A glimmer in the ruins

The soft "thump, thump, thump" from the room next door passed through the thin partition and reached Maya Chen's ears like some reassuring signal.

She set down her scraper, not yet having had time to untie her paint-covered work apron. The "steel beast" before her, pieced together from twisted rebar and half a shattered shell, still looked ferocious, but to Maya, it seemed less menacing than before, with a touch more muscular strength.

Zhao's back.

The thought finally relaxed the nerves Maya had kept taut all night. She turned toward the closed door, her gaze seeming to pierce the wood and see the young man who was now sprawled on his mattress next door.

Zhao Fan had been different tonight. Though she could not make out exactly what was happening through the wall, his footsteps on the stairs had been heavier than ever before, yet also firmer than ever.

Without thinking, Maya rummaged through a cardboard box in the corner and found a carefully hidden packet of instant coffee-one of her few luxuries. She wanted to take a cup next door, but stopped halfway through reaching out.

"Never mind. Let him sleep," she murmured. "He's exhausted."

Her gaze fell on the windowsill. Half a piece of long-hardened rye bread lay there beside a half-finished sketch. The drawing showed a man from behind, dressed in a loose protective suit, pushing an enormous block of concrete like Sisyphus, struggling toward that tower that pierced the clouds, its "A" emblem gleaming.

That was Zhao Fan, or rather... Zhao Fan three months ago.

In the stillness of the night, the door to her memories quietly opened. Maya Chen leaned against the cold wall and let her thoughts flow backward, returning to that bone-chilling morning, to the day this man named Zhao Fan first entered her world like a ghost.

[From Zhao Fan's first week after transmigrating to the eve of joining D.O.D.C.]

The rain in Queens always carried a greasy feeling that could never quite be washed away.

Maya Chen sat in her cramped studio, crowded with drawing boards and paint cans, her brush hovering in the air without touching the canvas.

The canvas held a muddle of gray. She was trying to paint the city being rebuilt outside her window, but however she mixed her colors, that golden reflection from Stark Tower, so painfully glaring at this moment, always disrupted the painting's overall tone.

It was splendor amid despair, a miracle beyond the reach of mortals.

A dull noise came from next door, as though something heavy had fallen to the floor, followed by a bout of muffled coughing that sounded like someone drowning.

Maya set down her brush, her brow creasing slightly.

That was room 304, where the young man named Zhao Fan lived.

In Maya's memory, the original Zhao Fan had been a typical "invisible man." He worked as a clerk at some obscure little company, keeping nine-to-five hours, walking with his head down, speaking in a voice as quiet as a mosquito, his eyes always evasive. He was like a weed growing in a crack in this old apartment building's wall, alive but lifeless.

But ever since that hangover three days ago-or some other accident-he had "changed."

Not in appearance, but in his presence.

That morning, Maya had been about to leave for the art academy to hand in a sketch destined to draw criticism from her instructor. As she passed room 304, its door stood ajar. She glanced inside instinctively and saw the young man standing before a battered mirror, staring fixedly at his own face.

Maya would never forget that look for the rest of her life.

It held utter unfamiliarity, terror, and a kind of... dislocation, as though a soul had been forcibly stuffed into a body that did not belong to it. He touched his cheek with trembling fingertips, as though checking whether he was still alive-or rather, what exactly he had become.

From that day onward, room 304 fell into deathly silence. He did not go out or open the curtains. She never even heard the whistle of him boiling water once. Only the occasional low growl late at night, like a wounded animal's, echoed through the apartment building's poorly soundproofed rooms.

"Three days..." Maya glanced at the clock on the wall. Two in the morning.

If she left him alone, the landlord would probably have a corpse on his hands tomorrow morning.

Maya sighed and took a bag of whole wheat bread from the cupboard, bread she had not even been willing to eat herself. She took out one slice, paused, then took out another and poured a glass of water. She was a poor student. Art was the cheapest dream in this age, and she could barely make ends meet herself, but some things were the bare minimum of being human.

She opened her door, walked to room 304, and knocked gently.

"Zhao? Are you in there?"

No answer.

"Zhao, it's Maya, from next door. I... I heard you coughing really badly."

Still, there was only deathly silence.

Just as Maya thought he had passed out and was about to ask the landlord for a spare key, shuffling footsteps came from inside. Shoe soles scraped over rough concrete, heavy and unsteady.

Click.

