right at that moment, Old Dog's body swayed, nearly falling over. Zhao Fan immediately stepped forward and steadied him. "Jose, how are you?"

"I can't... my leg... my leg is numb..." Old Dog's voice was intermittent, filled with agony. Beneath his mask, his face was as pale as a sheet of paper.

Zhao Fan glanced at Rick in the distance, who was gloatingly watching this scene.

He gritted his teeth and said to Old Dog, "You sit here and rest, I'll handle the rest."

"No... the workload for two..."

"I said I'll handle it!" Zhao Fan's tone brooked no argument. He helped Old Dog over to a relatively safe metal plate to sit down, and then, all alone, shouldered all the work.

He worked like an untiring beast, frantically toiling amidst the blue fluorescence. Sweat blurred his vision, his muscles ached and burned from overuse, and his lungs felt searingly painful from oxygen deprivation. Yet he did not stop.

He converted all his pain and humiliation into the most primal drive. Every swing of the hydraulic shears, every transport of a metal chunk felt like rehearsing vengeance in his heart.

In the distance, the smile on Rick's face gradually faded. He had not expected this skinny-looking Asian kid to possess such astonishing resilience and perseverance. What he had originally expected to see was the ugly sight of both men breaking down and begging for mercy, but now, all he saw was a silent, frantically working back. This stirred a trace of inexplicable irritation and unease within him.

Finally, as the last rays of sunset were about to vanish, Zhao Fan heaved the final piece of scrap metal into the recycling bin.

The task was completed.

Night fell like a dirty rag soaked in ink, pressing heavily upon the ruins of Queens.

When Zhao Fan supported Old Dog Jose-who was nearly incapable of walking independently-out of the blue-fluorescence-shrouded hell of Zone C-2, his entire person was in a state of semi-exhaustion. The moment he peeled off the heavy, lead-lined protective suit-which felt like a lead coffin-it sapped the very last ounce of strength from his body. His work clothes from top to bottom had long been repeatedly soaked in sweat, clinging tightly to his skin now and exuding a nauseating, sour stench, as though even his soul had fermented under the hours of radiation and high pressure.

Supporting Old Dog, he walked step by step, in silence, past Rick and his two lackeys.

Rick was leaning against a bulldozer, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He spat a wad of thick phlegm onto the ground and looked at them with a gaze mixing disdain and mild irritation, speaking indifferently, "Consider yourselves lucky."

This provocation carried a heavily condescending air, as though the fact that Zhao Fan and Old Dog had survived to complete the task was an act of grace on his part.

Old Dog trembled with rage, a sharp pain flaring in his injured leg, and nearly cursed aloud again. But the arm with which Zhao Fan supported him was as steady as iron tongs, an unquestionable force holding him firm. Zhao Fan did not look at Rick; he didn't even spare him the corner of his eye. His gaze was calmly fixed on the path ahead leading to the temporary purification station, as though Rick and his lackeys were merely two rocks blocking the way-not even rocks, just an insignificant puff of air.

Rick's face turned visibly ashen, and he took a step forward with a vicious glare. Yet his two lackeys instinctively held him back. Having witnessed firsthand how Zhao Fan had single-handedly driven himself like a madman to finish a two-person workload, that silent and frantic posture instilled a primal fear in men accustomed to bullying the weak.

"Boss, forget it," one lackey advised in a low voice. "Why bother with two nearly crippled guys? There are plenty of ways to fix them tomorrow."

Rick ultimately stopped in his tracks, staring fixedly at Zhao Fan's back. That gaze flickered with spiteful malice in the dark like a real venomous snake. He knew that the scene he wanted to see today-those two breaking down and begging-had not happened. Not only had he failed to drive them to the brink, but it was as if he had been grinding a silent, stubborn stone, arousing a humiliation far exceeding mere anger.

Zhao Fan could clearly sense that gaze burning straight through his back, but he did not stop for even a single step.

On the return commuter bus, the same suffocating silence hung in the air.

With Zhao Fan's help, Old Dog found a window seat, stretching his injured leg out as straight as possible. He did not sleep, only keeping his eyes half-closed as he watched the urban landscape-hovering between ruins and prosperity-flash backward outside the window.

