The dim hallway flickered under the weak light of an old ceiling fixture, its bulb on the verge of burning out. The walls were stained and cracked, the narrow corridor barely visible under the sputtering glow. From time to time, soft rustling sounds came from the shadows, and Ma Zhaodi could spot a few gray rats darting across the floor.
He followed the man through the hallway, carefully stepping over trash and trickling sewage. But the stench was inescapable—it invaded his nostrils with such intensity it nearly made him retch.
"I swear I can't take this. Even if it's a slum, I get the grime and chaos, but what the hell is that smell?!"
The man grumbled, voice muffled: "Not totally sure. Might be a corpse rotting in one of the apartments."
"…Damn."
Ma Zhaodi glanced sideways, curious why the man suddenly sounded different. He leaned in and saw the guy had been smart enough to plug his nose the whole time.
So Ma Zhaodi followed suit, pinching his nose shut. His voice took on the same nasal tone. "Seriously, who the hell hides a corpse in their own place long enough for it to reek?"
"Might not have hidden it. Could've just died in there. Landlord said it's happened before—junkies overdosing, gang members crawling back to die quietly. Happens more than you'd think."
"People actually rent places like this?"
"You're welcome to go book a suite at the Iceberg Lounge or find a nice comfy bridge to sleep under."
"…Suddenly this place feels pretty cozy."
When you're broke, you don't get to be picky. Hotels were out of the question, and sleeping in a park or under a bridge? Best-case scenario: you wake up stripped of everything. Worst-case? You never wake up at all—just another unclaimed body in Gotham's shadows.
No one would even bother to bury you.
They stopped at a door. The man reached for his keys—but Ma Zhaodi instinctively stopped him.
"Wait. Who's at home?"
"My wife."
"And how exactly are you gonna explain me?"
"I'll say you're a new friend."
"What's my name?"
"…"
The air in the hallway thickened with awkward silence.
Ma Zhaodi couldn't help but crack a smirk. "Honestly, with a brain like yours, crime is not the move. Actually, forget crime—just staying alive in Gotham might be too much for you."
The man's face flushed with embarrassment, but he gritted his teeth and held back his anger. "…Then what's your name?"
"Ma Zhaodi."
"That sounds… Asian."
"Huh?" Ma blinked. "Where do you think I'm from?"
"…Hadn't really noticed before," the man said, giving him a once-over. "You look Asian, yeah. But something about you feels like you belong here. Like a real Gothamite."
Lean face. Sharp eyes. That cold, cunning look—like someone who'd seen way too much and still didn't flinch. A vibe that made people overlook his actual ethnicity.
Hearing that, Ma Zhaodi felt oddly touched. It even made him forget the despair of his financial ruin for a moment. Maybe that system of his really was doing something beyond paperwork and fake IDs.
"I'm Derek Lane."
"Cool. I'll just call you Derek, then. And hey—tell me you're not an archaeologist or something."
"…What? No. I'm a software engineer. Why would you ask that?"
"Thirty-five?"
"Thirty-three…"
Ma Zhaodi nodded knowingly and gestured toward the door. "Still… how'd a guy like you end up here?"
Just as he was about to unlock the door, Derek paused. After a moment, he looked up.
"I'll tell you. But once we're inside, don't bring it up again."
"Got it."
Instead of opening the door, Derek pulled the key out and nodded down the hallway.
"Come on. Let's talk on the roof."
The stairwell was pitch-black. Only a faint trace of moonlight and a few distant neon signs filtered in through the dusty windows, barely illuminating the steps. Neither of them spoke as they climbed, their footsteps echoing with a hollow weight that seemed to fill the silence with dread.
Four floors up, Derek pushed open a rusted iron door. Beyond it, the Gotham skyline stretched in jagged shadows under the cloudy night. To the side, a massive billboard flickered weakly, casting just enough light for them to make their way onto the rooftop.
They walked to the edge, overlooking the city's decaying sprawl. The only sounds were the soft splashes of rain hitting puddles.
"So," Derek finally said. "How'd I end up here?"
He sighed and pulled a rickety metal chair closer, wiping the rain off with one sleeve before sitting. The cold metal sent a shiver through him, but it was the kind of jolt he needed to keep himself awake.
"As I said… I used to be a programmer in Metropolis. Thirty-three. Right on schedule to get laid off. Honestly, I never really had a plan for what came next—never even considered Gotham."
He leaned forward, eyes hollow.
"About six months before I lost my job, my wife started coughing. Hair loss, too. I told her to see a doctor. She kept refusing—said she wanted to stay focused on work. Then one day, she finally went to the hospital and came back with a diagnosis."
"We thought it was just stress, maybe something minor. But that paper said she had something rare—a rare disease with an even rarer treatment plan. The medication? Off-the-charts expensive."
As he spoke, Derek's thin frame seemed to shrink even further. He buried his head in his hands, fingers gripping his scalp so hard that he tore out a few strands of hair. It looked like he was trying to rip the guilt out of himself physically.
His voice was hoarse now, and those bloodshot eyes beneath his dark circles looked dangerously unhinged.
"I burned through everything I had. Every cent. And it still wasn't enough. Her hair started falling out completely. Two months ago, she began coughing up blood. She can barely sleep anymore. Her organs… they're failing. We tried everything."
"And then… someone mentioned a man in Gotham. A genius. A doctor. Said his name was Victor Fries—a cryogenicist. He used experimental freezing tech to keep his own wife alive."
At that moment, Ma Zhaodi felt his soul nearly leave his body. He knew this was supposed to be a tragic story—but his survival instincts were screaming at him to run.
Victor Fries.
Most people knew him by another name:
Mr. Freeze.
Oh hell no—
Ice.