The lock turned, and the door opened a crack.

Along with the apartment's usual stale odor, an indescribable smell of "death" washed over her. By the dim hallway light, Maya saw the face behind the door.

It was Zhao Fan, yet no longer the Zhao Fan she knew.

He had grown gaunt beyond recognition, his eyes sunken, his stubble unkempt. Those once-evasive eyes were now bloodshot and staring straight at her. Their timidity was gone, replaced by bottomless emptiness and bewilderment, like a wandering soul that had just crawled back from the edge of hell, only to discover the human world was a purgatory too.

In a later conversation, Maya had laughingly described him then: "You looked like a stray cat that had been buried in rubble for three whole days and nights and just dug out. Your face was so blue you could've been related to the Chitauri, and you were curled up trembling."

Any ordinary New Yorker, faced with a confused neighbor with a history of alcohol abuse, would probably have shut the door and called the police, or simply ignored him. In this chaotic world, where everyone was too busy surviving to look after anyone else, compassion was the greatest luxury.

"Where... is this?" he asked in Chinese, his voice weak.

Maya froze for a moment, then answered in Chinese too. "Queens."

"...What year?"

His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper scraping rust, yet the first thing he said was an inexplicable question.

Maya paused, then answered instinctively, "2012... It hasn't been long since the Battle of New York."

"2012... Battle of New York... Avengers..."

Zhao Fan murmured to himself. His body swayed sharply, and he caught the doorframe. Lowering his head, he let out a short laugh that sounded worse than crying.

"It really is here... I didn't go back... I can't go back..."

Maya could not understand what he was saying, but she could feel the almost-devouring despair emanating from him. It was not the specific pain of losing a relationship or a job, but the emptiness left after an entire worldview collapsed.

"Are... are you all right?" Maya cautiously raised the plate in her hands. "You haven't been out for three days. I brought you something to eat."

Zhao Fan lifted his head, his gaze falling on those dry slices of bread.

In that instant, the emptiness in his eyes filled with the most primitive bodily instinct-hunger.

He dispensed with politeness, not even thanking her, and snatched the bread, wolfing it down. He ate so quickly that he choked until his eyes rolled back, and Maya hurriedly handed him the water.

"Slow down! No one's going to take it!"

Zhao Fan gulped down water and coughed violently, until tears streamed from his eyes. Yet he still clutched the remaining half slice of bread as though it were his last lifeline.

When he finally caught his breath, he leaned against the doorframe and slowly slid to the floor. He raised his head and looked properly at Maya for the first time.

In that dim light, this slightly plump Asian girl with paint on her face became the only color he had seen since arriving in this damned world.

"Thank you."

He said it very quietly, but those two words carried so much weight.

That was Zhao Fan's first meal after transmigrating, and the first bond he formed with this world.

In the days that followed, Maya became Zhao Fan's window onto this world.

This newly arrived "soul" seemed to know nothing of common sense. He did not know prices or where to buy cheap food, and even riding the subway required readjustment. He was like a newborn abandoned amid these steel ruins.

Maya did not ask many questions. In these turbulent times, everyone had secrets they did not want to share. Some had lost their memories because of war, others had developed stress disorders from trauma. It was nothing unusual.

She simply helped him quietly.

Sometimes, when she went to buy paints, she would pick up a newspaper for Zhao Fan. He had asked for it. He seemed desperate to learn about every corner of this world, especially news about those "superheroes."

Maya noticed that whenever he saw reports about Stark Industries or the Avengers in the paper, Zhao Fan's eyes grew complicated. There was mockery, wariness, and a kind of... pity, as though he were watching a tragedy whose ending had already been spoiled.

"They're heroes, aren't they?" Maya could not help asking once. "They saved New York."

Zhao Fan put down the newspaper and looked at the gleaming tower in the distance outside the window, his lips curving bitterly.

"Heroes? Maybe." He spoke softly. "But when elephants fight, who cares whether the ants live or die?"

That was the first time Maya had heard Zhao Fan say anything so profound and cold. She suddenly realized that perhaps, deep inside, this seemingly down-and-out man harbored a clearer understanding than anyone else.

But he still faced the most practical problem-survival.

One evening a week later, a heated argument broke out downstairs.

Maya had just returned from her part-time job at an art studio when she saw the mean-faced old landlord in the first-floor lobby, pointing at Zhao Fan's nose and cursing him out.