The commuter bus ground to a halt at a dilapidated station on the edge of Queens, emitting an overburdened groan. The doors opened, and a crowd of physically and mentally exhausted cleaners poured off the bus like dumped sardines, numbing out before rapidly merging into the city's night background and vanishing.

Supporting Old Dog Jose, who was practically unable to walk on his own, Zhao Fan stepped off the bus last. Every step Old Dog took triggered a suppressed gasp from his injured leg, while Zhao Fan himself felt every muscle in his body howling, as if repeatedly pierced by countless red-hot steel needles.

The high-intensity labor of Zone C-2 all afternoon had squeezed out his very last ounce of strength, leaving behind only a bone-deep ache and fatigue.

The two said nothing, walking silently through the dim streets. The streetlights' illumination, filtered through heavy dust, cast weak light that dragged their shadows out long, like two ghosts wandering across a doomsday wasteland.

"Kid..." Eventually, Old Dog broke the silence first, his voice sounding as raspy as two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. "Thanks... for today."

"Don't mention it, Jose," Zhao Fan replied, his voice calm with an unnatural composure. "We're partners. Besides, if not for me, Rick wouldn't be targeting us. I'm the one who should be saying thanks."

Zhao Fan shook his head. "I'm the one who dragged you into this."

"Bullshit," Old Dog sneered, aggravating the wound at the corner of his mouth. "That rattlesnake targeted us. Even without you, he would have found another excuse sooner or later. I just didn't expect... you kid could actually fucking carry it."

Old Dog stopped, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, and fished out from his pocket a pack of cigarettes crumpled almost into a paper ball. After shaking it for a long while, he found it empty. Irritatedly, he wadded up the box and threw it away, his clouded eyes flashing with a sharp glint in the dim light.

"No, you don't understand," he said, looking straight at Zhao Fan, word by word. "This isn't your fault. Hyenas like Rick are always looking for the weakest prey. Before, both of us were, but today, you're different. When you were working like a mad beast in C-2, I saw it... That wasn't the look of a pushover who only knows how to swallow insults when bullied."

He paused, as if weighing his words. "You've got a fire hidden inside you, kid. I didn't see it before, but I saw it today. That fire can burn you to ash, and it can also... burn what's standing in front of you to ash. Rick saw it, too.

So, this isn't over. He lost face today; next time, he'll use dirtier, harsher tricks to deal with you until he crushes you completely into the mud."

Zhao Fan remained silent. He knew everything Old Dog said was true. When passing Rick and enduring his spittle and humiliation, his own ignored calmness was a provocation far more severe to someone like Rick than any retort.

"I understand," Zhao Fan nodded, his eyes as deep as the night. "That's why I can't wait anymore."

"Wait? Wait for what?" Old Dog asked, somewhat puzzled.

Zhao Fan did not answer, instead asking in return, "Jose, that 'accidental harvest' you mentioned... aside from picking up jewelry dropped by Wall Street idiots in the vaults, are there other ways?"

Old Dog's pupils contracted sharply. He stared fixedly at Zhao Fan, as though seeing this young man for the very first time. This question transcended the scope of an ordinary cleaner; it led down another path-one devoid of rules, filled only with danger and dark opportunity.

"Are you out of your mind?" After a long moment, Old Dog squeezed a few words through his teeth. "Do you know what you're asking? D.O.D.C. doesn't like temporary workers who cause trouble, and if this gets found out... A few coins and pieces of jewelry are one thing; as long as they aren't openly displayed, nobody will bother checking. But if it's the high-end stuff... get fired by the former, and you just lose a job; get handled by the latter, and you lose your life!"

"For someone who can't even afford next month's rent, how much is a life worth?" Zhao Fan laughed self-deprecatingly, though his smile lacked a shred of warmth. "Jose, down in the basement today, you asked how I noticed that prefabricated slab was flawed. I lied. It was an intuition... an intuition I can't explain. It saved my life, and it saved yours, but I also know that luck eventually runs out. I no longer want to hand my life over to luck or other people's hands."

