Chapter 6: A Story

"It must've been the summer when I was seven," Ma Zhaodi began. "My parents took me hiking. I was fearless back then—loved climbing dangerous cliffs and narrow ledges. I had great balance too, so even the tightest mountain paths felt like a walk in the park."

"We'd made it about halfway up the mountain when it started drizzling. Still, like always, I went ahead and stepped onto this natural stone bridge hanging off the cliff. I still remember the ridgeline in the rain, little streams trickling down the mountainside, leaping from rock to rock like mischievous sprites, all flowing into the river below, murmuring like—"

"Okay, stop. Just stop." Derek raised a hand, frowning. "We're not Sherlock and Watson here. No need for that kind of flowery narration. Just get to the point."

"What? I thought it was kinda nice," Camila said gently, smiling and patting Derek's arm. "Mr. Ma has a real gift for storytelling."

"Anyway," Ma Zhaodi cut straight to the chase. "I fell off the cliff and landed in a cave."

"The cave had a Santa Claus roasting reindeer over a fire. He told me that if I shared this story with someone, it would cure all their ailments. Then he hopped on his sleigh—minus one—and flew off."

"…"

Camila didn't laugh. In fact, she looked a little stunned. "…Ma Zhaodi, I'm a Christian."

"Ah—sorry," Ma Zhaodi shrugged. "Well, at least we now know Santa's real."

"Hm?"

Derek instinctively looked over at Camila—and then his pupils dilated in shock.

Ma Zhaodi casually crossed his legs and started humming, a strange calm washing over him.

"Old tree by the gate sprouts new leaves, the withered branch in the yard blooms again~"

From Camila's bare scalp, strands of golden hair began to sprout like spring willow buds. Within seconds, a waterfall of silky blond locks cascaded down to her waist. Her emaciated frame began to fill out, reshaping into the healthy curves of a woman in her prime. The pallor and loose skin vanished, replaced by a soft, rosy glow.

As Derek watched his wife—his long-suffering, fading wife—return to her radiant self within moments, his eyes brimmed with tears.

Beautiful… just like the first time I met her.

Camila stared in disbelief at her smooth, pale hands, instinctively brushing her fingers through her now-glorious hair. She leaned into Derek's arms, tears slipping silently down her face.

"So many things I wanted to say…"

Ma Zhaodi kept humming his cryptic tune while Derek held his wife in stunned silence, lost for words.

She had stood by him for so long—through hair loss, emaciation, and the slow fading of her once-lively features. She had endured the long, painful decline.

He had stood by her just as long—through job loss, selling their home, draining their savings, and sinking into desperation and madness.

She had nearly given up.

He was glad he hadn't.

My first Rapid Health Recovery is gone, Ma Zhaodi thought. Derek better help me land a decent job now.

---

The Next Day

"Derek, how long have you and your wife been living in Gotham?"

"About a year. Why?"

"So you waited for Victor… for a whole year?"

"Technically, eight months," Derek corrected. "Eight months after we arrived, Dr. Victor Fries disappeared after that lab incident. I've been trying to reach his former employers ever since, but… they vanished fast. Lately, I've been trying to track down Mr. Freeze himself."

"Well, good thing you haven't found him yet," Ma Zhaodi muttered, shrugging. "Since you've been here a year, I'm guessing you've got a few contacts and ways to get around by now?"

Derek immediately picked up on the implication. "I'll do what I can to help you find some work. Something relatively safe. But you need to understand—this is Gotham. There's no such thing as a clean job here. If we want to survive, we let go of morals. We live for survival—nothing else."

"That's a tough pill to swallow." Ma Zhaodi sighed. "I mean, I'm not built for murder or arson. And judging from my intelligence and skillset, I'd probably get caught if I tried stealing or scamming. I've got no sugar mama to cling to, and there's no way I'm making a living with my washed-up writing…"

"Okay, okay, stop." Derek waved a hand. The first two comments had already cut his job options in half. The rest left him with barely three viable choices.

"Let me ask again," Derek said, trying to phrase it more delicately. "Besides writing, do you have any practical skills?"

"Driving. Basic math," Ma Zhaodi replied, tilting his head. "That's about it."

"…What about cleaning? Cooking?"

"I mean… a bit," Ma said, forcing a polite smile. "Enough to keep myself alive."

"…"

They stared at each other in silence until Derek finally broke it.

"…Do you at least have money?"

"If I did, why would I be job hunting?"

"…Maybe consider going back to that cave and asking Santa for a second miracle?"

Ma Zhaodi realized his demands might've been a bit much. He coughed awkwardly. "Ahem—anything safe is fine."

Derek rubbed his temples in thought. Then something came to him. "What about waiting tables?"

"No problem!"

Seeing how quickly Ma Zhaodi agreed, Derek let out a sigh of relief. "Look, Gotham isn't like other cities. Nearly every business here—big or small—is either run by or protected by the mob. I've built up a few connections over the past year. I might be able to get you a foot in the door at a restaurant. Just know… no matter what job you take here, it'll be tied to the underworld somehow."

"As long as no one hands me a machete during work—or tries to slice me up while I'm on shift—I can live with the rest."

Derek grinned and snapped his fingers. "That's the spirit."

He pulled out his phone and started dialing.

"Riiing… Riiing…"

"…Hello?"

After two full minutes of ringing, someone finally picked up. A gruff male voice came through the line: "Derek? What's up?"

BANG!

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoed through the speaker.