"No money? Why are you living in an apartment if you have no money? Go live in the sewers! That's free!" The landlord's fat finger nearly jabbed Zhao Fan's face. "I've already given you another week! I haven't even charged you for this week's utilities! Do you think I run a charity?"

Zhao Fan stood there in an ill-fitting old shirt washed pale, his back perfectly straight, but his face frighteningly white.

He did not argue, because those were the facts. The original owner's savings had amounted to only a few dozen dollars, all spent over the past week. He could not find a job. In a city where everything needed rebuilding, clerks were worth the least, and as for manual labor... with this body that had spent years in an office, he could not even compete with those strong Mexican men for brick-hauling work.

"Give me three more days." Zhao Fan's voice was calm, but sounded especially powerless amid the noise. "If I can't pay after three days, I'll get out myself."

"Three days? You don't even get three minutes!" the landlord roared, reaching for Zhao Fan's collar. "Pack your things and get the hell out now!"

"Wait!"

Maya rushed over and stood in front of Zhao Fan.

"Please don't do this, sir." Slightly breathless, Maya pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket. They were her wages from this week's part-time work, originally meant for new sculpting clay. "This... this can cover part of it for him. You'll definitely get the rest in a few days."

The landlord paused, looking at the money in Maya's hand, then at Zhao Fan standing behind her with clenched fists.

"Maya, are you stupid?" The landlord frowned. His tone was still harsh, but had clearly softened somewhat. "You've only just paid your own rent in full. Why stick your nose into this? One look tells you this kid's a lost cause. There's no saving him."

"He's not a lost cause." Maya stubbornly held out the money. "Everyone's struggling. Please."

Zhao Fan looked at the girl standing in front of him. She was not tall, nor were her shoulders broad, but at this moment, her back was like a wall, shielding him from this world's malice and humiliation.

A long-unfamiliar heat called "shame" surged into Zhao Fan's heart. Before transmigrating, he too had been a man with fierce self-respect. Now he had fallen to relying on a girl even worse off than himself to give him dignity as charity.

He reached out and gently lowered Maya's hand holding the money.

"No, Maya," Zhao Fan said in a low voice. "Put it away. That's your money."

Then he looked at the landlord, his gaze making even this old man, who had spent years on the streets, pause.

"I'm not leaving, and I won't let her pay for me," Zhao Fan said, enunciating every word. "The water pipe in this building's basement burst three days ago, and no one's fixed it. The water's already seeped into the foundations. Unless you want this building declared unsafe and demolished by the government, you need a repairman. I can fix it."

The landlord narrowed his eyes, the cigar in his mouth twitching. "You can fix it? That's the main pipe. Even ordinary plumbers won't touch it."

"I said I can fix it." Zhao Fan did not explain how he knew-while integrating the original owner's memories, he had discovered that although the man had been a clerk, he had done odd jobs on construction sites during college summers and knew a little about plumbing. On top of that, after transmigrating, he seemed to have awakened some keen intuition for "structure." "If I can't, or if I make it worse, you can call the police on me or throw me out. I won't complain. But if I fix it, that covers one month's rent."

The landlord stared at him for a full half minute, then snorted, threw his cigar on the floor, and stamped it out.

"The tools are in the basement. If you drown yourself, don't expect me to collect your corpse. I'll sell you to the gangs."

With that, the landlord turned and left without taking a penny from Maya.

Maya looked at Zhao Fan in surprise. "You... you really know how to fix it?"

Zhao Fan gave a bitter smile, carrying a measure of helplessness and self-mockery. "Even if I don't, I'll have to. Push someone far enough, and they'll learn anything."

That was Zhao Fan's first "adventure" in this world. He spent an entire night soaking in that sewage-filled basement, using leverage and rusty tools to miraculously stop that complicated leak.

The next morning, when he climbed out, drenched and reeking, the landlord was standing at the basement entrance with two steaming meat buns in his hand.

"Eat, then go take a damn shower." The landlord tossed him the buns, still wearing a sour expression as though someone owed him money. "Don't dirty my hallway. You get one month's rent free. If I don't see the money this time next month, nobody's pleading will help."

Zhao Fan caught the buns and smiled in his bedraggled state. He knew this seemingly vicious landlord actually possessed the rough kindness particular to the people at the bottom in Queens.

And that kindness had come because Maya had stepped forward, and because he had staked everything on one attempt.