Supporting Old Dog, he continued walking forward, his tone growing increasingly firm. "I need money. Only with money can I truly protect myself and the people I care about. If official wages can't provide it, then I'll just have to take it myself from the 'accidental harvests'."

Old Dog stayed silent for a long while, breathing heavily.

Zhao Fan's words sent slow ripples stirring through his heart. He looked at the young man supporting him, spine straight as an arrow, resembling an unsheathing blade under the dim streetlights.

When they reached the base of Zhao Fan's apartment building, Old Dog finally stopped.

Fumbling for a long time inside the lining of his worn work clothes, he pulled out a small item wrapped in oilcloth and shoved it into Zhao Fan's hand.

"I don't know what the hell you're planning, kid. But you saved my life twice today, so I'll return the favor once." Old Dog's voice dropped to a whisper. "This is the address of 'Shadow'. Hell's Kitchen, a bar called 'Wreckage'. Don't say I gave it to you. And don't easily trust her. She's a real venomous snake; if you're going to trade with her, you'd better make sure you've got enough fangs of your own."

With that, he limped toward another apartment building where he lived, never looking back.

Zhao Fan unfolded his hand. Wrapped inside the oilcloth was a rusted coin, inscribed with a blurred bar address. He could feel the residual warmth of Old Dog lingering on the coin. Silently, he slipped the coin into his inner pocket.

Dragging his heavy steps, Zhao Fan climbed the creaking stairs. When he reached his familiar door, he unexpectedly found that his neighbor Maya Chen's door was ajar, a rustling sound and the suppressed, tearful complaining of a girl drifting out from within.

His neighbor Maya had always quietly helped him during his times of distress. Although she herself faced financial constraints, she never hesitated to extend a helping hand. Occasionally, Maya would pass over a plate of cookies she had baked herself; those fragrant, simple biscuits might not have been delicious, yet they brought a sliver of warmth to his freezing little room. Her assistance was modest yet constant, like a firefly in the dark illuminating his dimmest days.

"...Why... why did it collapse again... it was just a little bit more..."

Driven by concern, Zhao Fan knocked gently on the door. The sound inside stopped abruptly, and after a moment, the door cracked open to reveal Maya's face, stained with white powder and red-rimmed around the eyes.

"Zhao Fan? It's you... sorry, did I disturb you?" Seeing it was Zhao Fan, she awkwardly wiped her eyes.

"No. I just got back. I heard some noise on your side, so I came to check." Zhao Fan's gaze crossed her shoulder, taking in the scene inside the room.

Maya's room looked less like a living space and more like a miniature art studio. Huge dust cloths covered the floor, with various tools and pigments scattered everywhere. In the middle of the room stood a giant sculpture welded and pieced together from scraps of metal-twisted rebar, melted car hubs, and even an alloy plate bearing Chitauri-style patterns. At that moment, it had caved in from the middle, collapsing pathetically onto the floor like a steel beast with a broken spine.

"This is..." Zhao Fan said, surprised.

"It's my graduation project," Maya sniffled, her voice heavy with frustration. "The theme is 'Rebirth'. I wanted to use these 'dead' things picked from the ruins to create a life-filled figure shouting toward the sky. But... its structure is too complex, I couldn't calculate the load-bearing points correctly, and this is already the third time it's collapsed..."

Zhao Fan's gaze fell upon that heap of wreckage. As a professional "cleaner," his understanding of the physical properties of these materials far surpassed Maya's. His gaze lingered for a few seconds on the "spine" of the sculpture-a fractured load-bearing beam forcefully welded back together.

"The problem is right here," he stepped inside, pointing at that welding point. "For this main beam, when you welded it, you only considered the external fixation, but it took the impact of energy weapons during the battle, and the internal metallic structure has already become brittle. You used it as the core load-bearing point; the heavier the weight piled on top, the easier it will snap from the inside."

Squatting down, he picked out a few relatively thin yet remarkably tough strips of metal from the pile of scraps, resembling cables from inside a Chitauri flyer. "You should use this material, weaving it like rope to reinforce it internally and share the stress. Also, your base is too small-top-heavy." As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, unconsciously applying the experience he gained from dealing with such "trash" for so long to the realm of art.