Securing a place to live still did not solve the problem of food.

Zhao Fan's first job had not gone as smoothly as he made it sound.

Zhao Fan began frantically looking for work. He waited tables at restaurants, hauled sacks at the docks, and even tried selling blood on the black market, only to be turned away because he was anemic.

That was the darkest period of his life. As a transmigrator, he had no system, no golden finger, and no superpowers. All he possessed was despairing foreknowledge of the future and a frail body.

But he did not give up. Whenever he wanted to jump from the rooftop and end it all, he remembered the half slice of bread Maya had handed him that night, and her steadfast back as she stood before the landlord.

If even this girl, neither family nor friend, was trying to keep him alive, what right did he have to die?

Maya watched him leave before dawn every day, heading to the most dangerous, most heavily irradiated areas in search of odd jobs.

At first, he came home covered in injuries every day, his hands full of blood blisters, his shoulders swollen and bruised from heavy loads. Once, a piece of rebar even cut a long gash in his calf, soaking his trouser leg with blood.

Her heart aching, Maya helped bandage his wounds.

"D.O.D.C. is hiring." Zhao Fan grimaced in pain, but his eyes were startlingly bright. "It's outsourced temp work, but they pay cash. As long as you're willing to do the dirty, exhausting jobs, you can survive."

"It's too dangerous, Zhao," Maya said as she applied iodine solution. "There's radiation there, and unexploded alien weapons."

"I know." Zhao Fan looked out the window at the enormous Stark Tower, like a gravestone. "But it's the only chance I can seize. I don't want anyone pointing in my face and calling me useless again. And I don't want... to make you take out your money to support me again."

Maya's hand paused.

She realized that her once-fragile neighbor was growing at an astonishing speed. This brutal environment was like a furnace, burning away his excess impurities and forging him into a hard piece of iron.

It was around then that Zhao Fan began bringing things back.

At first, they were inconspicuous scraps of metal. He quietly left them at Maya's door with a note: "I thought this shape was unusual. Maybe you can use it."

Later, the scrap became more valuable components, even alloy plates with a Chitauri style, like today's.

He never said much, always leaving the things quietly before walking away.

It was also during that period that he met Jose, "Old Dog."

It happened outside one of D.O.D.C.'s temporary recruitment sites. Hundreds upon hundreds of unemployed people crowded outside the wire fence, waving completed forms, hoping to secure a laboring job clearing rubble.

"Only fifty people! Strong workers only!" the foreman shouted from atop a truck. "You, skinny monkey, get out of here! We want people who can move rebar, not someone here to water flowers!"

The "skinny monkey" he was pointing at was Zhao Fan.

The crowd shoved him from side to side, crumpling the form in his hand. Just as he was about to be pushed out of the line, a burly man beside him suddenly slipped and was about to fall onto a pile of sharp glass debris.

Everyone around him coldly moved aside, afraid of getting caught up in it.

Only Zhao Fan reached out almost instinctively, grabbing the burly man's arm tight. The tremendous momentum dragged him down too, and his knee struck the concrete hard, scraping away a large patch of skin and sending blood flowing.

But he did not let go, forcing the burly man back into balance.

Once steady, the burly man did not even thank him. He hurriedly squeezed back into the line ahead, afraid of losing his place.

Zhao Fan sat on the ground, clutching his bleeding knee, cold sweat pouring off him from the pain. All around were indifferent, even mocking eyes.

"What an idiot," someone whispered. "Can't even stand steady himself, and he's helping someone else."

Zhao Fan said nothing. He simply got up silently, brushed off the dust, and prepared to limp away. He knew he had no chance again today.

Just then, a large, rough hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hey, kid."

Zhao Fan turned and saw a Latino man in his fifties, his face covered in wrinkles, half a cigarette butt between his lips. He wore filthy work clothes, his eyes cloudy, looking like a drunk who might collapse at any moment.

"What's your name?" the old man asked.

"Zhao Fan."

"You got any strength?"

"...Yes," Zhao Fan said through gritted teeth, though his legs were still shaking.

"Strength, my ass." The old man scoffed and blew a smoke ring. "But you've got a decent eye. If it weren't for you just now, that idiot would've had his throat cut by the glass. D.O.D.C. may collect garbage, but we don't want to deal with workplace accidents every day either."

The old man pulled a filthy work badge from his pocket and tossed it to Zhao Fan.

"Take this and go find the fat guy handling registration in the back. Tell him Jose, 'Old Dog,' sent you. We need a 'skinny monkey' to crawl into holes and clean out tight corners. Those big guys can't do that work."

Zhao Fan froze, clutching the badge that still carried the old man's body heat, hardly able to believe it.

"Why?" he asked.

Old Dog shrugged, turned, and limped toward the recruitment site.

"Because in this godforsaken place, there aren't many people left who know to reach out and give someone a hand. Even for my own sake, I need to find a partner who won't leave me in the rubble to die when the time comes. Understand, rookie?"

That was Zhao Fan's first day working at D.O.D.C.

When he returned that evening, Zhao Fan used his salary advance to buy a large bag of real, fresh bread and a bottle of milk, then knocked on Maya's door.

Maya was startled when she saw the wound on his knee and hurriedly pulled him inside to treat it.

"You found a job?" Maya asked in delighted surprise as she wrapped gauze around his knee.

"Yeah. Clearing rubble." Zhao Fan watched Maya's focused profile, the dim yellow light falling across her face. In that moment, he felt it was the most beautiful sight in the world. "It's filthy, exhausting, and I could even die, but... it pays."

"As long as it pays. Money means you can stay alive." Maya smiled, her eyes curving into crescents. "Zhao, you know what? These past few days, I've kept thinking you were like a glass man who could shatter at any moment. But today, I think you're like a stone."

"A stone?"

"Yeah. Rough, but at least you're solid." Maya pointed at the unfinished sculpture beside her, pieced together from discarded rebar and chunks of concrete. "Just like this. Things can grow out of the ruins, too."

Zhao Fan looked at the sculpture. It was the early form of what would later become Maya's graduation project, "New Life."

"Maya."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for saving me," Zhao Fan said earnestly. "If it weren't for that piece of bread that day, if you hadn't spoken up for me in front of the landlord, I'd be dead."

Maya froze for a moment, then waved her hands bashfully. "Oh, come on, how many times have I told you? It was nothing..."

"No, it meant a lot to me." Zhao Fan interrupted her, his hand gently stroking the rough sculpture. "In this city, everyone's losing things, everyone's taking. Only you gave to me when I had nothing. I'll repay that kindness."

"How? By pledging yourself to me?" Maya joked, trying to ease the overly solemn atmosphere.

"A drop of kindness should be repaid with a gushing spring." Zhao Fan did not smile. In that moment, his gaze became unfathomably deep, as though it pierced through time and saw some moment in the future.

Maya stared at him blankly. She did not know why Zhao Fan would say something that sounded like a line from a movie.

Zhao Fan recalled it all on his way home from work. The night breeze was a little chilly.

Zhao Fan leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, watching Old Dog limp away.

Everything that had happened earlier replayed in his mind: the explosion, the gold, and Old Dog's words, "You saved my life again."

In truth, this was a cycle.

Kindness was passed on. Because of Maya's kindness, Zhao Fan had survived; because Zhao Fan had lent a hand at the job fair that day, Old Dog had given him a chance; and Zhao Fan, in turn, had saved Old Dog with his intuition.

In this Marvel Universe, beyond the Infinity Stones and superpowers, perhaps this insignificant glimmer of humanity was the only weapon mortals had against gods.

He raised his head and looked toward that familiar little window not far away. A light was on inside. Maya was staying up late, rushing to finish her sculpture.

Even now, he was still weak, still an ant that could be crushed at any moment.

But he had a system now. He had [Basic Precision Throwing]. He had something powerful enough to change his fate.

More importantly, he had something he had to protect.

"To rebirth," Zhao Fan murmured, repeating the phrase Maya often said.

He took a coin from his pocket, a weapon he intended to use for throwing practice. The coin danced between his fingers, tracing silver arcs.

Before, he had lived only to stay alive.

But starting tonight, he would strive to live better, so Maya would no longer have to worry over paintbrushes that cost a few dozen dollars, so Old Dog would no longer have to risk his life for that pitiful pension, so he would no longer have to bow to the whims of those snobbish scumbags...

He would become a "player" in this ruined world, not its "dregs."

Zhao Fan glanced one last time in the direction of Stark Tower, his gaze gradually turning cold and resolute.

Since the heroes would not deal with the mess down here, he would take over, in his own way.

He stubbed out his cigarette and turned into the dark stairwell, his footsteps steady and strong.