Maya stared at him in a daze, her red eyes filled with astonishment and awe. "You... how do you know so much?"

"...Occupational hazard," Zhao Fan replied concisely.

A cloud lifted from Maya's face at last, giving way to a broad smile. "Zhao Fan! You're simply my savior! Thank you so much! Let me treat you to dinner! No, I only have instant noodles here... Oh, right, I sold a painting today and made some money, let's go out to eat!"

Without waiting for his consent, she grabbed Zhao Fan's hand and headed for the door. Her hand was warm, soft, bearing the dry texture of paint. In that instant, the land within Zhao Fan's heart-hardened and chilled by the cruelty of Zone C-2 and his calculations for the future-seemed to have a tiny corner melted by this warmth.

Feeling slightly out of place, he thought of his dirty work clothes and the grim resolve he had just forged to step into darkness, and instinctively tried to pull his hand back.

Declining, he said, "I... I'm very dirty."

"It doesn't matter, artists are always messy!" Maya laughed carefree. "Let's go, let's go, consider it a celebration that my sculpture is finally saved!"

In the end, Zhao Fan was dragged out by her. At a cheap pizza joint on the street corner, the two shared a steaming-hot Hawaiian pizza. Maya chattered away like a happy little bird about her artistic dreams, explaining how she viewed this disaster-in her eyes, it was not merely destruction, but an unprecedented "reshaping," turning the entire city into a giant work of art filled with the aesthetic of fragmentation.

Zhao Fan spent most of the time listening in silence, occasionally offering a word or two.

Watching the girl before him, full of goodwill and idealism toward the world, a complex emotion welled up inside him. What he experienced was the truest bloodshed, greed, and death traps beneath the ruins; what she saw was the most romantic rebirth, hope, and artistic inspiration above the ruins.

They lived in the same city, the same era, and even the same building, yet they seemed to inhabit two completely different worlds.

After finishing the pizza, Zhao Fan insisted on going Dutch, and Maya did not refuse. Maya knew that to him, this was a form of equal respect.

"Thank you so much today!" Standing downstairs from the apartment building, Maya thanked him sincerely once more. "When my sculpture is finished, you'll be the first person I invite to see it!"

"Okay," Zhao Fan nodded.

Watching Maya bounce happily up the stairs, the softness on Zhao Fan's face gradually faded, replaced once more by calmness and grit.

After chatting downstairs for a bit, Zhao Fan returned to his small den. Leaving the lights off, he walked to the table in the pale light filtering in from the city reconstruction site outside the window and sat down.

At that moment, he suddenly felt a slight anomaly beneath the sole of his foot.

Looking down in the dim light from the window, he noticed something wedged into the groove of his work boot's sole. Constantly rubbed during his walk earlier, that object was currently exuding a faint, almost imperceptible warmth.

His heart gave a violent leap.

This was something brought back from Zone C-2!

He instantly realized the gravity of the problem. D.O.D.C. had strict regulations prohibiting any contaminants from being carried out of the work zone; the purification procedures before knocking off every day existed precisely for this reason. If discovered, he would be fired on the spot and possibly isolated and investigated as a security threat.

Holding his breath, he carefully removed his boot and brought it to the table. He saw it clearly: a fingernail-sized lump of metal, entirely a bizarre deep blue, its surface pitted like debris chipped off from a much larger metal lump. It was wedged tightly in the treads of his sole.

Why wasn't it detected?

A wave of lingering fear washed over Zhao Fan, accompanied simultaneously by an unfamiliar surge of emotion. Fetching a small knife, he tried to pry the metal lump out. But the object was wedged too tightly; after struggling for a long time until the knife tip grew dull, he failed to succeed.

Irritated, he tossed the knife aside and dug at it directly with his fingers. Through the remaining fabric of his worn-out protective glove, his fingertips made direct contact with the metal chunk.

A faint, static-like sting came from his fingertips.

Zhao Fan frowned but paid it no mind and kept pulling. He had to get rid of this thing before dawn and throw it into some sewer no one knew about.

The seconds ticked by. His fingers had been in contact with the lump of metal for over ten seconds.

Just as he was about to give up and smash this piece of sole apart with a hammer, that cold, emotionless mechanical voice thundered deep inside his mind without warning:

[High-energy residue detected (Grade C)...]

[Continuous contact duration requirement met...]

[System activating... Parsing energy protocol...]

[Activation successful!]

Zhao Fan's body went rigid. He felt as though he had been struck by lightning, his mind blank.

Was he... was he hearing things? Was it because he was too tired today? Or because he had inhaled too much harmful gas?

[Beginner protocol initiated...]

[Analyzing target: "Chitauri infantry armor fragment"...]

[Analysis complete.]

[Congratulations, host. Basic ability acquired: Basic Precision Throwing.]

A stream of cold information washed straight through his consciousness like a waterfall of data. At the same time, several lines of pale blue, futuristic text actually appeared on his retinas, clearly displaying the same content.

This wasn't a hallucination!

Zhao Fan shot up from his chair so abruptly that it toppled backward with a crash. He stared at his hands in shock, then looked at the work boot. The lump of metal that had fallen to the floor was still glowing faintly.

A golden finger... a system...

This thing he had fantasized about countless times since transmigrating, only to be disappointed countless times, had actually arrived in such a bizarre way when he was at his most desperate, most wretched, and least expecting it.

Overwhelming joy erupted like a volcano, instantly sweeping away all the exhaustion, humiliation, and despair that had built up over the past several days.

But he neither laughed nor shouted. Long years of suppression had taught him to control his emotions. He merely bit down hard on his lip, his chest heaving as he felt his heart nearly leap out of his throat.

He forced himself to calm down.

"Basic Precision Throwing?"

He silently repeated the ability's name.

A faint stream of information flowed into Zhao Fan's mind. Like an instinct he had been born with, he instantly understood what the ability meant. Once activated, it would project a dynamic blue parabola before his eyes. Based on the target's relative speed and the surrounding gravity, it would quickly calculate the optimal throwing angle. After this brief calibration, his next throwing attack would have some of its trajectory deviation corrected.

He needed to test it. He picked up the fragment from the floor and put it in the desk drawer.

He looked around his bare-walled "home." The only piece of "clutter" was the stiff paper ball on the desk, a rent demand he had crumpled up.

He took a deep breath, picked up the ball of stiff paper, and looked toward the battered cardboard box used for trash in the corner of the room. It was about five meters away.

He did not deliberately aim. He simply flicked the paper ball away without thinking, just as he usually threw out the trash.

Yet the instant the paper ball left his hand, a strange sensation emerged. He seemed able to clearly "see" a perfect, pale blue parabolic trajectory extending from his palm to the very center of the cardboard box.

And the paper ball flew precisely along that trajectory.

"Thup."

With a soft sound, the paper ball landed squarely in the center of the box.

Zhao Fan froze.

Once could be a coincidence.

He walked over, picked up the paper ball, and returned to his original position.

This time, he even closed his eyes and threw the paper ball by feel.

"Thup." The same sound again, in the same spot.

His eyes snapped open, and his breathing quickened. He rushed out of his room, ran to the stairwell, and picked up the paper ball again. At the end of the street below stood an abandoned, cracked flowerpot.

It was about fifty meters from him, and the angle was tricky.

Without the slightest hesitation, he threw the paper ball in that direction.

The paper ball traced a silver line through the dim stairwell with a faint swish through the air. Zhao Fan's eyes could even catch every detail of it tumbling in midair.

"Thup!"

A familiar sound of impact rang out. The paper ball landed in the battered flowerpot with perfect accuracy.

Zhao Fan stood rooted at the stairwell entrance, his body trembling slightly with extreme excitement.

He thought of those deadly knife throwers on the battlefield, and those sharpshooters on the basketball court who never missed a shot.

More than that, he thought of the stones and fragments scattered everywhere among the ruins...

What if he wasn't throwing paper balls and coins?

Before, he had never had any power. Now, he did. Though it was not strong enough, at least he finally had something to look forward to.